“Gill,” I begin, but he ignores me, ushering me into the largest stall at the end and ignoring the passive aggressive huffs of the angry lavatory patron. My guess? It'll be a matter of seconds before she's off to find an employee of some sort to complain to. “What are we doing in here?” I whisper as Gill slides his arm from mine, depriving me of that strong warmth that I hadn't realized I was enjoying until now. I purse my lips. Not at him, but at myself.
“Hand me the bag,” he instructs, and I pass over the black leather purse—definitely a Saint Laurent and probably very expensive. I kind of want to keep it.
I watch quietly, not wanting to draw any extra undue attention to our stall, as Gill pulls out a long sleeved red T-shirt and a pair of jeans, passing them over to me. He withdraws a similar outfit for himself, only his tee's black, nice and plain. Mine has fish on it and the words Seattle, Washington scrawled in navy blue cursive. A tourist's shirt.
“You could've taken your clothes and changed in the men's room, you know,” I say, an ulterior motive buried behind my words. Changing in this stall with Gill means stripping down next to Gill. I know we're on the run and all, but hormones will be hormones. My body already misses the tight pressure of him buried inside of me, the heat of his fingers roaming over my hypersensitive skin. I grit my teeth a little, but force myself to take a breath and calm down. Calm is the only thing that will keep me safe in this scenario; panic never helped anybody do anything.
Seems Gill can pretty much read my thoughts off my facial expressions alone.
“I won't look,” he promises with a slight smile that I meet with raised brows.
“Like I give a shit about that,” I lie, reaching back to unzip the jumpsuit, the movement sparking an immediate recall of what went down in the SUV. “But that lady's going to search her angry little heart out until she finds someone to complain to. We don't need that kind of attention right now.”
Gill's mouth tightens a little and he turns away as I drop the straps on the jumpsuit. Huh. Not the reaction I expected from him. I thought he'd be appreciating the view.
“I would've loved working with you,” he says quietly, his voice like satin over steel. Pretty to listen to, hard to come up against. Almost as hard as the strong, thick muscles in his back when he shrugs off the suit jacket, shoulder holster and button down. “I think you would've been good at it.”
“At …” I almost say stealing jewelry, but I'm not that stupid. I might not be a master thief, but I do have a lick of common sense. Guess I'll have to clarify with him later. You could've asked me to come with you, Gill, I think, wondering what his day to day life is really like when he's not playing bodyguard to the rest of us. I bet he's seen the world by now. Being a professional thief was never a dream of mine, but being with Gill was. If he had asked, I probably would've gone with him.
A melancholy sigh slides past my lips, but I shake off the feeling as I drop the designer jumpsuit to the floor, the wide legs falling right over my pumps like they did in the SUV. I kick them off anyway, so I can put the jeans on.
They're a perfect fit.
Hmm.
It's hard enough to find well-fitting jeans for myself, let alone some that were purchased for me without my knowledge. Holy crap. Gill's infamous perception skills apparently extend to my body—and knowing it intimately through a single glance. He had to have grabbed these before today, before we had sex. He just … knew how they'd slide over my hips and cup my ass in perfect blue denim.
“I didn't want to leave you,” Gill says and my heart skips several beats, thinking he's bringing up that day again. But he's not. Silly me. “If I went in the men's room and then came out to find that Karl's guys had already grabbed you …” I watch as his fists curl with imagined rage. Even thinking about it is setting him off. I half expect a snarl to tear from his throat. Instead, Gill shakes his head and drops his slacks, giving me a perfect shot of his ass in the black briefs he's wearing.
I turn away and stare at the wall until I hear him rustling around in the bag again. He drops a pair of … fucking flip-flops in front of me and dons a pair of his own, stuffing our other clothes and shoes into the massive purse and giving it back to me.
“Can you put your hair in a ponytail?” he asks, handing over a hair tie he must've gotten from the bag. “You'd be surprised at how much a different hairstyle can throw someone off.”
“No wigs?” I ask, looking up into his blue eyes as I collect my shoulder length locks into a ponytail and snap the band over it all.
“Unless it's a good wig, a really good one, and it's cut just right for your head, it looks like a wig. And wigs draw attention. Best to stick with your real hair.” He reaches over and brushes some of mine back before steeling his expression, like he's pushing away tender thoughts. I feel a chill creep up my spine. Gill turns away and grabs the shoulder holster he's flung across the toilet, slipping it back on, both guns still firmly locked in place, and then throws a black North Face jacket over it all. Praise the heavens for letting big, bulky purses be the norm in fashion right now. “Let's go.”