by Tara Janzen
She didn't answer, and after a moment, he realized she couldn't. She was trying too hard to control whatever emotion had caused her to pull in on herself.
“Hey,” he said, moving a step closer and bending his head to better see her face. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” The lie was barely a whisper. A tremor went through her. He saw it in the brief trembling of her shoulders, in the nervous adjustment of her fingers across her brow. “Yeah. I'm fine. Thanks.”
She turned toward the car and reached for the door handle. Her shoulder accidentally brushed against his chest, and the contact brought her to a sudden halt. Her head came up, and their eyes met.
She was close, very close, her scent coming to him on the hot summer air, all overheated woman and soft sweet musk.
Intoxicating.
He found himself breathing deeper just to have more of her. Crazy, crazy, crazy, the word went through his mind. He was certifiable, trying to breathe her in—but, God, he loved the way she smelled. He didn't know what to make of the shadowed expression in her eyes.
“What's wrong?” He reached out and gently took hold of her upper arm.
She hesitated before answering, her gaze dropping. “Nothing. You said you would find him. And you did. Thank you.”
Gratitude. It was a hell of a lot better than wariness, but it wasn't even close to what he really wanted from her.
He slid his thumb along the edge of her sleeve, feeling the silken softness of her skin and the texture of lace, and took another step closer.
“Captain Younger, I—”
“Quinn,” he corrected her. He was going to kiss her. The least they ought to be was on a first-name basis.
“Quinn,” she conceded, making a small dismissive gesture, part shrug, part turn of her hand—but he wasn't about to be dismissed, not yet. “This has been a crazy day. Absolutely crazy, and you haven't exactly made it better, except for actually finding Wilson.” She paused, her jaw tightening for an instant. “I just find it hard to believe I drove halfway across the state and back, and he was in Lafayette the whole time. God, things are bad . . . or worse—” She stopped herself short and her hand came back up to cover her face. “I mean, he doesn't seem to think straight all the time anymore, but I can't believe he didn't call or . . . I don't know what your partner was thinking, to involve an old man in such a . . .”
Now Quinn did know the answer to that. Dylan was thinking of the win, the best way to win. That's what Dylan did. He won. Every time. It was what made him the best, the absolute best.
“Or those damn cars. I should have known better than to let . . .”
He'd opened a floodgate, and he let it all wash up against him, all her barely concealed frustrations and worries, and suddenly he got a glimpse into what it was like being Regan McKinney, all practicality and responsibility, taking care of an old man who was losing his grip on reality.
“. . . and my car, now. Gone.”
“I'll have your car back to you by the end of next week,” he promised her. “You can drive Betty until then.”
“Betty?” Her head finally came up. She'd been mostly talking to his chest and the pavement but he had her attention now.
Women loved Betty. They couldn't help themselves. Hot red leather, all buttery soft, wrapping around them. Hot pink piping to add some flash. A mirror-finish paint job so clean you could put your lipstick on looking in the fender. Whitewalls.
“Betty,” he confirmed, bringing his hand up and smoothing his fingers along the curve of her jaw, letting her think about what was going to happen next for a moment, but just a moment, just long enough for her eyes to widen with the knowledge before he lowered his head and opened his mouth over hers.
She let out a soft gasp, which was perfect, and her hand came up to hold on to his waist, which was even better. She might have been thinking of pushing him away, but he didn't think so, and she didn't do it. In fact, it only took about two seconds flat for her to tighten her grip and sigh into his mouth.
God. He knew exactly how she felt. Her lips were as soft as they looked, the inside of her mouth even softer. She tasted like Coca-Cola and heaven. It was amazing, kissing her.
He turned her deeper into the kiss, pressing her back against Jeanette, wild Jeanette who was hot in the summer sun, hot enough to make Regan McKinney melt into his arms. He hadn't expected such a soft giving way, such surrender, and it went straight to his groin in a wave of pleasure so intense, he groaned.
