Doug and Marty moved away, Marty with his hand gripping the woman's arm, Doug quickly checking the front seat of the Mercedes. Darryl was occupied getting his money situated, which gave Boone the opportunity to place his fingers against the neck of the man on the ground.
He closed his eyes in relief. The man wasn't dead. His heartbeat was strong and steady. What happened next was necessarily fast. Boone found the wound on the man's side. It was nasty, but not fatal. He prayed the guy didn't come to and start making noise. Darryl would finish the job if that happened.
Moving quickly, Boone removed the man's jacket. In the process, he snagged the wallet—in case anyone was watching. The cell phone in the inside pocket dropped into his hand.
The jacket made an easy, quick, inadequate bandage. But it was better than nothing. Keeping his hands out of sight, Boone switched on the cell phone and dialed 911. He positioned the phone on the man's chest, then concealed the phone with a flapping portion of the fancy jacket that he had fashioned into a bandage.
"Come on!" Darryl shouted, slamming the trunk of his car closed and heading for the driver's-side door. Marty and Doug were already sitting in the back seat, the terrified hostage pinned between them.
There was no more time. If Darryl decided to come over and see what he was doing, the operation was finished. Done. Three months' work wasted and someone dead. Either Darryl, or Boone himself and the woman.
Boone leaned forward and whispered, giving the 911 operator who had answered the emergency call the name of the road they were on. Nothing more. It would take them a while to find the exact location, but the delay couldn't be helped. At least the man on the ground had a strong pulse and wasn't bleeding too seriously.
"Hang in there, buddy," he whispered.
He couldn't afford to be caught. Not tonight. He hadn't yet found the child the drug dealer Gurza had kidnapped, and until he did, nothing else mattered. Not this man and not the woman.
He shook his head as he strode away from the Mercedes and the man on the ground. Very faintly, he heard the tinny sound of the operator's voice from the cell phone asking for more information.
What a night. A man shot, a hostage he was now responsible for … he was in too deep. Things were going very wrong, and once things started going wrong, they usually didn't stop. They just got worse.
There was going to be hell to pay, but not until he found that kid and delivered him home.
* * *
Chapter 2
« ^ »
Jayne shook. She didn't want the murdering kidnappers to know how scared she was, but no matter how she tried to stop the all-over shaking, it continued.
The two men who bracketed her stared straight ahead and didn't acknowledge her presence at all, even though the three of them sat thigh to thigh in the rear seat of the dark sedan. They were obviously afraid of the one they called Becker, who kept casting dark warning glances into the back seat.
She might have been protected from the seedier side of life since birth and she was definitely frightened now, but Jayne had enough wits about her to be very well aware of what had happened. She and Jim had happened upon a drug deal. Just their luck. Of all the roads to get lost on, Jim had chosen that one. She sniffled, just a little, and fingered her pearls. Jim was dead, and she soon would be. Unless she found a way to escape.
Becker glanced into the back seat again, his eyes landing on hers briefly as they passed under a street lamp. Her mouth went dry. Her heart thundered. It took no imagination at all to realize what he wanted from her. He'd told his friends plainly enough. Her shaking got worse.
For a split second she thought she saw those dark eyes soften, and then they passed out of the light and his face was lost in darkness again. She shook her head. Any hint of softness she saw in that man was a hopeful illusion.
The car came to a stop in front of a ramshackle house in the middle of nowhere. A single low-wattage lightbulb glowed near the front door, lighting the less-than-illustrious dwelling too well. The gray paint on the walls was peeling, and the windows she could see had been covered in bedsheets, instead of curtains. There were no neighbors, but for the similar shack they had passed a mile or so back. And in truth, it had looked deserted.
She should be sipping wine at Corbin Marsh's extravagant Arizona vacation home. Instead, she was … here.
By the time the bald thug exited the car, Becker was waiting for her. He looked none too happy as he offered his hand. Jayne refused to touch that hand as she stepped from the car. There was nowhere to go and she already knew she couldn't run fast enough. Still, she glanced toward the gravel road.
