by Becky McGraw
"What if I do?" Her eyes finally met his and they were molten chocolate.
"That's too damned bad, because we're having ham sandwiches," he said gruffly, then held out his hand to her again. "Can you walk, or do I need to carry you?"
With a sigh, she pushed off of the tub to stand and water rained down her body like a beautiful statute in a fountain, and Trace got harder. He turned his back before he changed his mind about round two. He heard her step out of the tub, and was surprised when her arms closed around his waist. He was even more shocked when Ronnie pressed her wet breasts to his back and whispered, "Turn around and kiss me, Trace."
The Shark Lady wanted to cuddle?
This whole situation was just too surreal for Trace to wrap his mind around. He hated her, that hadn't changed and neither had his opinion that she helped set him up. Ronnie didn't like him either, Trace reminded himself, as he pried her hands apart to step away. Getting freaky with Ronnie Winters was one thing, getting intimate with her was an entirely different ballgame. One he definitely didn't want to play.
"Ronnie what just happened was sex," he said flatly, as he turned to face her.
She snorted and ran a shaky hand through her wet hair. "I know that," she said shortly. "I just like being kissed when someone fucks me."
"Yeah, I know that feeling well," he said. "You didn't kiss me either when you put the screws to me three years ago, did you? How does it feel?" he asked with a short laugh.
Her smile faded and Trace knew his words were cruel, unfeeling. But he also knew the end result of playing with Ronnie Winters. Trace wasn't going to give her the chance to do that to him again. "Go back to bed, and I'll go make us supper."
With her shoulders stiffer than his dick, she left the bathroom and stormed down the hallway. Well, that probably sealed the deal with her. What they'd just done was definitely a one-time deal. He was a little disappointed, because damn it had been good. But he was better off keeping things right where they were. That way there were no expectations, or misunderstandings. She would be mad, he would hate her. That was easy.
Trace sighed. He knew how to deal with angry Ronnie. He didn't know how to deal with the softer woman who had put her arms around him and begged him to kiss her.
CHAPTER SIX
Trace cleaned up the bathroom and put the towels in the washer before he went to the kitchen to make sandwiches. He slapped the second piece of bread on top of the first, before putting it on the plate next to the chips. Pulling a glass out of the cabinet, Trace filled it with iced tea from the fridge, then walked to the sofa and sat down. He flicked on the television to watch the evening news while he ate his sandwich. There was no mention of the incident at the ranch or him, which is all he’d been interested in. He flicked off the set and tossed the remote down then got up to bring his plate back to the kitchen.
The fact that Ronnie was energetic enough to have sex with him gave him hope that she would feel well enough to leave in the morning. But you never knew how long the effects of that drug would last, or how intense the high would be. Especially for a first-time user. He did know one thing, they needed to get out of here, before Seth and Sarah got knee deep in this mess too. Even without media attention, with the feds on his ass, that was a distinct possibility. Trace was going to make sure that didn't happen.
He picked up the personal weapon that Seth had left with him earlier and shoved it into the waistband of his jeans, before carrying the plate with Ronnie’s sandwich and tea to the bedroom. He balanced the plate on his arm so he could open the door then went inside. Ronnie was sitting in the middle of the bed with her arms crossed under her breasts. Her bare breasts. As he drew closer her angry eyes burned holes through him.
When he leaned in to put the plate on her lap, her gorgeous breasts were right there in his face. The urge to lean forward and suck one of the ripe cherries into his mouth was strong, but Trace stood back up. "Think you could cover up, Red?" he asked gruffly.
"What fun would that be?" she asked with a lifted brow as she picked up the sandwich to take a huge bite. As she chewed, she gave him a close-mouthed smile. She reached for the tea and he put it in her hand.
Yep, the Shark Lady was definitely feeling better, if she was trying to torture him. And that is exactly what she was doing.
"Well, Seth and Sarah could come back and I'm sure they don't want to see your lady bits," he said grumpily. It was a lie. Sarah was staying the night at her mother's house, and Seth was working. But it sure worked better than telling her seeing you without clothes makes me so hot I want to burn every stitch you have just to keep you naked. "I'll go see if I can find you some clothes in Sarah's closet," Trace said then turned to walk out of the room.
