“If we need thugs and kidnappers, we’re in more trouble than we can get out of,” she retorted.
Quinn couldn’t help it, he chuckled. He caught himself and kept it inward, but he realized with a little jolt that he liked the way she got in his face, came back at him despite her fear.
He started breaking eggs into the bowl. When he passed six, her brow furrowed. “Good thing they found out eggs aren’t as bad for you as they thought.”
He glanced at her. “Worried about my health?”
“Aren’t you?”
“No, since this isn’t just for me.”
She blinked. “You’re cooking breakfast for everybody?”
“Everybody takes their turn.”
“Even you?”
He lifted a brow. “You’d rather I assigned it to you?”
“Depends. Any rat poison around?”
This time he didn’t manage to keep the chuckle suppressed. “Sorry. Wanna come after me with this?” He lifted the large, heavy cast-iron skillet.
“Please, not another cliché,” she muttered.
A third chuckle threatened. Which in itself amazed him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this close to laughing, even once, let alone three times. But between her and her dog, he was grinning—albeit inwardly—a lot. That was disconcerting. He put the large skillet on a burner, and while it was heating he turned his focus to scrambling the eggs in the bowl and adding some seasonings.
“People will be looking for me by now. Probably him, too,” she said as she gestured toward the bedroom where their prize prisoner seemed content to hide for the duration, coming out only for meals and the bathroom.
“Oh, people are looking for him, all right. You? Maybe. But you haven’t exactly been a social butterfly since your mother passed away.”
He flicked a glance at her in time to see her jaw drop. She stared at him, clearly stunned by his knowledge.
“How did you know about my mother?”
“We do our homework.”
“And who the hell is ‘we’?” she demanded. “Who are you people?”
He ignored that. Not that it stopped her.
“I’ve been thinking. You’re either some huge criminal operation, or you must be the government in some way.”
“Some,” he said as he added some salt and pepper to the eggs, “would say there’s not much difference.”
“Government, I think,” she said, as if he hadn’t spoken. “They’re the only ones who’d think you can swoop in and snatch people off their own property.”
“Technically,” he said mildly, “you were on somebody else’s property.”
She rolled her eyes. “Should have taken the skillet,” she muttered.
And again he had to smother a chuckle. And she wasn’t done yet.
“So what alphabet soup agency is it? CIA? DEA? DHS? Who spent my tax dollars for you to show up and treat me like a common criminal?”
“Rather better than, I think,” he said, another little jolt hitting him as he realized he was actually enjoying this. He quashed the feeling as he laid the bacon into the now-hot skillet.
“Fine,” she snapped. “So we’re at Camp Cupcake. That’s still not an answer.”
“We’re not government.”
He was a little surprised he’d made the admission. Not that it wouldn’t have a desired effect; if they were government, she might be more inclined to just cooperate. Then again, she didn’t seem overly appreciative of the “alphabet soup,” as she’d put it, that gurgled out of Washington, D.C. Maybe not knowing would keep her scared, and thus more cooperative. But he didn’t like the idea of trying to keep her scared, effective though it might be.
As the tempting smell of sizzling bacon began to wake up his stomach—and hers, too, judging by the way she tilted her head and sniffed—he made a decision. He turned to face her. She was still holding the heavy mug of coffee, which would probably still be hot enough to do some damage if she hurled it at him. He wasn’t sure he’d put it past her.
“Hayley,” he said. She said nothing, but still he saw the use of her name register; he never had before. “We’re not the bad guys.”
She studied him for a moment before saying, “Since my life is full of clichés lately, let me add another. If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck…”
“If I’d had any other choice, you wouldn’t be here.”
He saw the skin around her eyes tighten, saw her lips part, then close again, as if on words she wasn’t sure she should say. That smart—and sexy—mouth....
“Everything else is ‘we,’” she said.
He had to give her points for picking up on that, he guessed. “Not groupthink. My decision.”
“Because you’re the boss.”
“I am.” He saw no point in denying the obvious.
“So you’re the one I should blame for all this.”
His mouth quirked. “That would be me.”
She wasn’t short on guts, Hayley Cole wasn’t, he thought, using her full name in his mind for the first time. When they’d bought the place that was now a probably still-smoldering ruin, they had of course run full checks on all the neighbors. Rather, Charlie had; when you had one of the best on the job, it would be foolish not to use them. And when her mother had died eight months ago, it had turned up in one of Charlie’s regular rechecks.
She gave a little shiver, and he wasn’t sure if she was fighting to say something, or to stop herself. When she spoke, he wasn’t sure if she’d won her battle or lost it.
“Why didn’t you just kill me?”
This had gone far enough. Just the fact that he was enjoying this told him it had to stop.
“There’s still time,” he said, injecting what he hoped was the right balance of exasperation and threat into his voice. It seemed to work. At least she fell silent.
But somehow he doubted she would stay that way.
Chapter Fifteen
Hayley, we’re not the bad guys....