"Don't even think about it," Becker said softly as he took her arm. "You wouldn't get far."
Because he'd shoot her? Because one of the other hoodlums would?
Jayne gathered every ounce of strength she had left and looked him in the eye. "Bully," she said.
The other three laughed, but not Becker. The fat man who had shot poor Jim slapped his long-haired friend on the back. "I shoot her boyfriend, and you drag her back here to have your way with her, and the worst she can come up with is 'bully'?" He snorted like a pig.
Jayne was tempted to look the fat man in the eye and deliver a criticism in his direction … but she didn't. Becker scared her, but the man who had shot Jim and threatened to do the same to her terrified her beyond reason. She sensed that if she kept her eyes and attention on Becker, she might get through this.
They were all thugs, but the one who had claimed her as his own seemed to be the most intelligent of the four. Maybe when they were alone, she could reason with him. Offer him money to get her out of here, safe and untouched. Her father could and would pay anything to rescue her. Could Becker be bought? And if so, how much would it take?
She was led to a side entrance, where no light burned. As soon as the bald young hooligan threw that door open, she could tell that the interior of the shack was worse than the exterior. She would have thought that impossible. Becker led her through the door and into the kitchen. Fast-food bags and beer cans littered the floor, and the counter and sink were stacked high with dirty dishes. She had to step over a discarded pizza box as Becker dragged her through.
"Hey," one of the younger criminals said as he followed them in. Jayne looked over her shoulder and saw it was the kid with the long greasy hair. "I wouldn't step on your toes or anything," he continued, grinning at Becker. "But maybe when you're through with her, the bitch could clean this place up a bit."
Jayne's eyes shot fire at the kid.
"Clean it up yourself, Doug," Becker said without looking back.
Doug's smile died quickly, and he scowled at Becker's back.
The living area was no better than the kitchen. More fast-food wrappings and beer cans littered the place, appropriate accompaniment to newspapers, a canted couch and a couple of chairs that looked as if they might have been retrieved from a trash pile. A small television sat on a table against one wall. No cable, she noticed, just a rabbit-ear antenna. A new fear gripped her. If they found out who she was, who her father was, would they decide to hold her for ransom? Or would they panic and dispose of her as quickly as possible?
Becker led her into a narrow hallway carpeted in faded and stained green. No matter how hard she tried to calm herself, nothing worked. Her heart pounded, her breathing was shallow, her knees shook. She found herself hanging back, fighting against Becker's grip as he opened a door and dragged her into what appeared to be a bedroom. Behind her, she heard the two younger criminals laugh again.
With one last yank, Becker dragged her all the way inside and slammed the door shut. Her first thought was that at least this room was cleaner than the rest of the house. The double bed had been hastily made, there was no garbage on the floor, and the single narrow window was actually covered with a curtain, not a sheet.
"Sit down," Becker ordered softly.
The only place to sit was the bed. Jayne shook her head in silent refusal.
Be
cker leaned in closer, just a bit. The dark of night had shadowed much of his face, but the uncovered lightbulb that burned overhead illuminated every detail. Dark-brown eyes that held no laughter. A sharp jaw dusted with dark stubble and softened by the long dark-brown hair that fell over his shoulder. A long, perfectly shaped nose, a wide, perfectly shaped mouth. A big gun shoved almost carelessly into the waistband of his jeans. "Sit," he whispered.
Jayne sat. She perched on the side of the bed with her hands in her lap, her spine rigid and her knees together. "My father will pay a lot of money to get me back, unhurt and, uh…" She swallowed hard. Untouched. She couldn't say that out loud, but surely he knew what she meant.
Becker paced by the side of the bed, staying between her and the door, running his hands through his hair and pushing the long brown strands away from his face. He kept his eyes on the floor, and occasionally he glanced at the door. Only once did he look at her, and when he did he shook his head and groaned low in his throat before casting that dark gaze to the floor again.
