The Heart Has Reasons by Martine Marchand Read Free Book Online

table, hands tightly clenched in her
lap, she gazed at the water bottle, entranced by a rivulet of condensation that
rolled down the plastic’s smooth surface to puddle on the Formica-covered
tabletop.   He armored his heart against the despondence clouding
her eyes.
    The
kitchenette boasted a battered two-burner stove and a three-foot-tall
refrigerator.  He scrounged until he found some cheap, mismatched
silverware in a drawer next to the sink.  While the television blared in
the background, he selected a steak knife, cut two generous chunks from a loaf
of French bread, split them lengthwise, arranged slices of ham on two halves,
then topped the ham with Swiss cheese.  Placing one sandwich on a chipped
plate, he sat it before her.
    Keeping
a close eye on her, he transferred the rest of the food from the cooler into
the small refrigerator, then seated himself across from her and took a bite of
his sandwich.  Ignoring her own, she occasionally took a sip of water,
while her eyes constantly flicked from the scarred tabletop to the room’s
solitary bed.  Realizing the implications, he sought to allay her
apprehension.  “I’m not a rapist, so you needn’t worry about that.”
    She
lifted her eyes to his.  “Then why am I here?”
    He
took another bite of his sandwich, chewed, and swallowed.  “I was hired to
deliver you somewhere.”
    “Hired
by Brian Sparrow?”
    “I
don’t know anyone by that name.”
    “Then
who?”
    If
he replied that he wasn’t at liberty to divulge that information, it would
simply lead to more questions.  “I never met the person.”
    “Where
are you taking me?”
    “You’ll
find that out when we get there.”
    “I
hate to tell you this, but you’ve kidnapped the wrong person.”
    Jesus,
that southern accent was sexy.  Rather than the motel clerk’s backwoods
twang of trailer trash, his target had the elegant, modulated voice of a
southern belle.  “Are you Larissa Santos?  Before you answer, keep in
mind that I have your driver’s license.”
    She
raised green eyes to his.  “Well, someone’s made a mistake.  I have
neither money nor family to ransom me.”
    “Not
all kidnappings are about ransom.”
    “Then
what’s this one about?”
    He
shrugged.  “Not my concern.”
    “When
I don’t show up for work tomorrow, my coworkers will know something’s
wrong.  Someone will go to my house to investigate.  One of my
neighbors will have seen your vehicle, and the police will put an APB on it.”
    “You
watch too many cop shows.  Anyway, my vehicle was never at your
house.  I guarantee you, no one saw anything.”
    Apparently
realizing she wasn’t going to get any useful information from him, she returned
her gaze to the table.  When he finished his sandwich, hers was still
untouched.  “You should eat.”
    “I
can’t.”
    “All
right.  We’ll save it for later.”  While he shoved the untouched
sandwich into a plastic sandwich bag, she sat there gazing dully at the table,
hands clasped in her lap.  He turned away for a mere instant to put the
sandwich into the battered refrigerator.  When he turned back, she was
still sitting in the exact same position, but the steak knife had vanished.
    His
muscles tensed instinctively.  “Put the knife back on the table.”
    She
slowly raised her eyes to his, all wide-eyed innocence.  “What?”
    “Put
the fucking knife back!”
    Her
chair scraped back as she got to her feet, steak knife clutched in one
hand.  As if they were two gunslingers about to draw down on each other, she
squared off with him, body rigid and coiled for action.  “I don’t think
so.”  Brandishing the knife, she backed toward the door.  “I’ll be
leaving now.”
    When
he started toward her, she quickly reversed it in her grip and raised it over
her shoulder, ready to throw.  When he came to an abrupt halt, she
taunted, “Come on, you bastard.  I won’t hesitate to kill you.”
    Still
backing away, she made it to the door.