She shivered at the memory, wrapping her arms around herself. Scary part was she wasn’t sure if the shiver was born in fear, or in the edgy awareness of Quinn that had begun to torment her. And the way her name had sounded on his lips.
She groaned inwardly at that thought. The very last thing she needed was to do something stupid. And she had a perfectly good explanation for why her pulse had gone into overdrive when he’d said her name in that deep, gravel-roughened voice of his. After all, it had been a very long time since she’d even thought about a man in her life. She’d met a few, but no one had sparked any interest. Taking care of her mother had sapped the energy out of her, and she’d assumed she was still in that numbed mental state.
Until this man did nothing more than say her name.
“Stop it,” she ordered herself. “You’re just off balance, that’s all.” She should think about what he said, not how he’d said it. And certainly not how he sounded when he said her name.
…we’re not the bad guys.
But bad guys would say that anyway, wouldn’t they? To lull her into cooperating? They’d say anything, tell her anything. They’d play good cop, bad cop, too, wouldn’t they? To get her to confide in Liam, or maybe Teague, who had to be playing good cop? There was obviously no question who the bad cop was.
Although she had to admit, those moments in the kitchen had seemed…different somehow.
Yeah, because watching a tough guy cook turns you to jelly?
She was afraid it was true. Which was why she’d retreated to the loft, instead of staying down in the great room as she had taken to doing because it was more comfortable for reading. But now she needed to think, and think clearly. She needed to analyze and decide what she was going to do. Was she going to simply go along and hope it would end well, or fight back and try to make sure it did? Would it even make a difference?
She could be a model prisoner, and they still might kill her in the end, because she could identify them. And that thought
rankled; she’d rather go down fighting, if she was going to die in the end anyway. At least it would probably be quick that way.
Obviously Quinn was in charge of the day-to-day operations. And his word was law; no matter which of the others she asked questions, the response would always be the same. “Sorry, can’t talk. Quinn’s orders.” Well, Rafer omitted the sorry. The niceties didn’t seem to be in his repertoire. But the result was the same. If she wanted information, she was going to have to get it out of the boss.
At least, she was pretty sure he was the boss. Except…
All of this seemed to revolve around Vicente, and she wondered again if perhaps her former neighbor—obviously he wouldn’t be going back, since the house was in ruins—was their real leader. He could be coordinating everything, but since he was holed up in the bedroom all the time, she would never know. Maybe he was the big boss, and Quinn was just following his orders.
Her mind rejected the idea; Quinn had been deferential to the older man, but not in the way of employee to boss. More in the way you were with an important customer or client.
It hit her then. Quinn had been deferential to Vicente, and if her gut was right, that was something he didn’t do lightly. So something about Vicente, who he was or why he was here, had earned Quinn’s respect.
She knew by the way her mind kicked into gear, racing to turn over and inspect all the possibilities, that she was on the right track. This whole thing revolved around the man with the silver beard. She really was incidental, an archetypal case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And perhaps it was Vicente who was, by his order, keeping her safe. He’d seemed concerned, in those moments before Quinn had ordered him not to speak to her, that she’d gotten swept up in this.
But Quinn had ordered him. And he had meekly obeyed. Did that mean he wasn’t the leader? Or simply that in this situation, Quinn knew best? Was that even possible, a leader who could admit somebody below him had a better idea?
Just about proves they’re not government, she thought wryly.
She wrestled with it all for a very long time, and reached what she thought were the only possible conclusions.
One, they were in fact bad guys, in which case she was likely dead no matter what, and it could get very, very ugly.
Two, they were good guys with no plans to kill her, in which case it wouldn’t matter all that much what she did or said. If she kept pushing she’d either get locked down or…she’d get some answers.
When she coupled those two options with the simple fact that it didn’t seem to be in her to go quietly along, her course of action was clear.
She might be doomed, but she’d go down fighting.
Chapter Sixteen
“Where’s Vicente from? Originally, I mean.”
Quinn kept chopping onion, ignoring her much as he would a gnat who was annoying but harmless. Although he would just swat away a gnat. And as much as he wanted her to go away, swatting just wasn’t on the menu of options.
“I’d ask him, but of course he’s not allowed to talk to me.”
He was regretting offering to switch with Liam and make dinner; he’d been secretly flattered when the guy had picked up chicken on his supply run, bothered to buy ice to keep it cold all the way back, all in the hopes Quinn would make his spicy chicken with chilies fry-up. The dish was a favorite of the young Texan’s, and normally Quinn didn’t mind at all.
He only minded now because of that persistent gnat. This had been a very long four days, and if things didn’t proceed as planned, if there were more delays, it was going to be very wearing.
“It’s interesting. I’ve never been a pariah before.”
I’m sure you haven’t, thought Quinn.
She’d said it casually, with the sort of curious interest one might give…well, her dog, for one. Although Cutter went a bit beyond interesting. He’d never seen or even heard of a dog like this one. Liam had grown up in a family that bred dogs, and even he acknowledged Cutter was…different.
“Never seen a dog so smart, or who learned so fast. I mean, I had an old retriever that I used to joke could read my mind, but this dog…I’m not sure it’s a joke.”