Finally he stopped pacing and stood before her. Close. Too close. And she had nowhere to go.
* * *
Boone stared at the girl on the bed. What the hell was he going to do with her?
"What's your name?" he asked.
She flinched. "I'm not telling you anything," she said frostily.
He almost smiled. She should be crying, hysterical, terrified, but she still had the guts to look at him coldly. She couldn't hide the way her hands and knees shook, though. "Well, then, I'll just call you sugar."
She pursed her lips. "Jayne," she said.
"No last name?"
"Not that I'd care to share with you."
He leaned forward and down. "Don't play hardball with me, lady. I'm your only chance of getting out of here alive."
She swallowed, sending that slender, pale throat working in interesting ways.
In the hallway someone snickered. Doug or Marty … probably both.
Boone sighed. "Give me your jacket," he ordered.
"I will not."
He slipped off his leather jacket and placed it on the end of the bed, pulled off his T-shirt and tossed it atop the jacket. He drew the Colt pistol from his waistband, looked at the weapon, looked at the woman, then quickly went to the closet and placed the pistol on the top shelf. He didn't think Jayne would actually try to shoot him, but until they got things straightened out here, he couldn't be sure—and she wouldn't be able to reach the top shelf without a ladder or a chair. Neither was handy.
That done, he waggled his fingers at her, silently asking again for the jacket to her expensive suit. She stubbornly lifted her chin and shook her head.
"I'm not going to touch you," he said through clenched teeth. "But I need that damn jacket."
She sniffled and crossed her arms over her chest.
"Fine," he said. "We do this the hard way." He sat beside her and grasped one wrist in his hand. She fought a little, but not very hard.
"Get your hands off of me," she said loudly, slapping at his hands.
In the hallway, another giggle.
Finally, after just a little wrestling, he had the jacket in his hand. He shook his free finger at her. "Now lie down and be still."
"I will not."
Boone closed his eyes and shook his head. "This is not going to work."
"No, it's not," she agreed.
Boone left the bed and went to the door, opening it on two grinning young thugs. "What the hell are you two doing here?" He shook the jacket as he spoke. They looked past him, no doubt to see a red-faced Jayne sitting on the side of the bed, her hair mussed and her blouse halfway untucked.
"There's nothin' else to do around here," Doug said. "Ain't you finished yet?"
"Some of us like to take more than three minutes with a woman, kid. Get lost. If I see either one of you near this door or that window," he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder, "I'll shoot you."
"Maybe you oughtta tell her that," Marty said with a lift of his chin.
Boone turned around to see that Jayne stood at the window, tugging frantically at the lower frame. He closed the door and leaned against it, watching her with a shake of his head.
"It's painted shut," he informed her.
She gave one last tug and spun to face him, her eyes red and her cheeks flushed. It hit him, for the first time, how very small she was. Not thin, but short—no more than five foot two—and delicately shaped. Beneath the hem of her straight skirt was a pair of nice legs. Up the length of her body she sported easy curves.
"We need to talk," he said softly. "Sit down."
She shook her head.
"Please," he said, calling on every little bit of patience he had left. "Please sit down. I'm not going to hurt you."
"I imagine you think I should be flattered," she said, trying to sound strong and falling far short. "Am I supposed to be grateful?"
"Well, you would be dead right now if not for me. A little gratitude can't be too much to ask," he said in a low voice. His response did nothing to soothe her. She brought a hand to the pearls at her throat, and her breathing changed, became more rapid. He did not need her passing out on him! Calming himself, he raised both hands, palms out. "I swear, I'm not going to touch you. You're safe with me. Now sit on the bed."
She moved warily away from the window, and he stepped into her place, making certain the curtains were tightly closed. He didn't need anyone peeking in, and warning or no warning, he wouldn't put anything past Doug and Marty. When he turned around, he saw that Jayne had done as he asked and was perching prettily on the edge of the bed.
