Bride Of The Bad Boy. Elizabeth Bevarly

her so, she marveled. He honestly seemed pained to have hurt her, however mildly.

      “Because I know who you are,” she told him.

      He grinned, the crooked set to his mouth making him look oddly appealing. “And just who am I?”

      Angie’s heart began to beat more quickly. “You’re Ethan Zorn. And you…you work for the mob.”

      His only reaction to her charge was a slight twitch to one cheek, and a vague darkening of his eyes. If she hadn’t been as close to him as she was, she probably wouldn’t have even noticed it. For a single, taut moment, he seemed frankly amazed by her assessment of him. Then, just as quickly, he became amused.

      “The mob?” he repeated with a chuckle. “Is that what you think?”

      “It’s what I know.”

      “Angel, you have got one vivid imagination, I’ll give you that.”

      “It’s ‘Angie,’” she corrected him irritably. Gun or no gun, she really hated being called “Angel,” especially in the sexually charged, way-too-familiar manner in which Ethan Zorn said it. “And you do, too, work for the mob,” she continued assuredly. “Don’t bother to deny it, because I know you do.”

      He shook his head lightly. “I work for the Cokely Chemical Corporation,” he told her. “I’m here on business for a few weeks. I’m a sales rep trying to drum up some new accounts.”

      “Riiiiight,” she said, feeling a bit of her nerve return, now that he seemed to be relaxing some. “And Cokely always sends its sales reps out with big guns. I guess that’s to guarantee winning over the potential client, isn’t it?”

      He glanced down at the gun, then back at Angie. “Traveling businessmen are easy targets,” he told her. “I don’t like to get caught off guard.”

      “Or maybe you just never know when you’re going to have to off a snoopy journalist,” she countered before she could stop herself.

      “‘Off a snoopy journalist’?” he echoed with a chuckle. “Angel, you’ve been watching too many Humphrey Bogart movies. I’m a sales rep for the Cokely Chemical Corporation. That’s all there is to it.”

      “Oh, sure, that’s your cover,” she said with a nervous nod, wincing when she recalled, too late, that he continued to hold a fistful of her hair. “Look, my father owns a pharmaceutical manufacturing plant here, and you haven’t called on him yet. Now, why would a sales rep overlook what would be his most lucrative client in town for more than two weeks? He wouldn’t. My father’s company would have been your first stop. It doesn’t make sense. You don’t work for Cokely.”

      “Okay, let’s assume for a minute that I don’t work for Cokely. Just how did you come to this conclusion that I work for the mob?”

      “I have my sources.”

      “Yeah, well, obviously Cokely isn’t one of them. If you’d bothered to ask them, they would have told you I’m on their payroll and have been for years.”

      “Yeah, they did tell me that, as a matter of fact.” She paused for only a moment, then added, “But like I said—I have other sources. And you could have just paid off someone in personnel to verify your employment, should someone ask about it.”

      Ethan Zorn eyed her with much consideration, then freed the hair he had wound in his fist. Without speaking, he rose from the bed, strode carelessly to the desk on the other side of the room and retrieved a large white envelope from the blotter. Then he removed his wallet from his back pocket and flipped it open. He tossed that to the middle of the mattress, then lifted the envelope and spilled its entire contents beside it.

      “My credentials,” he said. “Knock yourself out.”

      Angie eyed him back warily, but she wasn’t about to miss the opportunity to see what he had to offer. Gingerly, as she would a ticking bomb, she picked up his wallet and inspected his driver’s license through the little plastic window that housed it. Pennsylvania. His address was a Philadelphia one that told her absolutely nothing, seeing as how she’d never been to Philadelphia before. But she memorized it quickly, knowing she could run a check on it tomorrow morning.

      A number of credit cards—all of them gold—were tucked casually into each of the slots provided for such, and she inspected them one by one, noting that they were all stamped with the same name: Ethan Zorn. Feeling bolder, she started to peek into the money compartment, then lost her nerve and glanced up at him to silently ask permission first.

      “Go ahead,” he said. “I told you. Knock yourself out.”

      Oh, sure, she thought. That way, he wouldn’t have to do it himself.

      She tucked her thumb into the money section, fingering each of the neatly lined-up bills as she added them, noting vaguely that they were all in order of descending amount, and that each of the presidents was right side up and facing forward.

      An anal-retentive mobster, she thought mildly. Now, that was a good one.

      Three hundred seventy-eight dollars, she tallied, and, presumably, change. Now, what kind of person walked around with that kind of money in cash? Immediately, she answered herself: mobsters, that’s what kind. She glanced up at him again and saw that he was smiling.

      “I don’t like to use traveler’s checks,” he said, clearly understanding her unasked question.

      “Why not? Because they can be traced?”

      “Credit cards can be traced, too,” he stated, nodding toward his collection.

      “Yeah, if you use them,” she said. “Who says these aren’t just for show?”

      He shook his head, clearly thinking she was an idiot. Angie frowned.

      “Let’s just say I don’t like having my name bandied about,” he told her.

      “A private person, are you?”

      “Yeah, you could say that.”

      “I suppose I could, but I bet you don’t use traveler’s checks—or credit cards—for another reason entirely.”

      He sighed. “And that reason would be?”

      “Because you’re connected.”

      He laughed, a dry, eerie sound that was in no way convincing. “And what would a mobster like me be doing in a place like this?”

      She met his gaze with what she hoped was steely-eyed determination. “To get your dirty hands on my father’s pharmaceutical company.”

      His smile was smug and indulgent, the kind a resigned mother might offer a two-year-old who was turning blue from holding his breath for the hundredth time. “I see. And why would I want my hands on your father’s pharmaceutical company?”

      “So you—and the mob—can use it to further your filthy drug trade.”

      This time his laughter was an out-and-out bark of disbelief. “You have got to be kidding.”

      “Don’t bother to deny it,” Angie told him, irritated at his light mood. “I know that’s why you’re here.”

      “Angel, I’m here trying to expand Cokely’s business, that’s all. This town is perfectly situated for me to hit a lot of small communities in three states in one trip.” After a moment’s pause, he added, “You say your father owns a pharmaceutical company? Could you give him my card?”

      “Very funny.”

      “Hey, I’m serious. I need all the help I can get here. And for all you know, Cokely could give him a much better deal than his current chemical supplier.”

      “Thanks anyway, but my father doesn’t deal with criminals.”

      Ethan Zorn shook his head and pointed toward the pile of information scattered on his bed.