Free Floored by Ainslie Paton Page B

‘it’s complicated’ thing. His insistence on being a good guy. His want to protect her from unspecified danger. His complete composure in the face of being hurt, and the way he managed her own rising panic when they were under threat.
    She started the engine and backed out of the spot. Now she was really in trouble. He was the law and she was the law-breaker. He was more dangerous to her now than when he was an idiot gang member. He simply could not know anything about her. That limited fraternisation, no talking preference was suddenly a hardcore rule.
    She moved into traffic on the way back to the motel. Should she tell him she knew he was a cop? That she’d figured out she was some kind of material witness he wanted to keep quiet?
    She should’ve stayed in bed today. Should’ve driven off when she saw him limp up outside number 32. She’d had a hundred other chances to get away from him, and she’d not taken them because she’d been seduced by the money and the opportunity, and the fact that he was a chocolate-coated bad guy to whom her crime would seem so plain vanilla boring. Let’s face it, she’d been seduced by those blasted blue eyes and the way he looked at her.
    Now there was no getting away. If she bolted, he’d be on her like seeds on strawberries. She clearly hadn’t covered her tracks well enough. If Justin, amateur status criminal, big league tax dodger, could find her again, this man would get to the truth in less time than it took to make thermos coffee. But if she stuck to the plan, played the opportunist in search of easy money, and gave him no reason to get too interested, maybe he’d be satisfied by simply keeping an eye on her and not delve any further. If she kept her head screwed on, this might still work out okay. She had twelve thousand dollars in an envelope in her bag that was an inducement to believe it would.
    He was sprawled in the middle of the back seat. The centre belt looped over his hips, his head kicked back. His body looked relaxed, but his eyes were watchful. He was scanning the road. He was on lookout.
    Who was she kidding? He was an undercover cop. He could probably smell deceit from two rooms away. It was likely seeping out of her pores and stinking up the Statesman. He could doubtless find liars, cheats and thieves blindfolded in a maze. He might already be on to her.
    Why hadn’t he been straight with her? Wouldn’t it have been easier to tell her he was a cop from the beginning, or at least from the McDonald’s car park? He wanted her to think he was some kind of vigilante bad guy with a heart of gold. She could think of two reasons.
    She pulled into the driveway of the motel. He’d unbuckled and climbed out before she shut the engine off. One: he didn’t think he could convince her of being on the right side of the law. On the surface it was a tall tale. Two: he wasn’t. He was bent and he knew she knew it. Another bent cop. Which meant she really was his hostage.
    His highly paid hostage.
    That didn’t make sense. She followed him out of the car. He was waiting patiently at the boot, the cake tin in his hand. She popped the lid. The last time she’d felt this confused she’d been standing in her bedroom at the house watching Justin and Detective Carolyn Martin together in her bed.
    Maybe Fetch was a good cop. Maybe he was a bad cop. Maybe he was just a bikie with multiple personality disorder. Everything he’d said was probably a lie. Which meant she was either a hostage, someone who needed protection, or the hired help?
    She was so very tired. She was in whatever this was to her earlobes, and she didn’t know what the heck was in that cake tin, but it sure as hell wasn’t cake.
    “Your room is on the top floor around the back. I’m here,” he said, jerking his head to indicate the room directly behind where she’d parked. He’d taken the hint about letting her handle her own bags. They were piled together on the ground. “I’ll see you in the