The look she gave him made him feel an odd sort of warmth, a sensation he didn’t have time to analyze just now. Because a glance outside told him it was dark enough, and he wanted these set as soon as possible.
“Hey, dog.” He said it in the exact same tone he’d been using in the conversation, no louder, with no different inflection. Yet Cutter, who had been patrolling the back of the cabin, spun instantly and trotted over to them. Yes, this was one smart, smart dog.
The animal looked up at him expectantly.
“Wanna come out and be my early-warning system again?”
The dog had been alert before, but now his head came up even more sharply, and he made that same sort of sound Quinn had heard before, a low, whuffing growl that sounded for all the world like spoken assent.
“Back,” Quinn said, watching the dog. The animal spun on his right hind leg and headed for the back door.
“Testing him?”
“If I was, he passed.” He started to go after the dog.
“Quinn?”
He stopped.
“Stay safe.”
The use of his own words was too pointed not to be intentional.
“Both of you,” she added.
Quinn couldn’t stop himself; he kissed her. A brief, barely there brush of his lips, but this time it was her tempting mouth, not the relative safety of her forehead. He yanked back at the spark that seemed to leap, made himself turn away.
But she didn’t protest him taking the dog this time. Telling her the truth—well, most of it anyway—had been the right thing to do, if gaining her cooperation had been the goal.
As he stepped outside, he was still trying to convince himself that that was his only goal. That telling her the truth had had nothing to do with not liking her suspecting he was one of the bad guys. Nothing to do with wanting her to keep looking at him the way she had when she’d told him to stay safe.
Nothing at all.
Chapter 27
It was official, Hayley thought. The boys have bonded, and she was the odd one out.
When Cutter had first dropped into her life, she’d researched the breed most knowledgeable folks told her he looked like. Intensity, a proclivity for mischief if left too long to his own devices, and the need for a job to do were high on the list. She thought she’d dealt with him fairly well; while there had been some minor incidents of doggy-style waywardness, for the most part Cutter’s manners were impeccable. For a dog, anyway.
But the animal also seemed to have a madcap sense of humor, and seemed inordinately pleased whenever he made her laugh. Like the time he’d come out of her closet wearing a knit hat at a rakish angle, or—
She stopped her own thoughts as she realized she was dwelling on memories and silly things to avoid thinking about the kiss. It had been short, a mere touch of his lips on hers, but it might as well have been a marathon liplock the way her body responded. Waves of heat and sensation had swept through her, all out of proportion to the brief contact.
She thought for a moment that it was his reluctance—for he had obviously been just that—that had caused the untoward conflagration in her. Wouldn’t any woman thrill to the idea of a man like Quinn driven to kiss her against his own will?
Any woman, she thought, would thrill to the idea of Quinn kissing her, period.
But not every woman’s life was in danger, and that’s what she should be thinking about, she told herself sternly. She should be thinking about what was going on in the here and now. About the fact that they could be under fire at any moment. She’d finally gotten some answers out of Quinn, but they hadn’t made her feel any better. Worse, if anything. And not just because what he’d told her was grim, frightening.
Because now she was wondering if he’d finally answered her because they were likely to die here.
There’s just no pleasing you, is there? she told herself sharply. It didn’t help.
How on earth had she, boring, simple Hayley Cole, ended up in this mess? And no matter how she turned it over in her mind, she couldn’t see herself doing anything differently than she had, couldn’t see herself not going after her dog, and abandoning him to his fate when he’d dashed toward that helicopter.
But she was honest enough to realize that if she had done just that, they would likely both be safe at home right now. Quinn would probably have just ignored the dog, the helicopter would have lifted off with the intended passengers only and she would have always wondered about that strange, unmarked aircraft. From the safety of her home, with her beloved dog at her feet.
Of course, if the house had still blown up, things might have changed. She would have had to tell authorities what she’d seen then, and she’d have ended up mixed up in all this anyway, albeit from a much safer place. She would have—
A memory suddenly shot through her mind, of the first day here, when she’d peered over the loft railing at Liam’s laptop screen. Only this time it wasn’t the image of the inferno that had been Vicente’s home that struck her, it was the two words she’d been able to hear from her vantage point.
Explosion.
Leak.
He hadn’t meant the explosion had been caused by some sort of gas leak.
Her thoughts were tumbling now, faster and faster.
He’d meant the house had been blown up because there was an information leak. And it had to be that same leak that had allowed the men outside to find them in this remote, isolated place that should have been safe.
If all the people who worked for Quinn were like the three she’d met, it was hard to believe the leak could be one of his own. In fact, she didn’t believe it; those men were utterly loyal to him, and there was no reason to think he didn’t inspire the same feeling in others.
It’s what he inspires in you that you should be worried about.
That little voice had been nagging at her lately, and it was getting harder and harder to shut it off. And no amount of telling herself she was suffering from some variation of Stockholm syndrome had seemed to help.
