LITMIR.BIZ

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      Cara finished the food in the bag while Bill slept. It was too dark by then to see anything outside the windows, and she closed her eyes and thought about how lucky it had been that Bill felt too ill to eat the food he’d purchased. She had been so hungry, she’d been on the verge of feeling sick herself. But she had limited funds, and she had to make them stretch. She couldn’t afford to blow all her money on meals in restaurants.

      When she got where she was going, and got her own place, she’d stock up on cheap things like bread and luncheon meat. She’d live on that just fine until she had money coming in. Maybe she’d land a job in a restaurant where they’d provide some of her meals.

      A spasm of despair gripped her; all those years of working toward her M.B.A. and now she would be reduced to working as a waitress or something. She sighed. She couldn’t let herself suffer remorse now—she’d made her decision and followed through on it. This was no time to be feeling sorry for herself.

      She glanced over at Bill Hamlin, hoping her restlessness hadn’t disturbed his sleep. His breathing was shallow and even, and his face was more handsome when he was at peace, not wearing its usual expression of wariness.

      It occurred to her that they’d been on the bus together for about eighteen hours, and he didn’t look the least bit rumpled or disheveled. Maybe that was a trick a world traveler learned. Ruefully she looked down at her own outfit, which wasn’t holding up well at all. In the morning she’d go into the ladies’ room and change into one of her other outfits, though she suspected they’d be pretty wrinkled, too, from being folded in the gym bag.

      Her reflection in the night-darkened window told her that her hair needed a good brushing and any sign of lipstick was gone.

      Funny that a man who had traveled all over the world would end up riding on a cross-country bus, she mused, closing her eyes again. But then, she’d read about people who made treks on foot or by bicycle, sleeping in barns and hostels and living out of their backpacks. Maybe Bill Hamlin was one of those.

      She took a deep breath. He sure did smell good. It couldn’t be aftershave, she realized, opening one eye to peek at him. He had a beard. Must be hair oil, or some kind of scented men’s soap.

      It made her think of Doug, and she winced and folded her arms around her body. She didn’t have to worry about Doug anymore, or about her mother. Even if her mother should decide to hire someone to find her, she was pretty sure she could avoid discovery. When her car was found, they’d think she was somewhere in Boston.

      A tiny prickle of fear shot through her. What if they thought she’d been killed? Her mother would never rest until her body was found and the murderer put in jail.

      What body? What murderer? Giving a soft chuckle, Cara realized that scenario would never be played out.

      And then, suddenly, humor turned to sorrow and, despite her determination to avoid self-pity, she began to cry quietly, missing her mother, her home, wishing things could have been different, wishing Doug had never come into their lives.

      “Hey,” Bill said softly, turning his head to look at her. “Are you crying?”

      “No.” She shook her head and dashed the tears from her eyes. “I thought you were asleep,” she said, her voice muffled, as she looked through her purse for tissues.

      “I’m a light sleeper. When the person next to me starts to cry, I usually wake up.”

      He handed her one of those small packages of tissue that were sold at checkout counters. Cara took one and blew her nose into it, handing the packet back to him.

      “Keep it. I suspect the waterworks aren’t over yet.”

      A fresh flood of tears proved him right. Cara leaned against the window and wept quietly.

      Beside her, Bill Hamlin sat quite still, not touching her, not pretending to understand her pain or attempting to talk her out of her distress.

      Cara wiped her eyes and nose and turned to him with a look of wry reproach. “You’ve done this before,” she said accusingly.

      “You mean waited for some damsel in distress to get over the boo-hoos?”

      Cara grinned in spite of herself and then nodded.

      Bill stretched his legs, slouched on his spine and turned his head toward her. “If you ask a woman why she’s crying, she invariably either says she isn’t or that it’s nothing. If you try to comfort her, you can’t possibly find the words that will make any difference. And if you try to touch her, you either get shrugged off, punched, or drenched from the tears. I’ve learned it’s better to wait it out.”

      Cara laughed. “Thanks.”

      Bill smiled. It was a strangely gentle, compassionate smile, Cara thought.

      “It’s okay. We all have periods when we want to go into a corner and bawl.”

      “Not men,” Cara said firmly.

      “Oho! You don’t know much about men, apparently.”

      Cara studied her seatmate with renewed interest, her own loneliness forgotten. He certainly didn’t look the type to cry. But then, what would that type look like? Effeminate? The man beside her was hardly that.

      “I ate all your food,” she said.

      “I hoped you would,” he replied.

      “It... I...”

      “You were hungry.” Bill nodded. “It’s okay, I understand. I’ve been there a time or two myself.”

      Cara was grateful that he’d relieved her of the awkwardness of having to explain her limited finances, but she didn’t want him to pity her, either.

      “I could use my money for food, but I need it more for something else.”

      Again Bill nodded. “Sure. Don’t worry about it. And if you’re a good seatmate and don’t snore while you sleep, I’ll buy you breakfast in the morning as a reward.”

      “I don’t snore,” Cara said indignantly.

      Bill folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes. “Good,” he said, smiling wearily. “Then you’re a shoo-in for the superdeluxe ranch steak and eggs special.”

      Cara laughed and made herself as comfortable as she could beside Bill. What a nice man. And without any hint of flirtatiousness. He reminded her of her father, though he was younger than her father had been when he died. Come to think of it, he must be about Doug’s age, halfway between her mother and herself.

      But she mustn’t think about the people at home; if she did, she’d start crying again.

      She decided to think about breakfast with Bill, instead. She smiled at the thought. She’d use the ladies’ room and change into jeans and her pink long-sleeved knit shirt. Jeans held up better for travel. And she’d put on a little makeup and fix her hair. She wasn’t going to give him a single reason to regret inviting her to breakfast.

      She was almost asleep when his head slipped onto her shoulder. Cara held her breath, her body rigid, but then relaxed. It was nice having him there, she decided; familiar and not at all threatening.

      * * *

      DOUG HARVARD fought for control as Beth Dunlap paced the floor, wringing her hands and weeping noisily.

      “I can’t believe she just took off like that, sneaking away in the dark of night without even telling me she was leaving.”

      “She did leave a note, darling,” Doug reminded her gently.

      “Maybe I should notify the police, report her missing.” Beth’s voice had strengthened, the teariness giving way to resolve.

      “Darling, the police would say she left on her own, that she isn’t really missing.”

      “What about a private detective, then?”

      It

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