Halfway across the living room the doorbell rang, and Trace stopped in his tracks. He slid the gun from his waistband and disengaged the safety, then tiptoed to the window beside the door to peer out the curtain. A dark-haired, slick looking dude in an expensive suit stood on the doorstep. He looked like a damned attorney.
Trace quickly figured out that's exactly what he was when Ronnie came out of the bedroom with the sheet wrapped under her arms to announce, "That's Conner," as she walked to the door. He grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the door. She jerked her arm away and reached for the doorknob. "He's going to help us," Ronnie said shortly and flicked the lock open.
"No!" Trace shouted, reaching around her to lock it.
"Back off," Ronnie grated, as she quickly unlocked the door and opened it.
"Fuck!" Trace growled as he stomped across the living room to sit on the sofa.
He was going to leave her right here and head out on his own. Ronnie Winters was too much of a liability to take with him. She was headstrong and she just didn't listen, which meant one of them would get killed, or he would get caught. The woman was going to do exactly what she wanted to do, no matter what he said.
Trace had told her not to call anyone, and when he turned his back that is exactly what she'd done. He folded his arms over his chest to sit there and watch her greet Slick Dude warmly. A little too warmly. The man hugged her tightly, then kissed her right on the mouth. Anger shot through him, when she put her arms around his neck and kissed him again. Most men he knew, including himself, equated kissing Ronnie Winters to kissing a cobra. Not slick dude, he was enjoying it. That was obvious from his hands on her ass.
"Damn, I've missed you," he said with a laugh and set her away from him. "What the hell have you gotten yourself into now?"
His eyes darted to Trace for a second and they narrowed. He definitely had that attorney look, because Trace felt like the man was dissecting him and drawing his own conclusions without an answer from Ronnie. There was a story there between Veronica and that man, but Trace didn't want to know what it was. When she turned around to face him, he saw the sheet was barely covering her nipples now, her hardened nipples, and he'd had enough. They could have their little reunion without him.
"Well, since you're friend is here, I think I'll be heading out," Trace said standing. He looked at Slick Dude, and said with a smirk, "Word to the wise, Pretty Boy, you might want to get a gun. There are some very nasty guys after her, so you're gonna need one."
Trace walked to the hall closet to get the duffle bag he'd packed. It was a 'go bag' in case they had to leave quickly. In case he had to leave quickly. And right at this moment, Trace couldn't leave quickly enough to suit him.
"Wait!" Ronnie shouted and ran over to him. "Where the hell do you think you're going?" she asked.
"I'm leaving. You have someone to take care of you. You don't need me," he said as he stood and put the strap of the bag over his shoulder.
"He's here to help us," Ronnie said with a huffed breath.
"The only help I need is to get the fuck away from you, before you get me killed," Trace spat and walked past her down the hall.
"I have a place for you to go where you'll be safe, Vee," Conner said to Ronnie when she came back into the living room f
ollowing Trace.
Well wasn't that perfect? The pet name the man used for Ronnie echoed through his skull and just wouldn't settle into his brain. Vee? It was too feminine and playful to be associated with the stubborn, ballsy redhead standing at his side.
He looked at her. "See, Vee? Pretty boy has you all set," Trace said sarcastically. His fist tightened around the strap on his backpack, and he made himself walk out the door. "See you around, Shark Lady."
He stopped on the stoop for a second to look up at the beautiful sunset and took a deep calming breath. Trace couldn't save her from herself. He could only hope that Pretty Boy knew what he'd just bitten off, and that the man could indeed take care of her. Because, from here on out, Trace was going to take care of himself. And he wasn't trusting a damned soul. Seth had parked his motorcycle in the backyard, so he walked back there and pushed it through the wooden gate. He got as far as the sidewalk, when he noticed a familiar looking truck turn onto the dead-end street.
How in the hell had Ray Brown found him?
Seth? No, he tossed that idea, because Seth would have just called Ray Brown to pick them up on the side of the road at that park, if he was in on this.