And now that she knew the truth about Vicente, knew that Quinn and his crew were indeed on the side of the angels...well, she didn’t know what now. And there wasn’t time to figure it out.
She made herself walk around the cabin, checking every stash of weapons Quinn had left. It took her a moment to realize that he’d placed things so that no matter where you were or in what room, there was a weapon within easy reach. You’d never have to move more than five feet. And while easily accessible, some were also hidden, so that if you knew they were there you could get them without being noticed. The smaller handgun between the chair cushions, the deadly looking grenade dropped into a coffee mug, indiscernible unless you were on top of it.
She’d seen him move the sofa away from the wall then put it back, so went to look there. A large, lethal-looking knife was pinned between the back of the sofa and the wall, hilt protruding upward, and hidden by an extra pillow that looked as if it had just been put there to get it out of the way.
She spun around at the sound of Cutter’s nails—she really needed to trim those, it had been on her list to do that next morning—on the floor, headed her way. Quinn was behind him, his hands empty now, his traps obviously set.
His gaze flicked from the pillow she’d just put back in place to her face. “What are you doing?”
“Believe me, if I was going to try and slit your throat, I would have done it long before now.”
To her amazement, he grinned, a lopsided, heart-stealing grin like the one that had flashed when he’d cracked that joke about missing the lesson about being outnumbered. And her pulse reacted in the same way; it leaped and began to race.
The atmosphere between them changed with an almost audible snap. Became charged, heated. She lowered her eyes, but she could feel him still looking at her, could feel his gaze on her as if it were a physical thing. They were
alone here now, except for Cutter, who seemed delighted to have finally gotten exactly that result.
To cover her own reaction, she hastily spoke.
“Why aren’t they gone, if it’s Vicente they want?”
The question had occurred to her as she was checking the various weapons. She realized it was probably wishful thinking, that they might abandon this fight to go after the man they really wanted, but it did seem a logical question to her.
“Because they don’t know where he’s going. Yet.”
Quinn added the final word with a bite of anger; Hayley didn’t envy the person who was the leak, when Quinn finally found him. And find him he would, she had no doubt of that, if for no other reason than she knew he would never give up until he did.
“But if you have a leak, they will know soon, won’t they?”
He’d been loading up more explosives and trip wires into a pack, but at her words his gaze shot back to her face. “You really don’t miss much, do you?”
“Happens when I figure my life depends on knowing what’s going on,” she said, managing to keep the sarcasm in her tone to a minimum.
To her surprise, he grinned again. Rather lopsided, but still pulse-speeding.
“You’ve got a knack for this, you know?”
Hayley frowned. Why was he being so nice, so normal? All of a sudden he was talking, saying nice things to her.
“Come on, Cutter dog,” he said, and headed for the front door this time. He reached out and hit the light switch by the door, plunging the room into a darkness only eased by a little overflow from the kitchen. This way he wouldn’t be silhouetted in the doorway, she realized, a too-tempting target for the men no doubt planning their next attack.
“Stay inside,” Quinn said. And then they were gone again, man and dog. Leaving behind the woman who had just figured out the answer to her own question.
They were still here because they had an easier, faster way to find out where the man who could destroy them had been taken. They had, almost at their fingertips and certainly outnumbered, the man who had sent him there.
They were staying to get Quinn.
Chapter 28
She watched as Quinn slipped off the now-empty vest; he’d gotten done what he’d gone out there to do.
“So if you aren’t some kind of paramilitary outfit, what are you?”
Quinn gave her a sideways glance, showing he’d heard the fourth question she’d shot at him in the same number of minutes, but again, he didn’t answer.
He was cooking, quickly, in the manner of someone who doubted they’d have time later but knew they needed the fuel. He’d resorted to eggs, and tossed some other things into a big scramble in a skillet. Every now and then he’d toss a chunk of the ham he’d efficiently diced to Cutter, who caught it with ease and whuffed his thanks. When it was done, he scooped up half of it onto a plate and held it out to her.
“You should eat now.”
The unspoken “because you may not get the chance later” registered, but she didn’t say anything. She was too busy staring at him; he’d wrapped his share of the results in a flour tortilla, like a burrito.
“There are few foods that can’t be wrapped in a tortilla,” he said when he saw her look. “Less messy and more portable than a sandwich, same effect. And no dishes.”
She could see his point. “Where’d you learn that?”
“My ex.”
“Your ex?” she said, startled both at that bit of information, and that he’d revealed it. He seemed almost startled himself, and seemed to try to cover it with a joke.
“Hard to believe some woman actually married me, isn’t it?”
The grin flashed again, and any hope she might not react so strongly to it vanished as her pulse leaped yet again. Damn the man. Never mind all the guns and grenades, that grin was his most lethal weapon. To her, anyway.
Which made her realize rather ruefully the problem wasn’t him, but her.
