The Tin Man by Nina Mason Read Free Book Online

resistance on her part, more irritation on his.
    “Please, Thea,” he said, now desperate. “If you help me, I’ll give you an exclusive. When we learn what he knows.”
    She got quiet , which he hoped meant she was mulling it over. After a few pounding heartbeats, she said, “Okay, but you’ll have to wear a blindfold.”
    Every cell cringed at the suggestion. What if it set off another flashback? He’d had one once while simply putting on a turtleneck—the reason he only wore button-down shirts.
    As Thea relayed her address, he punched it in to the dashboard GPS.
    “I’ll be waiting for you out front,” she told him before hanging up.
    H e changed lanes, checking the mirrors as an afterthought. Nobody was in his way or appeared to be following him. Good. He pushed his way through the congestion on Sixth like a salmon swimming upstream. He darted in and out of lanes, swerved around slower cars, cursed and pounded the wheel when the lights turned red. Finally, he reached West Twenty-Eighth and, with wet palms slipping on the steering wheel , he jerked hard to the right. The street was choked with traffic. Fuck. He pressed through, doing his best to navigate the grid of one-way streets.
    He heaved a sigh of relief when at last he reached her block. He slowed, glancing between the GPS monitor and the building addresses. Spotting her on the sidewalk, he lowered the passenger-side window and cruised to the curb.
    Concern etched her face as she jogged up to the door. Yanking it open, she set her bag on the floor and hopped in. “Jesus, Buchanan,” she said, looking around at the damage. “What did you do, drive through a war zone?”
    “Never mind that now,” he said, pulling away from the curb. “Just be a good lass and hand me my ciggies, eh?” The pack on the dashboard had shifted to her side during the drive. Out of the edge of his eye, he saw her reach for it, then hesitate. “And I don’t want any more shite from you about my smoking,” he growled. “Are we clear on that?”
    She shot him a pointed glare. “The night we went out, you said you were trying to quit.”
    “I’m a lways trying to quit.”
    “Have you tried the patch ? Or Zyban ?”
    Buchanan rolled his eyes . Bloody hell. What part of don’t give me any shite had she not understand? “I’ve tried everything.”
    H is doctor had prescribed Chantix a few months ago, but it only made him nauseous and more depressed than he already was.
    “Well,” she persisted, “maybe you just don’t want to kick the habit badly enough.”
    “ Perhaps you’re right,” he bit out through clenched teeth. “But right now I want a ciggie so fucking bad I’d be willing to kill for one. If you catch my meaning. So hand them over, eh?”
    With a disgruntled huff, she slapped the pack of Marlboro Lights into his outstretched palm. He flipped open the lid, shook one out, and stuck it between his lips before tossing the box back on the dash. As he punched in the lighter, his gaze flicked toward her.
    “Have you ever handled a firearm?”
    She nodded. “My grandfather got me a little Kel-Tec when I first moved to New York.”
    “I don’t suppose you had the good sense to bring it with you ,” he said hopefully.
    “ I did,” she said. “I keep it in my purse at all times.”
    “G ood.” He withdrew his gun from his waistband and held it out to her. “Be a doll and reload it for me, would you? The spare ammo’s in the glove box.”
    She took the gun, lifted it to her nose, and sniffed. “It smells as if it’s just been fired.”
    “ It has.” The lighter popped and he pulled it out. “It’s just too bad the only casualty on their side of the shoot-out was the bloody Michelin Man.”
     

Chapter 5
     
    In the light of Holland Tunnel, Thea studied Buchanan’s profile, thinking how much more weather-beaten he looked than the last time she saw him. His hair was grayer, especially around the temples, and there were deeper lines around his eyes