Cupping the back of her head with his hand, he slowly increased his assault on her mouth, delving deeper with long, lazy strokes of his tongue and feeling her response in the subtle tightening of her body.
Sweet Christ. His fantasies had nothing on reality. For all their wonderful, intoxicating crudeness, he didn't spend much time kissing her in his fantasies. In truth, he didn't spend any time kissing her in his fantasies. He always skipped ahead to the good parts.
Big mistake.
Kissing her was a great part, and if they hadn't been standing in a parking lot with bad guys behind them and bad guys ahead of them, he would have slid his hand up to her breasts to feel their weight and softness, knowing it would push them both a little closer to the edge. If it wasn't for Vince Branson and Roper Jones, he would definitely give in to the urge to press his hips against hers, pinning her more solidly to Jeanette, and he would have kept kissing her—kept kissing her until she was too hot to stop.
Even the thought of it made him hard.
Oh, great—He stopped, right then, right there. Stopped and for a few seconds didn't move, not an inch, just tried to catch his breath and find his brains.
She didn't move either, just stood with her mouth on his, her breathing ragged, her body trembling—and he knew they were going to make love. For real, real physically, real soon.
She'd kissed him like she was drowning and he was the rope that could save her. And once was not going to be enough, not when everything he'd ever dreamed of shattered in the reality of having her in his arms with her mouth hot on his, her body moving against him, all curves and softness and need.
The need had surprised him, but he'd felt it as surely as he'd felt her tongue slide along the length of his, as surely as he'd felt her hand clutching at his waist. He had a feeling she'd been just as surprised by her reaction as he'd been.
Gently, because he couldn't resist, he kissed her again, brushing his mouth across hers in a light caress, more of a good-bye than a hello, trying to take them both down one level from being ready to crawl inside each other's pants before he raised his head.
It didn't work. Looking down at her, her face flushed, her mouth wet, feeling her breasts rise and fall against his chest with every breath, he still wanted to get inside her pants. He dipped back down for another taste, then one more before he was actually able to let her go and retreat half a step.
Her eyes fluttered open, her gaze slowly clearing from a slumberous shade of confusion to a thunderstruck, oh-my-god gray. A wash of color rose in her cheeks as she stared at him, suddenly wide-eyed.
“Oh, my God.”
He'd second that.
“We have to go,” he said, his hand still cupping the back of her neck, his thumb stroking the soft skin behind her ear. “We can't stay here.”
“No. Of course not,” she said. The color in her face deepened, but her gaze didn't waver from his, not for an instant. She was as transfixed as he was, her pulse racing beneath his hand.
God save him.
“Or maybe we could get a room.” The words were out, husky and heartfelt, before he had time to think. He wanted a room, a room with a bed and her naked in it. He wanted the rest of the night and into the morning. He wanted to know what turned her on and the chance to drive her out of her mind, just the chance.
The look on her face said he could do it. She would come undone for him, completely undone. It was a hell of a temptation, to take her and make her his.
“No.” The word was barely a breath of
sound, but he heard it loud and clear.
“No?” He slowed the movement of his thumb across her skin, his brows drawing together. What part of what he was feeling wasn't she feeling?
She gave her head a small shake and turned toward Jeanette, her movements jerky, her voice strained. “No, I . . . uh, don't think, well, I . . . uh, I have to call Nikki, and I need to make sure Wilson is okay, and then what about those other guys, Branson and the man with him?” He let her go. There was no need to push. She'd melted for him with a kiss. He could take it from there—take it all the way home. A grin curved his mouth. He was going to like chasing her just fine, little Miss McKinney with her careful buttons and careful job and completely wild kisses.
“Christian Hawkins is checking them out,” he reassured her, reaching around and opening the door. “He'll call when he has something.”
She whirled back to face him. “Christian Hawkins? That's who you were talking with? The one who went to jail for life?”
“Actually, they only held him a couple of years.” Just long enough to change him forever. To change his nineteen-year-old streetwise toughness into pure tempered steel with a razor's edge. Nobody fucked with Christian Hawkins anymore. Nobody fucked with Superman.