Ronnie? No, it couldn't be her either. She called the attorney dude, but she wouldn't have clued Ray Brown in as to where they were. She had to know he was going to kill her if he found her.
That left attorney dude. Trace took off running back to the house and burst through the door. Ronnie was sitting on the sofa beside the man. Trace bent over the couch and jerked Pretty Boy up by the collar, then shouted, "Go get some clothes out of Sarah's room, Red—Hurry!"
"Trace, what the hell are you—" she screeched and grabbed his arm.
"Get your ass dressed, Red. Ray Brown is right down the street!"
"But how?" Ronnie asked.
"Ask your fucking friend, here," Trace grated. "You have thirty seconds to get some clothes on, Ronnie, or I'm hauling you out of here naked," Trace warned.
“I didn’t tell him you were here, or what happened,” Ronnie said with a huff as she headed down the hallway.
The man started struggling, and Trace pulled the pistol out of the back of his pants and twisted his arm up behind his back. "Keep your ass still, you sonofabitch, or I'll shoot you."
"I don’t know anything. I swear—" Pretty boy growled, trying to pull his arm away.
Trace put more pressure on his arm and he groaned. "Shut your damned mouth," Trace ground out, shoving the pistol into his ribs.
Conner twisted his neck to meet Trace’s eyes.. "You're making a mistake," he said angrily.
"The only mistake I made was trusting Veronica Winters. I won't be making the same mistake with you."
"Vee and I are the only ones who can get you out of this mess," he said with a grunt as Trace tightened his hold on his arm.
"Conner is right, Trace," Ronnie chimed in as she walked back into the room wearing an outfit that looked ridiculous. The shorts were at least two sizes too small for her, she couldn’t even put the button through the hole on the waistband. The shirt didn’t even cover her middle. Sarah was petite and Ronnie was Amazon tall. It would have to do, because he wasn't waiting anymore.
He pushed Pretty Boy and the man landed on the couch in a heap. Trace aimed the pistol at him, but looked at Ronnie. "Go out the back door and wait at the side of the house," he instructed then swung his eyes back to the man on the sofa. "Give her your car keys." Conner kept his eyes on the pistol as he reached into the pocket of his slacks and pulled out his keys. He tossed them to Ronnie.
"If I'm not out there in five minutes, take his car and haul ass. Don't stop until you are out of Texas. Find somewhere to hide and call Seth Copeland with the Amarillo Police," Trace instructed.
"But—"
"Just do it, Ronnie. And hurry," he ground out, then added, "Ray will be here with his posse any minute. Don't let them see you."
Ronnie nodded then headed for the back door, and Trace sighed.
"I didn't tell them where you are. I had no idea you were here. And my name is Conner Lucas, not Pretty Boy," the man said indignantly. "I'm a defense attorney, and I can help you. We can all go to the place I told Ronnie about. We'll be safe there."
"Like Ronnie was safe here after she called you?" Trace said with a laugh. "I don't think so."
"I didn't tell them," he repeated. "I don't even know who they are. Ronnie just said she was in trouble with some kind of thugs and needed my help."
Trace didn't know what Ronnie had told this man, so he didn't know if he was lying or not. He didn't even know why he was trying to help Ronnie Winters. She deserved what she got for calling this asshole when he told her not to. But on the off-chance Pretty Boy was telling the truth, and the fact that he would probably be the first one Ray shot when he walked through the door, Trace decided to at least give him a fighting chance to survive, just in case. "Get behind the couch," Trace ordered and walked back there himself. The man followed and crouched down beside him. "If you make a move I don't like, I will shoot you," he warned, resting his weapon on the back of the sofa aiming directly at the center of the door.
"Just tell me what I can do to help," Conner replied.
Like this fancy pants beside him could do a damned thing to help get them out of this situation. The best thing Pretty Boy could do was keep his mouth shut and his damned head down. It was ridiculous that he offered. "Maybe you could throw that five-hundred dollar pair of loafers at the first man through the door," Trace suggested with a snicker. "Or choke him with that ugly silk tie."
