Just a Kiss Away by Jill Barnett

be back home. You can go back to Belleview—”
    “Belvedere,” she corrected distractedly, continuing to twist her shoe thing.
    “Okay, Belvedere. Back to your Peachtree Farm—”
    “Beechtree Farms.” She sniffed a bit and rubbed a white finger across her uppity little nose.
    “Yeah, whatever. Then you’ll be back at that Hick House.”
    She gave him a perturbed look and stated rather loudly, “Hickory House.”
    “Hick or hickory, what’s the difference? They’re both in the South. Besides, you’ll be the hell home, all right?” What a pain. He wondered why he even tried. Who gave a rat’s ass about any of those homes of hers, especially since she’d play hell ever seeing any of them again.
    She squirmed around for a minute or so and finally pulled the gag out from under her butt. She stared at it for a second, raised her head, and looked around the room. She scooted over to the water bucket.
    Ah. The flower was going to get a drink. Maybe she was human after all. A gecko scurried out of a dark corner and up his leg. Sam flicked it off. Annoying little buggers. The sound of sloshing water captured his attention, and he looked up.
    She was washing with their drinking water.
    “What the hell are you doing?” he shouted, shooting upright so he could hobble over there.
    She dipped the rag into the water, wrung it out with a couple of dainty twists, and casually washed her face and neck.
    He towered over her, glaring down, unable to believe she could be that stupid.
    She rubbed the damp rag over her eyes, then opened them, wiping under her hair and around the back of her neck. The whole time she purred like a creamery kitten.
    “I’m washing,” she answered with an innocent look, acting as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do with the only water they had. She bent her head down, letting her bourbon-blond hair fall over her face while she ran the cloth over her neck. Through a curtain of hair she added, “I was feeling right sticky.”
    He jerked the rag from her hands.
    She whipped her head up, her hair falling down her back, and gasped, “What did you do that for?”
    “Because, Miss Lollipop LaRue, you’re bathing with our drinking water.” He glared down at her.
    “Surely not.” She frowned at the bucket.
    He swore.
    Now she leaned over the bucket, letting the murky water spill through her hands. She looked up at him, her face filled with disbelief. “But this water is . . . brown.”
    “Brown or not, that’s all there is to drink.”
    She sat there, shuddering. Her expression said she’d sooner die than drink that water.
    He stumbled back to his corner and heard her knocking on the door. The guards didn’t open it. She banged louder. “Hey, y’all? Y’all! We need some more water!”
    Still nothing. She glanced at him, then at the bucket. Her shoulders drooped. She sighed, stood there for a forlorn minute, and then slowly hobbled back over to the far corner. She slid to the floor, her head bent and her shoulders wilting like the conquered. She fidgeted with the rag, folding it this way and that. Every so often she’d sigh, not the lung-windy, dramatic expulsion of air she’d blasted out earlier. These were sighs of defeat. One thing neither of them could afford to do was give up.
    “Hey there, Miss Lah-Roo.”
    Her head shot up.
    “Sing for me will you? I sleep better to the sound of a good cat fight.”
    Her blue eyes iced with anger. Good, he thought. She still had some fight in her. His respect for her went up a notch, which didn’t really mean much, since it was so low to begin with.
    Her nose went up, and she rammed her shoulders back like a Prussian soldier. “I wouldn’t sing at your funeral.”
    God, what it took for him not to laugh. He’d have to give her credit for one thing: she wasn’t boring. In fact her presence broke the monotony. It was like dangling a string before a cat; he could play with her, and that kept his mind sharp.
    She still glared