“But he murdered a senator's son.” The accusation was flat, chiseled in the granite of common knowledge.
That was the damned thing about the media. They were more than happy to splash a man's sins all over page one, but his redemption barely made the paper, especially when someone powerful wanted the truth kept quiet.
“No, he didn't, but not much got printed about his release.” And that was an understatement if Quinn had ever heard one.
“He was innocent? Good God.” Her hand came up to her mouth, then dropped to the base of her throat. “The papers crucified him.”
Quinn would never have used the word innocent in connection with Hawkins even before prison, but he hadn't deserved what had happened to him for being a street kid in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“He survived,” he said, summing up the salient facts in two words.
“I remember him,” she said, her embarrassment momentarily forgotten. “I remember talking with him at Rabbit Valley. Survivor is a good word to describe him.”
“You spent time with Hawkins?” Son of a bitch. Hawkins had never mentioned talking with Doc McKinney's hot granddaughter.
She nodded. “We were actually together quite a bit. Wilson liked him, put us both on supply crew a number of times. It was hard for him, thinking one of his summer boys had committed murder.”
“Yeah,” Quinn said absently, imagining it had been hard, but mostly he was remembering supply crew, the damned elusive supply crew. He'd never gotten assigned to it, not once. Regan and Hawkins had been assigned to practically every one. But what he remembered was Regan sitting in the truck cab with the graduate students, and Hawkins always being in the bed of the pickup, going along as muscle to hump the supplies into the truck.
Now he was wondering how many times Regan had ridden back from town in the bed of the pickup with Hawkins.
Son of a bitch.
“Well, there's a good chance he'll be coming by your house sometime, maybe even tonight. He might need to talk to you, or Wilson again, or catch up with Kid.” Damn. He was jealous. What a kick in the ass. It was ridiculous, especially after that kiss. But there it was, because he knew Hawkins, and he knew the effect Superman had on women, especially classy women looking for a dangerous thrill, looking for a walk on the wild side.
Hawkins had given it to more than a few.
Damn.
“Maybe you better warn Nikki she might be having a lot of company tonight,” he said, repressing his jealousy.
“Nikki. Right.” A faint trace of her blush returned. “I'll call, and maybe you should talk to Kid and tell him . . .” She stopped in mid-sentence, as if she'd suddenly thought better of what she'd been about to say.
“Tell him?” he prompted.
“Tell him, well . . .” She hesitated a moment longer. Her hand came up to brush at a straying tendril of hair. “Well, Nikki kind of has this thing about men, kind of an artistic compulsion thing with her art and . . . men. It's not a personal thing.” A pained expression crossed her face, as if she really weren't at all sure it—whatever “it” was—wasn't more personal than she wanted to admit. “Well, just sort of an art thing, something to do with never really knowing her father, I think, and I wouldn't want Kid to get wrapped up in something that might compromise his ability to do his job. I mean, well, he's kind of young and maybe if he was warned, you know, that Nikki can be a handful . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Fascinating, Quinn thought, watching her stumble over her words, trying to explain something that didn't make much sense to him. He wasn't overly concerned.
“So Nikki's an artist?”
“Yes.”
“And how old is she now—I'm thinking twenty-one, twenty-two?” He remembered her younger sister had just been a little kid back at Rabbit Valley.
“Twenty-one,” she confirmed.
Quinn grinned. “Don't worry. Kid is a pro. There isn't a twenty-one-year-old girl on the planet who could wrap him up in anything he didn't want to be wrapped up in.” And Quinn was including silk sheets right along with trouble.
The doubt on her face only made his grin broaden. He thought it was sweet of her to be concerned, sweet and totally illogical. Kid was rock solid, honed by the Corps's finest into an elite combat weapon, trained to think two steps ahead of the enemy while under fire, underwater, and outmanned. Unless an army had declared war on Boulder since this morning, there wasn't anything in northern Colorado Kid couldn't handle, on his own, with one hand tied behind his back.
