Nick and Nora Charles—the two names popped into his head as a matched set. Where had he heard them before? It would come; he had a nearly eidetic memory.

“Dashiell Hammett.” He finally remembered. “I read the book a long time ago. I prefer Mickey Spillane.”

She glared at him out of her peripheral vision, eyes practically throwing sparks. “Heresy. I should put you out of the car.”

Reyes tried to picture that. Nobody ever made him do anything he didn’t want to. Odd, she didn’t seem in the least intimidated. Nothing in her manner indicated she was worried about acquiring a passenger his size, armed with a knife. She ought to be tense, sweating, and when things didn’t add up, it troubled him. It was like she knew something he didn’t. And he hated that feeling.

He slid the blade back in his boot. Threatening her ran counterproductive to his aims at this point, so he improvised. “So what did you do back at the bar? Or maybe I should ask how did you do it?”

That would give her a reason to be wary of him, thinking he’d noticed something askew. Which he had, of course, but it wasn’t the big picture. Honesty often provided the best smokescreen for his other endeavors.

She lifted a shoulder. “Maybe you should.”

“So how did you do it?”

“Do what?”

He had the feeling she could continue this line of circular conversation all night. Well, it didn’t matter. In time, he’d wear her down. She didn’t realize it, but she’d gained his company for a while.

That was something of a specialty of his—breaking down barriers, building trust. Reyes bet she’d yield what he needed to know before too much longer. A softness about her mouth said she liked what she saw when she looked at him. He was used to that, but this woman made him want to use sex, a tactic he seldom employed these days—too many complications, too many variables.