Page 25 of Fully Loaded

She bit down on her lip. The woman had dark hair and was easily ten years older than she was. If she tried to use that woman’s passport, she’d end up in jail before they got out of the country. He accepted their phone, snapped a picture, and returned it to the gentleman. She narrowed her eyes. Had it just been a kind deed? Sure didn’t look like he’d stolen anything. He continued down the path toward the lake, stopped at the rocks on the shore, and pulled out his own phone to take a selfie. She rolled her eyes. He couldn’t be serious.

Another couple approached him and he smiled jovially, pointed at the lake, and said something to them. He stepped closer to the dark-haired woman, who wore a purse across her shoulder. Dani tracked his hand movements. His right arm hovered at his side, hidden between their bodies.

Brock accepted the man’s cell phone and motioned for them to back up. After a few snaps, he got close to the woman’s side again and showed them the screen. Then Brock gave them his phone and they returned the favor. From her angle, Dani couldn’t see if he’d obtained anything. She leaned closer to the window as they handed back his phone. His right elbow moved at his hip. Ah-ha. She stared while that hand crept up and then pointed at the mountains. To anyone else, nothing would be amiss, but she’d bet her last dollar he’d just grabbed the woman’s passport. He hadn’t gotten close enough to the man, though.

He walked farther down the sidewalk and said something to a guy with his young family. Several minutes later, Brock strode toward their vehicle, his hands shoved in his front pockets, his head down. She sat forward in her seat as he slid in next to her. He shut the door, turned the key in the ignition, and pulled away.

“Well?”

He sat erect, his hand looped over the top of the steering wheel. Rather than answer her, he checked the rearview mirror. She pinched his bicep. He yelped and shook his arm.

“Ouch, dammit. Yes, I’ve got them.” He lifted his right ass cheek, reached into his pocket, and slapped two passports in her hand. “Take a look. There’s no exchange policy so you’d better be happy with them.”

She flipped open the first book. “Darren Porter?” She scanned Brock’s body. He didn’t look like a Darren. She opened the other book.

“Mildred Anderson?”

Brock’s laugh filled the vehicle. “I didn’t know her name, I swear.” His shoulders shook and he rubbed his mouth with his knuckle.

“Great. I have the name of an eighty-year-old.”

He dropped his hand to her thigh and squeezed it. “How about I call you Millie?”

A chuckle tickled her throat. “Shut up.”

“You’re the cutest Mildred I’ve ever met.” He retracted his hand, but his words stayed behind, curling around her heart.

“Yeah, well. Don’t get used to it.” She tucked the passports in her bag and shuffled further back in her seat. “Now what?”

“We’ve got one more thing to do.” He pulled into the parking lot of a pharmacy. “Wait here.” He disappeared inside and returned with a small bag.

“What’s that?”

“Your new look.”

She opened the bag and her stomach jumped. She shouldn’t care. It was only hair, after all. But she had virgin blonde hair. Dying it would suck. Among the hair dye was a ton of makeup in various shades.

“I didn’t know what kind of makeup to get, so I got a little of everything. I know it’s not much of a disguise, but hopefully it will make a difference. And don’t worry. When all this is over you can get your natural color back,” he said with a wink. She didn’t bother explaining to him that one couldn’t just “get” their natural hair color back. Such a guy thing to assume.

Once in their room at the cheap motel Brock had checked them into, Dani carefully laid the bag’s contents on the vanity in the bathroom. She started on her hair, sloshing the inky dye on her roots and working it through the strands all the way to the end. The harsh smell of chemicals burned her nose and made her eyes water. Twenty minutes later, she scrubbed out the dye with the travel-sized shampoo and conditioner Brock had selected.

Grabbing a towel, she squeezed the strands until the excess moisture was gone. Then taking a deep breath, she shook out her hair and faced the mirror.

Holy shit. She gulped, fingered the tresses, and then dropped them as if she’d been burned. At least now she looked more like Mildred in the passport photo.

It’s just hair, relax.

Needing a distraction from the shock, she worked on her makeup. She had to pencil in darker eyebrows since her dirty-blonde ones looked ridiculous against the nearly ebony locks. She picked up the contouring kit and snorted. As if. She was so not venturing into that district right now. Using the regular powder foundation, she worked it over her skin and then selected neutral eyeshadow and black mascara. Finally, she grabbed the hair dryer and fluffed out the strands. Without a hair straightener, her hair had more volume and bounce than usual, but the effect of her new look was . . . exotic.

She swallowed, gripped the door handle, and stepped out of the bathroom.

Brock’s long form was stretched out on the bed. He was watching TV, his arms folded behind his head and his ankles crossed. His gaze swept to her casually, as if he’d forgotten she’d been in the bathroom for the last hour giving herself a makeover.

His jaw unhinged and slowly, he sat up. His eyes moved over her face, to her hair, then to her eyes. He stood, took three strides, and stopped in front of her.

“Holy shit.”

Heat swarmed up her chest and her cheeks tingled with fire. She twisted her fingers in front of her abdomen. This was stupid, being on display in front of him, fearful of his opinion. When had she become so hung up on what he thought of her appearance?