"We need to talk," he said, "but first…"
Her eyes grew wide as he stepped around her to the head of the bed, gripping one corner of the headboard in his hand. He sighed tiredly. How to explain? Best just to do what he had to do.
While Jayne sat warily on the side of the mattress, Boone banged the headboard against the wall. Once. Twice. A third time. He waited a moment, then began again, in a steady rhythm this time. Eyes pinned on the woman, he banged the cheap headboard against the wall over and over.
"You could help," he whispered.
She shook her head. "Help with what?"
"Make a little noise. Pretend to be enjoying yourself."
With his free hand, Boone reached out and grabbed Jayne's wrist. As he'd suspected she would, she squealed. He smiled. "That'll do."
Jayne clamped her mouth shut and pursed her lips. Oh, she was cute when she got mad. Of course, she'd been mad since he'd met her. Mad and scared.
He sped up the rhythm of the headboard banging against the wall. "Do it again," he ordered in a whisper.
"No, I wo—" At an insistent tug that dragged an unwilling Jayne closer to the head of the bed, she squealed once more.
Oh, this was not good. The way he was holding her made her creamy blouse hug her breasts. She was breathing hard, the way she might if this was not pretend. Her fiery green eyes were latched onto his. And the banging of the headboard reminded him of what he was pretending to do. The rhythm, the shaking of the bed… "One more time, sugar."
"Don't call me—"
He hauled her off the bed so that she came to her feet and ran smack-dab into his bare chest. This time she screamed. Boone whacked the headboard against the wall three more times for good measure, and then he quit.
Jayne glanced up at him, suspicious and still frightened. But then, they hadn't had their little talk yet, so she was less than fully informed.
"Was it good for you?" he whispered.
In answer she slapped him across the cheek, hard and solid.
* * *
Jayne realized, as the sound of the slap reverberated in the air, that she should not have hit him. Still, she wasn't sorry.
He laid a big hand over the red mark she'd made on his face. "Sit," he said.
She did, and again he paced in front of her. She wasn't as afraid as she had been. He had only pretended to … well, he'
d pretended, and he said they needed to talk. About what? Ah, likely he was interested in her offer of money from her father.
"My daddy will pay you anything…"
"Let's leave your daddy out of this, shall we?" Becker said testily. "I'm trying to figure things out."
"Figure what out?"
"What to do with you, sugar."
Jayne bit her lower lip. There were worse things to be called than sugar, she supposed.
Finally Becker stopped pacing and stood before her, bare-chested, bigger than most men, all muscle and hair and tight jeans and penetrating eyes. There was something intimidating about him. Something intense. Of course he was intimidating!
"Can I trust you?" he asked, the question seeming to be more for himself than for her. "God, what a mess." He then began to mumble a string of profanity that had Jayne blushing.
"Do you mind?" she finally asked.
"Do I mind what?"
"Don't curse."
He actually grinned. "We are in so much trouble I can't see a way out, and you're worried about my language?"
"There's no reason to be crude."
"Sugar, crude is my middle name."
Jayne wrinkled her nose. "That doesn't surprise me."
Becker sat beside her, and Jayne scooted away. But she didn't jump up, which had been her first instinct. If he had planned to hurt her, he would have done so by now. Still, she felt too small sitting next to him, and a little distance wouldn't hurt.
Voice lowered, Becker leaned close. "I'm here undercover."
A surge of relief washed through her. "Oh, thank God. DEA? FBI? You must have some way to call in backup or something, right? There are probably a bunch of agents out there in the dark, waiting for your signal so they can storm the house. Right?"
He laid dark eyes on her and sighed. "No backup. I'm a private investigator, and I'm here on my own."
Her relief was short-lived. "No backup?"
He shook his head.
Jayne was determined to make the best of the situation. "But you're not one of them, not a … a bad guy, and you can get me out of here, right?"
IN BED WITH BOONE Page 2