CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
If she’d flung a bucket of snakes in his face Divers O’Roarke couldn’t have felt a sharper sting of surprise. Him? And Lyon? Not in his book as such. “I’m sorry?”
“No, you’re not. That would be a first. And much as I played games in the past, I admit it, I don’t now.”
Much was the word on the tip of his tongue about the games she played all the damned time. She was playing one now. But the knowledge spider crawled with inch long spikes attached to each leg, across his scalp. That the thought she might not be playing didn't just make him catch his breath. It made him feel that what breath he did catch might conceivably be his last. But how could he very well let it be?
He dealt in wrecks, smuggling and dead men. It was only possible because he always stayed one step ahead. It was unthinkable to fall behind now. At all costs he needed to cling to the belief that as long as Lyon hadn’t told her everything, he would survive to the next step. She jerked up her chin.