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Mitch grunted, intent on what he could see out the windshield past the Mardi Gras beads hanging from the mirror.
The cab driver was only trying to be friendly, and Cath leaned forward. “We’re hoping we’ll beat the tow truck.”
They turned off Royal Street. She couldn’t shake her gaze from Mitch’s drumming fingers. His pickup truck still had that new car smell, and the double cab must have cost a mint. He’d parked where he had only so she wouldn’t have to walk far in the rain.
Now, he might be facing a big towing expense. All because of her bird-brained idea. “Sorry,” she whispered.
“No problem.” He squeezed her hand but immediately went back to watching their progress. Or lack thereof. The cabbie had to keep stopping for early revelers standing around in the Quarter streets. Mitch leaned forward. “Rampart will be faster.”
“Hold your horses. I’m trying to get there.”
Last night the sex had blown way past her wildest fantasies. The satisfied female part of her wanted more. What if she and Mitch had another one-night stand? And another even better after that? She could easily fall for this kind, sweet, courageous man.
But a snake like the one tattooed on his back squeezed her chest, the rattler shaking. Remember what happened before.
If she hadn’t thrown herself at him, they never would have wound up tangled up together in bed. To his credit, Mitch hadn’t treated her like her other lovers. Guys who’d loved only themselves and were out to get whatever she would give. Guys who took advantage of her indecision. Guys someone else had to point out were using her.
She and Mitch had known each other less than five full days, and they’d been in a pressure cooker the whole time. What if she didn’t know the real Mitch? What if he turned out to be like the others?
His thigh pressed again hers in the back seat of the cab. Their whole bodies had been pressed together last night, but she moved over to her side, grimacing at the clammy denim clinging to her rear.
After finally leaving the French Quarter, the driver made good time and pulled over next to the fenced square minutes later. Cath stepped out first and regarded the street where Mitch had parked. The curb stretched ahead completely empty of automobiles.
Mitch handed over some bills. “Keep the change.”
Cath caught his arm. “Don’t let him leave. It looks like your truck’s been towed.”
* * *
“I don’t see it here.” Mitch shaded his eyes and scanned the jumble of vehicles in all makes and conditions cluttering the weed-pocked asphalt of the impound lot.
“We’ve only been here three minutes.” Cath hitched her bulletproof vest higher and fell into step with him. “According to the map, this place covers an entire block. We’re looking at maybe fifteen percent.”
He massaged the back of his neck. “Someone’s ripped me off.”
“Do you have to jump to the worst-case scenario?”
His expression darkened. “I’ve got a lot of gear in the toolbox.”
“Like what?” She made her voice as cheerful as possible. “Extra handcuffs? More bail recovery T-shirts?”
“Flashlights, road hazard signs, a change of clothes.” He stopped to look around again. “You know. Survival gear.”
This fit. Mitch was nothing if not prepared.
“I’m sure your truck is here somewhere. Why would the tow wagon drag it someplace else miles away?” She stepped up to the lot’s office, but he reached past her to push the door open and guide her inside with a hand at her back. A pleasurable tingle danced down her spine. Since last night he’d gone all touchy-feely, and she had to tell him to back off. Pretty soon she’d sound like a broken record, but she had to be upfront. Otherwise he would think she’d be happy with a second one-night stand. An oxymoron if she ever heard one.
Not now. They’d never get any privacy inside the city pound office.
A row of attached plastic seats straight from the fifties lined one wall of the dingy air-conditioned prefab. An equally outdated table full of tattered magazines buttressed one end. The man slouching in the chair next to the door glanced up at them and went back to scrolling on his phone. Another customer waited at the counter where a clerk in short sleeves studied a computer monitor. This place felt as frozen in time as a bus station waiting for the next day’s arrival.
Mitch walked to the counter. “Is this where cars towed from Washington Square are brought?”
The clerk waved toward the take-a-number stand.
Mitch took a plastic card labeled ninety-nine. Followed by fifty. Cath stared at him and whispered, “How does this work?”
“Who knows?” He shook his head.