“It’s not hard to believe,” she said. “Just hard to believe you ever left this job of yours long enough to marry some woman.”
He seemed to hesitate, then gave a half shrug. “I didn’t,” he said, his voice oddly soft. “That was the problem.”
So he was a workaholic? It didn’t surprise her. But somehow this seemed a little different. Being fiercely dedicated to keeping someone like Vicente safe seemed different from being addicted to spreadsheets or the next microchip. But she supposed the end result was the same if you were the wife who barely saw her husband.
“So she left you? Because of your work?”
He grimaced. “Let’s just say she didn’t share my dedication.” His tone held the finality of a man through discussing a subject he hadn’t wanted to let come up in the first place. So much for the personal revelations, Hayley thought, although she longed to ask more, much more. She wanted to know who this man was, why he got under her skin so easily.
She finally took her first bite of the concoction on the plate, and was pleasantly surprised. It didn’t just taste like the individual ingredients he’d mixed. Somehow the combination was savory and appetizing in a new way.
Handy guy to have around, she thought, her mouth quirking. Flies helicopters, shoots straight, good with explosives, cool under fire and he can cook, too.
“When will they attack again?”
“If they haven’t already, I’m guessing they’ll wait until the dead hours.”
“Charming phrase.”
“It’s just what we call the time when most people are the most deeply asleep. Varies with the person, but two in the morning to about four or five is optimum.”
“For them, you mean.”
“Yes. So you should get some rest now.”
“Me? Seems you should be the one resting.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I don’t want fine. You’re the one between us and them. I’d prefer well rested and ready, thank you.”
He drew back sharply, his eyes widening. And then, to her shock, he laughed. It was a gravelly sort of laugh, rough, as if it didn’t escape very often, and no one seemed more surprised than he did at the sound of it.
“That,” he said, “was a very concise assessment.”
“And true. Isn’t it?”
“You’re not helpless.”
“I know.”
“Question is, could you take that kill shot if you had to?”
“I...don’t know.”
“What if they hurt him?” he asked, gesturing at Cutter.
“Yes.” It came out strongly, certainly. And then, without thinking, she added, “Or you.”
Again surprise flashed across his face. “Me?”
“Is no one allowed to want to protect you? Is it always the other way around?”
“I don’t need protecting. That’s my job.”
“It always comes back to that, then? Are you that wrapped up in being the big strong man, the protector, that you can’t accept it from someone else?”
He took the last bite of his tortilla, ignoring her now.
“Is that also why your wife left?”
He quickly washed the skillet he’d used. Silently.
Driven by some need she didn’t quite understand to break through this man’s formidable defenses, Hayley pressed on. She seemed to irritate him easily enough, but now she’d gotten a laugh out of him, and she wanted more. She wanted more laughing, more smiles, that rare and precious grin. She wanted to know who he really was, why he was who he was, what had brought him here, not just to this place but to this work. She wanted to know now what drove him so hard, wanted to know if he ever stopped, what would make him stop.
She wanted his whole damned life history, inside and out, and the fact that she wanted all that so much she’d practically forgotten about the men outside and the dire
situation they were in was not lost on her.
“Or could she not handle what kind of work you do? Is that the real reason she left, she couldn’t deal with a man who has to arm himself to go to work?”
He put the skillet away and finally turned to look at her. “Speaking from experience?”
“It nearly split up my parents, yes,” she said. “My mother had a hard time with realizing every time she sent him out the door he might not come back.”
“It’s a hazard of the job.”
“And yours?”
“We’re not talking about mine.”
“I am.”
“Then stop.” He finished clearing the kitchen, leaving her to deal with her own plate and fork.
“Quinn—”
“Will you just leave it?”
“I can’t.”
He let out a compressed breath. Started to walk past her.
“I need to know.”
He stopped. In front of her. Practically on top of her.
“We could die here. I need to know who you are, why you are—”
His mouth came down on hers, cutting her off. Shock immobilized her. Then, as if every nerve in her body had been jolted into awareness, heat flooded her. For an instant it seemed as if he were as stunned as she at the unexpected and sudden conflagration. But then he moved, encircling her with his arms, pressing her against him as he deepened the kiss.
Her every nerve was sizzling. She couldn’t feel her knees anymore, and her arms felt heavy, weak. But it didn’t matter, none of it mattered, not as long as he was there, holding her, she wouldn’t fall, he wouldn’t let her. All that mattered was his mouth, coaxing, probing, tasting.
It was going through her in pulses now, that heat, that surging, delicious heat, like nothing she’d ever known. Some tiny part of her brain tried to insist it was because it had been so long, but she knew it wasn’t that, knew it had never been like this in her life because she’d never kissed a man like Quinn before.
No, not that, she thought as, after what seemed an eternity, he at last pulled away. Not a man like Quinn. Because there was no other man like Quinn, there was only Quinn.
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