Free Silent Warrior: A Loveswept Classic Romance by Donna Kauffman Page B

happening seem almost normal, putting a weird all-in-a-day’s-work spin on it. Which, for him, wasprobably the case. “Something like that,” she murmured, adding a few small tins of tart fruit candy to the lot. Passion fruit, she noticed as she glanced down. She stifled a sigh.
    “Is there a certain required combination here, or can we just empty a shelf and get on with it?”
    “No. No real rhyme or reason. I think this will do.” She quickly stepped around him and headed to the front. Without turning, she said, “You know, you’re cute when you get impatient.”
    His footsteps paused on the cracked linoleum floor. “What did you say?”
    She began humming. Having a friend couldn’t hurt right now, she thought again. Trying to be McShane’s friend, however, might kill her. But as a distraction from her other worries, it was as good a ploy as any. He’d get used to the idea. Eventually.
    He caught up to her. “Cali—”
    “
Bonjour
 … Monsieur Quéval?” she called out, deliberately cutting him off. One at a time she unloaded the items in her handbasket onto the narrow, worn linoleum counter.
    John leaned in and eased the backpack from the crook of her arm. She tightened her elbow to her side instinctively. He lifted a brow in silent question, making her cheeks warm a bit. She let go.
    “Sorry. Reflex. I guess you
are
one of the good guys.”
    He unzipped the bag, slid the binder inside, closed it, and slung it carefully over one shoulder. His gaze never left hers. “I have my moments.”
    His intent stare made her hands pause in mid-motion. Before she could comment, the proprietor made his grand entrance.
    Wiping his hands on the white lab coat he wore, Mr. Quéval shambled slowly to the counter. His gait was that of a large man with a very low center of gravity. Since he was short and wiry, it was almost comical to watch him. She’d talked with him several times and each time had been almost disappointed that his accent was a lilting native Creole and not the nasal Brooklyn twang that would have suited him perfectly.
    “Busy day?” she asked brightly.
    “Not particularly.”
    Cali smiled through gritted teeth. “Lucky us, then, to have your services all to ourselves.”
    “A little thick, don’t you think?”
    John’s whisper barely reached her ears as he bent to adjust the backpack. Still she noticed Mr. Quéval’s attention drift, seemingly unconcerned, to her partner.
    Quéval was second only to Eudora in the busybody department. Unfortunately, it was twice as hard to get information from him, which was to say impossible. John moved next to her.
Go ahead
, she wanted to say,
I dare you to charm this man
.
    She shifted back slightly, urging him forward. This she wanted to see. As if he’d read her thoughts, John shot her a devastating smile, which he smoothly shifted to include Quéval.
    Quéval smiled back.
    My oh my, Cali thought, resisting the urge to fan herself. So she’d underestimated him. Again. In this case it was a bet well worth losing. Boy, to be on the receiving end of that lightning-bolt smile on a regular basis …
    “Bonjour,”
John said, extending his hand. “John McShane. I’m a photographer with an American television station.” He spoke in French. The American version, but close enough to the island dialect to impress both her and Quéval, even if he didn’t show it. Cali just barely caught her mouth from dropping open at his surprising linguistic ability.
    The older man ignored his outstretched hand and just sniffed. Cali tucked her chin to keep from laughing and made a production out of emptying the rest of the basket. Smart-ass. She should be more upset that he could blow their only chance at uncovering Nathan’s invisible notes. She doubted he failed often, and she had a front-row seat. She really shouldn’t be enjoying herself.
    She set the empty basket on the floor, stifling another smile.
    She supposed she should rescue him, try to salvage what was left