“Ah.” I take a deep breath, relieved that Gill's still got a sense of humor in him. If he goes dark and cold like he did the day of the heist, it'll make this a whole hell of a lot harder. “That makes sense.” I put my chin on my knees and try to breathe—not an easy fit jammed as I am between the front seat and the glove compartment. “And am I down here because we're worried about stray bullets?”
“Well, not stray bullets,” Gill says and a chill travels down my spine. “If they shoot at us, it'll be with a very specific purpose in mind.” He looks over and something he sees on my face spurs him to add, “but don't worry, ma belle petite fleur. I won't let anything happen to you.” I almost comment on the beautiful little flower remark, but the growl in his voice, the ferocity with which he spoke, makes me decide to let it go. In this situation, Gilleon is the expert and I don't have any qualms with following orders—or letting him call me old pet names in French.
“Where are we going?” I ask, knowing he won't take us back to the house if we're being followed. So much for clean panties. My after sex glow is fading fast, replaced with the rapid thudding of a frightened heartbeat. I'm not about to have a panic attack or anything, but I won't lie about my fear. Running, hiding, from that particular emotion, never turns out well.
“You'll see,” Gill says, and I know that if he could tell me, he would. I let him do his thing and close my eyes for a moment. Please tell me I did this all for a good reason, Gill, I think at him, knowing that our next heart-to-heart is going to have to touch on whatever secret it is that he thinks he's hiding from me. “Sit tight, Regi, and we'll get though this.”
Ten minutes later, I feel the car slow to a stop for good this time, opening my eyes to find Gill shutting off the ignition. He waits for a moment, eyes trained on the rearview, and then looks down at me, pupils dilated like a cat's. I can almost swear that I see the light of a passing car reflect off the backs of his irises.
“You can sit up now,” he tells me, “and put your shoes back on if you want.” Gill gives me a small, tight smile and slides the car keys in his pocket, taking a moment to button up his gaping shirt. When I uncurl myself with a groan, my muscles and joints protesting the tight quarters, I look out the window and find … that we're at Pike Place Market. We're parked right in front, on the brick road of Pike Place itself, sitting pretty in front of a white and blue sign with a wheelchair emblazoned on it. Without skipping a beat, Gill leans over and opens the glove compartment, withdrawing a matching blue handicapped parking permit and hanging it over the rearview. Outside the window, tourists abound in a thick stream, some of them towing young kids, probably looking for the infamous 'Rachel the Pig', the golden pig statue that graces the market—a massive piggy bank who's rumored to grant good luck if you make a donation and rub her snout. Oh, Seattle.
“What are we doing here?” I ask Gill as I slip my shoes back on.
“Pull down your mirror and put some lipstick on,” he orders, dropping his eyes to his wrists and adjusting his cuff links. Normally, I wouldn't much appreciate a statement like that—or have even the slightest desire to listen to it—but this is different. I know that by questioning anything Gilleon tells me, I'm putting my life at risk. His life. Maybe even Cliff's or Solène's or Aveline's. “Smile at me while you're doing it,” he adds, looking over at me with an affectionate expression, one that I have to wonder at. Either Gilleon's an amazing actor or …
“Gum Wall before or after dinner?” I ask, withdrawing the dark plum lipstick and sliding it across my mouth. I definitely don't miss the spark in Gill's eyes as he watches me trace my lips. I pucker them up and then slide my index finger into my mouth, withdrawing it more slowly than I probably should. It's just a trick to keep the color off my teeth, but it serves to draw Gill's breath from his chest and curl his fingers into tight fists.
I put the lipstick away, fighting back a smile and wishing I had some liner or gloss or something other than just color. Oh well. I didn't even reapply any makeup before this little not-date of ours—I hadn't expected to want or need anything like lip gloss. Or wet wipes. Or—little trick I learned when Gill and I first got together—a small tampon. Keeps all that exciting quickie cleanup to a minimum when there's no bathroom nearby.
“Oh, definitely after,” he purrs, reaching over and touching the side of my face with his tattooed fingers, drawing my gaze over to his. I let him, telling myself I'm just playing along with this little charade for whoever happens to be watching us. “Dinner and then … a wall covered in used chewing gum. The air is heady with the smell of romance.”