Absolutely nothing—least of all little Nikki McKinney.
CHAPTER
9
KID WATCHED Skeeter's Jeep drive away from the McKinneys' house before he reached inside the Porsche and lifted a black duffel bag and a pack out of the back seat. Skeeter had done a good job watching the place. Stayed cool. Laid low. Kept the intel flowing between them. If any of Roper's men had shown up, she would have called the police. Now any bad guys would have to deal with him.
Kid slipped the duffel and pack straps over his shoulder, then reached back in for his sport drink and took another look around. The McKinney house was big and old, the first floor built of stone, with a wooden wraparound porch complete with a swing and more windows than he wanted to know about. Four huge spruce trees nearly overwhelmed the place, and years ago some gardener had gone nuts. The yard was a jungle. Kid could have put a whole platoon in the front alone and nobody would have ever been the wiser. In the back, beyond the gazebo, a small stone cottage could barely be seen hidden in the undergrowth.
The garage was detached. There was no fence, and a stripped-down Jeep was parked in the alley between the McKinneys' and the brick two-story house behind them. The vehicle was little more than a roll bar with two seats and four wheels, but the back was full of stuff, good stuff from what Kid could see, ropes and climbing gear. From his position in the driveway, he could just make out the license plate: SRCHN4U. If Nikki McKinney had company, Skeeter hadn't mentioned it, but she wouldn't have seen someone arriving from the alley. Or the Jeep could belong with the brick two-story. Finding out would be his first order of business.
He looked back to the house and took note of no fewer than three doors opening to the outside, one of them French—and that was just on the ground floor. The upper balconies had at least another two doors opening out.
A definite challenge if anything started to go down.
Kid finished his drink, and tossed the empty bottle onto Nadine's floor with all the other junk he hadn't bothered to clean out of the Porsche lately, including half the sand in Utah. For fifty bucks, Skeeter would get her cleaned up, a real bargain. Nobody detailed a car like Skeeter.
He grabbed the laptop before locking the car's doors and heading on up to the
house. The temperature had been 104 in Cisco, and even at seven o'clock was holding at an easy 99 in Boulder. It was going to be hot all night long. He could tell. Swelteringly hot. A beer and a little ESPN would be a nice break after two weeks of camping out in a barn, but he wasn't going to get either tonight, not as long as he was on his own with two women to watch. Quinn had said he and Regan were about an hour behind him.
Kid didn't know what to think about that. An hour? What the hell had the two of them been up to? Quinn should have been right on his ass the whole way.
The doorbell itself was his first clue that this was not exactly cold-beer-and-ESPN territory. It was a naked angel—a highly detailed, metal-casted, anatomically correct naked guy angel with wings spread, tips touching, standing on a fiery sun. The doorbell button was the sun, and it looked hot and molten, the depths of its amber crystal lit from within.
His finger hovered for a second, then two, before he pressed it. From somewhere inside the house, a guy screamed.
Shit! He jerked his hand back. Then he felt like a fool.
Shit. No wonder the old man had left home.
Damn. He grinned and pressed the button again, holding it in.
Yeah, the guy was screaming in there all right, but it wasn't a fearful scream. It was more primal, more like Tarzan, or the sound he'd made the last time he'd lofted himself off a half-pipe on a snowboard.
His grin broadened. Yeah, that's what it sounded like—some bozo doing something really stupid.
The door opened, swinging inward to reveal a woman on the threshold. For another incredibly long second, he didn't take his finger off the button. With the temperature sweltering and the guy screaming away, all he could do was stare. It took another second before he realized his jaw had dropped open.
He shut his mouth and dropped his hand from the doorbell at the same time. Then he spent yet another embarrassingly long moment trying to remember something to say. Something simple like . . . like “Hello.” It finally came to him, but instead of hello, when he opened his mouth, years of training and mission readiness took over and what came out was “Ma'am.”