Final Masquerade by Cindy Davis Read Free Book Online Page B

Montreal, but I haven't been back in years."
    "Why not?"
    He chuckled. “A long story you might get to hear later. Now, stop changing the subject and answer my question."
    She made a production of unfolding her napkin and dabbing her lips with it. “I don't know what to say."
    "Start with the truth."
    "I can't. It could be dangerous."
    "For who?"
    "You."
    He tweaked the tips of his mustache. “Who are you running from?"
    She shook her head.
    "Then tell me why I should risk my life helping you? For all I know, you're a serial killer who's got a hatred of truckers, harking back to a bad experience with a Tonka truck when you were four."
    Paige couldn't help smiling. “I don't think I've ever played with a truck."
    "You aren't going to tell me?"
    Paige pushed her dish away, wiped her mouth, and laid the napkin on the table. She rose and reached for her bags. “I think I've made a mistake."
    His hand got hold of her sweater hem as she tried to pass. “No, you haven't. Come on. We have to leave soon. Schedule to keep, you know."
    Chris stood and removed his wallet from a back pocket. He was head and shoulders taller than her, and looked strong enough to play King Kong to her Faye Wray. He cast some bills on the table and then motioned to the waitress, who didn't react, other than to nod.
    Paige reached across to collect her bags. They wrestled a moment as he gallantly attempted to carry her suitcase. What if he was one of them? What if...
    Down the aisle, out the door and into an alien world, Paige watched, mindful of anyone acting as though they cared where she was headed. There was no one—except the acne-faced waitress and maybe the handsome Canadian. She began to feel like Daniel being led to the lion's den.
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Eight
    It might have been another world, a world that literally vibrated beneath her, the fusion of low idling hum, authoritative meshing of gears, thundering roar of acceleration, and stench of diesel exhaust. Paige was as lost here as her first day in that Swiss girls’ school. She shook off the memory, deliberately walking on Chris’ right side where he loosely dangled her suitcase. Once, it thudded against her leg. He apologized and switched it to the left. She stifled the urge to follow it to his other side.
    The couple walked down the endless line of trucks arranged like unmatched shoes on a toddler's shelf in every color imaginable. Some had airbrushed designs of angels or fireballs. Others had bug catchers touting the name of the owner's girlfriend, daughter, or wife, but all had the name of some company, or private owner, emblazoned on the doors.
    Chris raised his voice to be heard over the din. “Make you feel small, don't they? As a kid, I was awestruck by the sheer size and power of these things. I guess all little boys are, but I was one who never outgrew it. My folks nearly choked when I asked them to co-sign a loan for a hundred and fifty grand to buy my own rig."
    Paige likewise raised her voice. “I thought you went to college."
    "I did. Got a Bachelor's Degree in Landscape Architecture at U.C., Berkeley.” He threw her a sardonic smile.
    "Landscape architecture? Sounds interesting.” Not.
    "Yeah, my uncle has a big landscaping firm in Ontario. He promised me a position heading up the commercial department. All through school I took courses related to landscaping. The perfect career: outdoors all the time, using my talent for design, knowledge of botany, and making big bucks doing something I loved. My uncle paid for my cousin Joe and me to go to Berkeley. He was going to be the company's new draftsman. The guy who'd done it for the past twenty-five years was retiring."
    "What happened?"
    "How do you know—oh, yeah...” He grinned. “The truck. Well, I got my degree and then did a year of post-grad internship with the company. Did a lot of the grub work. You know, digging and spreading shit, stuff the minimum wage off-the-street laborers do. I loved getting down