To Die For by Linda Howard Page B

need for a few days at the beach, which wasn’t many. Makeup and toiletries took up way more room than my clothes in the duffel bag. I added a couple of books in case I felt like reading, then stood at the front door impatiently waiting for the rental car guy to show up.
    The traffic had lessened; maybe all the gawkers and/or reporters had decided I was in hiding somewhere, or had maybe gone shopping. Still, when my ride appeared I didn’t want to dally around on the front steps, an easy target for either an eager reporter or a desperate killer. I got my keys out to have them ready to lock the dead bolt on the front door, and that was when I noticed I still had my car keys. I was surprised into laughing; there was no way Wyatt could have had my car delivered, because I hadn’t given him the keys and he hadn’t thought to ask for them.
    The car would be all right at Great Bods until I got back. It was locked, and it was under the awning. At worst, Wyatt would have it towed to the city impound lot, which he had better not do because if my car was damaged in any way, I’d definitely sue him.
    A red Pontiac with a magnetic sign on the side announcing it belonged to the rental agency pulled to the curb. I grabbed my duffel and was out the door before the guy could get out of the car. I paused only to lock my door, then hurried down the steps to meet him. “Let’s go before someone shows up,” I said, opening the rear passenger door and tossing my duffel inside, then sliding into the front seat.
    The man got behind the steering wheel, blinking in confusion. “Who? Is someone after you?”
    “Maybe.” If he didn’t know who I was, that was all to the good. Maybe no one much read the newspaper anymore. “An ex-boyfriend is really making a nuisance of himself, you know?”
    “He’s violent?” The man threw me an alarmed look.
    “No, he just whines a lot. It’s embarrassing.”
    Relieved, he put the car in gear and drove to our small regional airport, where all the rental agencies were located. After some discussion about the type of car they wanted to put me in—I nixed the bare-bones economy models because they were
too
bare bones (one even had roll-up windows, which I didn’t know Detroit still made)—I settled on a sharp black Chevy short-bed pickup. Black isn’t the most sensible color in the south, because of the heat, but it’s undeniably sharp. If I couldn’t have my Mercedes, I thought riding around in a pickup truck would be cool.
    I have good memories associated with pickup trucks. Grampie had owned one, and during my junior year in high school, for two whole months I’d dated a senior, Tad Bickerstaff, who drove a pickup. Tad had let me drive his truck, which I thought was the best thing ever. Our romance faded as fast as it had bloomed, though, and Tad and his truck had moved on to another girl.
    All the papers signed and the gas tank filled, I tossed my duffel in the seat of the pickup and buckled myself in. Beach, here I come!
    I admit, summer isn’t the best time to head to the beach if you don’t have reservations. Even worse, it was Friday, when all the weekenders were doing the same. But since it was only noon, I figured I had a good head start on the weekend crowd, and among them had to be people like me who trusted they’d be able to get a motel room once they reached the shore. People do that only because—duh—it usually works.
    Driving from the western part of the state to the eastern shore takes several hours, especially since I had to stop for lunch. I decided I loved driving a pickup, because sitting higher meant I could see so much better, plus this particular truck had plenty of power and all the extras I could want. The ride was smooth, the air-conditioning was top-notch, the sun was shining, and Wyatt Bloodsworth had no idea where I was. Things were looking up.
    Around three, my cell phone rang. I looked at the number that showed in the little window; I had dialed it just that