“Pull into that barn,” Paolo said.
She shot him a glare. “What the hell else did you think I was going to do?”
But she did it anyway, sliding through the open doors that seemed to be waiting for her. She didn’t wait for the jerk’s help – she scrambled out, shut the barn doors, the scent of hay strangely comforting. In some weird way, she was home.
“We’ll wait it out,” she said, and turned, and the handsome prick was grinning at her, the Kimber pointed right at her.
“Fuckin’ funny,” he said.
“I was just thinking that.”
“You figured they were after you. No. Me.”
“They’re not Jimmy’s people?”
“Who are they then?”
“Does it matter? You knew I worked with Jimmy. You knew I swam in those waters.”
Talkative now, all of a sudden. Why hadn’t he shot her?
Of course. The farmhouse. A shot might bring Farmer Brown. But this move – pulling the gun on her – it spoke volumes: he was stupid. He could have picked the right moment to show his hand. Too early in the game....
“You don’t need that,” she said, gesturing toward his gun-in-hand. “We’re in the shit now. Together. I’m helping you. Why — ”
“That’s the funny thing. Jimmy hired me to take care of you.”
The prick had picked her up in that bar and screwed her silly for how long? And his end game was a bullet?
“Sit over there.”
Apparently he didn’t see the pitchfork leaned against the post.