Quinn knew the feeling. The second night they’d been here, he’d been ready to set out on his patrol of the perimeter and had realized he’d forgotten his trigger gloves. It was cold enough that he was about to go back to the cabin and get them when Cutter showed up at his side, as he had the night before.
Only this time, the dog had the forgotten pair of gloves held delicately in his mouth.
He glanced over to the doorway to the kitchen, where Cutter was sprawled, in the perfect position to trip up anybody trying to get in or out. But, Quinn noticed, he was angled so that he could see the front door, yet keep an eye on them in the kitchen. And he had to admit, the certainty that the dog was doing just that was an oddity.
“First time I’ve ever seen him really relax,” he said.
Hayley’s mouth twisted into a rather rueful smile. “At home he only does that when he’s satisfied he’s put everything to rights. Don’t know what it means now.”
As if on cue, the dog lifted his head to look directly at them both. And Quinn could have sworn the dog’s expression was just that, satisfied, as he put his head back down and let out a sigh of relaxation.
Everything to rights? As in, he and Hayley, cornered in the same room?
He was not given to fanciful thoughts, and quashed that one immediately. It was the darn dog, he thought. He just didn’t act like an ordinary dog.
“Where’d you find him?”
“I didn’t. He found me.”
Quinn paused in the act of slicing chilies. “What?”
She gave a half shrug. “He just turned up on my front porch one day. That collar, and the tag with his name. I tried to find his owner, ran ads and everything, figured the weird shape of that tag would be a giveaway, but I never got any answers. I even called the coast guard.”
Quinn blinked. “What?”
“The coast guard. The name Cutter, and the tag looks sort of like a boat. So I thought maybe he belonged to somebody in the guard, maybe aboard a cutter. But no luck there, either.”
“So you kept him.”
She looked bemused, as he often felt lately. “I didn’t seem to have much choice. After a couple of months, I couldn’t imagine life without him. I…needed something then.”
“Needed?”
“My mother had just died a couple of weeks before.”
He stopped slicing and looked at her then.
“I was feeling pretty aimless, after two years of being focused completely on taking care of her.”
He didn’t even realize until he heard the faint tap of wood on wood that he’d set down the knife. An odd sort of ache was building inside him, and his hand was up and moving before he realized that he was about to reach out and cup her face. He yanked it back, even as he realized there was no way to hide the quick motion. He curled his fingers, digging his nails into his palm, using the pain as distraction.
Distraction from what would turn this whole thing to pure disaster.
Distraction from what he suddenly wanted so much he didn’t trust himself not to take it.
He wanted to kiss her. Long and hard and wet and deep.
He grabbed the knife again even though his brain suggested it wasn’t perhaps the best idea.
“Your choice,” he said sharply, once he could remember what she’d said about taking care of her dying mother.
She blinked, drew back slightly. “It was. Of course it was. I loved her. But that didn’t make it any easier.”
Damn, he hadn’t meant to say that.
“I just meant some people don’t make that choice,” he muttered, almost under his breath. He went back to slicing the last chili determinedly, wondering what the hell had gotten into him.
After a moment he heard her ask softly, “You?”
He didn’t answer, hoping she’d just shut up a
nd go away. He attacked the chicken with as much determination as if it had a knife of its own and was ready to fight back.
“Did you have brothers or sisters to do the job, is that why you didn’t have to care?”
“Don’t you have a book to finish reading?”
The words slipped sharply from him, violating the silent vow he’d just made not to get sucked into this. Cutter’s head came up. Quinn thought the dog was reacting to his tone, but the animal was looking the other way.
“Sure. But since I have all the time in the world these days…”
She said it blithely, with a careless wave of her hand. As if this were just an ordinary conversation under ordinary circumstances.
“Nobody,” he snapped, “has all the time in the world.”
She flinched, although it was barely perceptible and she hid it well. If he wasn’t so edgy, he’d admire her nerve. Again.
“Just wondering,” she said in a credibly casual tone, “why some people abandon the ones they supposedly love.”
The knife slipped, cut into the pad of his left thumb. He swore, grabbing a paper towel to apply pressure and stop the bleeding.
“I was ten,” he said through gritted teeth. “If anything, it was the other way around.”
He’d finally managed to silence her. He should be satisfied, but instead he was utterly, thoroughly disgusted with himself. Using the grim circumstances of his life to shut up a woman who got on his nerves was not his proudest moment.
“Get the hell out of here and go back to your kids’ book,” he said, and it was barely a step above a snarl. He was aware the leash was slipping on his temper. And so, apparently, was Cutter; the dog’s head came up and he looked from Hayley to him with a new alertness.
“It’s a kids’ book, all right,” she said, as if he’d said it wanting an explanation. “Full of abandonment and trials and unfairness, and eventual triumph. Perhaps that last one is why it’s so enjoyable. You should try it.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I have a knife in my hand.”
“I noticed,” she said. “I also noticed the only one bleeding at the moment is you.”
Operation Midnight Page 9