Beside him, Pretty Boy growled and shot him a hot look. Trace balanced the barrel of his pistol on the edge of the sofa and ignored him. If the guy was lying, he was damned good at it. But then he was an attorney, so lying was his job. It was Ronnie's job too, and Trace needed to remember that. She and Pretty Boy were two peas in a pod. And obviously the two of them had shared a pod before a time or two. That thought sent anger surging through him. Trace had pissed her off, so she called this asshole to piss him off.
Job accomplished, he thought.
What he wanted to know was how Ronnie knew where to tell him they were. She had been half out of it all the way here from the roadside park.
"I have a brown belt in Karate,” Conner said, as if that was supposed to impress Trace. “I can help you.”
He could break Slick Dude’s neck before the guy could blink, and right now he'd relish the idea. Trace looked at him. "What you can do is keep your damned head down so you don't get it blown off," Trace growled then dragged his eyes back to the door. "Let me handle Ray and his men. If something happens to me, your best bet is to run, because you'll be next."
There was a heavy knock at the front door, which surprised Trace. Criminals knocking? He wanted to laugh. Some arguing ensured on the doorstep then the doorknob jiggled, right before someone put their foot into the door. Trace flinched as the second kick splintered the center of the door.
With adrenaline surging through him, he aimed at what he thought should be center mass on the kicker and fired two quick shots, before edging toward the end of the sofa. He heard a curse from outside, then a thud, before he saw a big man crumple on the stoop. One down, he thought, as he crept toward the front door. He eased up when he reached the wall, then edged his way to the window. He needed to know how many men he was dealing with, so he did a quick peek out the window. At least two more. One man was dragging the big guy off the porch, and another was standing beside the steps looking like he didn't know what to do. But Trace didn't see Ray Brown, and that worried him. He was sure he had seen him in that truck.
"You shot that man, and I saw it! Fuck!" Conner shouted from behind the sofa.
Trace swung his weapon that way and glared at him. Conner ducked behind the couch again like one of those gophers in that kid's arcade game. Someone kicked the door again, and it swung inward. A tall skinny man he recognized as a ranch hand named Carl Calhoun walked inside with a big heavy pistol in his
hand. Trace thought it looked a helluva lot like a fifty caliber. That thing would blow a hole the size of a barn door in an elephant. If he decided to take a pot shot at that sofa, Conner Lucas was a dead man.
It looked to Trace like that was exactly what he was going to do, when he lifted the gun and aimed that direction. Trace did the only thing he could. He took a dive at him, and tried to knock the gun out of his hand when he did it. The gun went off and Trace's ears rang, as the acrid smell of burnt gunpowder burned his nose. The gun flew out of Carl's hand, hit the floor with a loud thud then skidded toward the sofa.
The wiry ranch hand somehow managed to get on top of Trace. In a flurry of sharp-knuckled fists, he landed blows to Trace's face, neck and shoulders. Trace bucked, he fought, but he couldn't get the man off of him. Trace heard a sharp inhale of breath, then a hiss. The next thing he knew Carl was flying through the air. He landed in a heap across the coffee table and it cracked in half. Conner Lucas stood over him with his hands ready to deliver another blow.
It was the craziest thing Trace had ever seen. So crazy all he could do was stare when Carl lifted up and Conner's foot shot through the air lightning fast to clip him under the jaw. His head jerked back and Trace was sure he'd broken Carl's jaw.
Instead of staring at Conner Lucas in awe, Trace suddenly realized he should have been paying attention, when he heard a semi-automatic pistol being racked. His eyes flew toward the kitchen and there stood Ray Brown with a 9mm pointed at his chest. Ray had evidently come into the house through the kitchen.
Conner's shoulders slumped and he raised his hands. Trace just stood there staring at Ray, whose hand looked pretty steady in his aim. But he probably wasn't fast enough to take both of them.
"Run!" Trace yelled as he charged Ray Brown.
He caught a flash of red, heard a sound like a gong being struck as the gun fired, but Trace didn't feel the impact of a bullet as he tackled Ray's legs. Ray fell on top of him like a dead weight. Trace shoved him off of him and his eyes traveled up long legs to a pair of very angry brown eyes. Ronnie's chest heaved and her knuckles were white around the handle of the shovel she held.