Oh, for God's sake.It's not like I'd suggested a trial by combat.Had they not understood?
I pointed to the bag, which neither man had relinquished. "Just open it." When their grips only tightened, I helpfully added, "Then you'll know."
In unison, they both turned and eyed the bag in question as if the big black duffel contained a trove of illicit drugs – or worse, a severed head.
The tourist gave a bark of laughter. "But I already know what's inside."
I tried to smile. "Yeah, but – "
His tone grew accusing. "Why doyouneed to know?"
I drew back. "It's not about me. It's about establishing ownership." In desperation, I turned to Mister Wall Street in hopes thatheat least would see my logic.
My hopes were dashed when he asked with obvious annoyance, "You ever hear of privacy?"
I narrowed my eyes. "Look, you calledmeover here, not the other way around."
His eyebrows lifted. "Icalled you here?"
"Alright, fine," I muttered, gesturing toward the other guy. "He called me over, but it's not like you objected."
"Fair enough." He gave a one-shouldered shrug. "So I'm objecting now."
I felt my own shoulders tighten.Jerk.I didn't care how broad his shoulders were or how good his jawline looked in the morning sun.A jerk was a jerk.
The other guy spoke up. "Same here." His gaze grew flinty. "Just what are you hoping to see?"
I started to sputter. "Me? Nothing."
He gave the bag a sly glance. "If stuff is private, it should stay private."
Privatestuff? Forget the severed head. The way he talked, he'd stashed a dozen dildos and maybe a sex swing or two – assuming, of course, that the bag was his. No wonder he didn't want to give it up.
But what about the other guy?What didhethink was in the bag?Guns? Knives? A fat wad of cash?
I didn't think it was dildos, because let's face it – a guy likethatlooked capable of satisfying a woman all by himself.No toys needed.
Good Lord.
Had Ireallyjust thought that?
I was just giving myself a mental slap when the tourist turned to Mister Wall Street and said, "Andyou. You're just pissed about the seagull."
A seagull?Unable to stop myself, I looked toward the guy in question. He was giving the tourist a cold stare, the kind that should've sent the shorter man packing – with or without the bag.
I heard myself ask, "What seagull?"
The tourist turned to me with a grin. "A big one. It attacked him on the boat. Craziest thing you ever saw."
I felt my brow furrow in confusion. "Seriously?" Having lived near the water all my life, I'd seen more than my share ofseagulls – or flying rats as we sometimes called them. But during all these years, I had never heard of one attacking a human before.
But the tourist was nodding. "Dead serious."
Wall Street's forearms gave a dangerous little twitch as he gritted out, "The bird wanted the chips. I was in the way. That's all."
I tried to picture it. "Chips? You mean potato chips?"
Through clenched teeth, he replied, "Yes. And before you ask, no, they weren't mine."
