IN BED WITH BOONE

by Linda Winstead Jones

  She wasn't at all the kind of woman he'd thought she was, with her pearls and her proper language and her expensive shoes. She had a hidden steely resolve, a good heart, and in bed … in bed she was open and trusting and giving. Which absolutely bewildered him. At least for tonight, he could fool himself that her passion was his, that he was the only man who would ever make her moan and writhe this way.

  When he touched her inner thigh, she parted her legs slightly. When he stroked her, she parted those thighs more. All he had to do was touch her and she was ready. He could bury himself inside her now, and she'd climax in a heartbeat.

  Too soon.

  When he lowered his head between her thighs and placed his mouth on her, Jayne shuddered and almost came off the bed.

  If tonight was all they had, he wanted her to have everything. He wanted her to walk out of here in the morning with no regrets. Hell, he wanted her to glow for weeks; he wanted her to think about him and smile every night for the next month. Or two. Or forever.

  His tongue circled and teased lightly, barely touching her at first. When she rested her hands in his hair and began to move against him, he stroked her harder. Faster. Longer. She came quick and hard, arching her back, moaning and quivering while he tasted her response.

  He had never wanted to be inside a woman as much as he wanted to be in Jayne. Now. He climbed up slowly, hovered above her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him one of those special smiles. With a gentle nudge, she urged him onto his back.

  "What a wonderful way to wake up," she whispered, leaning over him to press her mouth against his neck. Her lips were soft and warm, and she sucked gently at his neck while her hands settled on his chest. "You feel so good." She raked her palm down his chest to his belly. "I just want to touch you all over."

  "Go ahead."

  Jayne's hands, tentative at first and then bold, examined him. She took her time, lingering over his hips, watching as her hands caressed and aroused him. She traced her fingers down his thighs and teased the backs of his knees.

  As arousing as the way she touched him was the expression on her face. The wonder of an unexplored pleasure was there, in the parting of her lips, in every tilt of her head.

  Soft hands trailed slowly up his inner thighs, and Jayne's fingers very lightly brushed over his erection. Kneeling beside him, she wrapped her fingers around his length, studying him, stroking him.

  Unable to take this torture any longer, Boone reached for the bedside table and grabbed a rubber. He ripped the foil package open, and Jayne very nimbly took the condom from him.

  "Let me," she whispered.

  For a moment she studied the condom as she had studied him, and then, using both hands, she covered him with the sheath. A woman like this one could make a man crazy, Boone decided.

  Jayne started to roll away onto her back, but Boone stopped her. He held her atop him, adjusted her leg so that she straddled him, and then he guided himself to her.

  She smiled as she moved her hips slightly, teasing him with the slow progression of their joining. Boone closed his eyes as Jayne's tight body made way for him. An inch at a time.

  When he opened his eyes, Jayne was no longer smiling. The desire he could see in her eyes matched his own; the parting of her lips was intoxicating. She lifted her body and descended again, taking more of him.

  She rose and fell, her breasts swaying slightly, her hair falling over one cheek. He'd always thought Jayne delicate, fragile, and she was. But she was also sexy and strong. Right now she was in control, and she liked it. She didn't back away or pretend to be shy, but rode him as if she knew what she wanted and wasn't afraid to take it. Her eyes closed and her body shuddered; she was on the verge of another climax.

  He'd waited as long as he could—a woman could only ask so much of a man. Boone grasped Jayne's hips in his hands and rose to meet her as she descended. He thrust farther into her than he'd been before, and that was all it took to send her over the edge. She trembled, cried out softly, and as she shuddered and moaned, he joined her, climaxing hard.

  Jayne drifted down to him, kissed his mouth lazily, laid her head against his shoulder. "Oh, my," she said breathlessly.

  Boone threaded his fingers through her red-gold curls and held her tightly. This one night was not going to be nearly long enough.

  * * *

  When Jayne awoke next, it was early morning. Too early to be up, considering how little sleep she'd gotten.

  As she had been most of the night, she was caught against Boone's chest. Not a bad place to be. She was safe here, in more ways than one. No one would hurt her, not while she was here. And Boone … Boone didn't expect her to be anyone or anything she didn't want to be. She was more than safe. In his arms, she was free.

  She reveled in the feel of his body against hers, and it was more than the sex that made her adore this closeness. It was so basic, the need to be close to another human being. To hold and to protect and to cherish. When she'd first seen him, she never would have believed that Boone Sinclair would be the one to make her understand that.

  "Why aren't you asleep?" he growled, his breath warm in her ear.

  "I'm worried," she said truthfully.

  "About what?"

  "About you." She tilted her head back so she could see his stubbled, harsh, beautiful face. "I don't want you to go back to Darryl's."

  "Sugar—"

  "And if you have to go, if there's really no other way, please don't go alone. Please."

  He was quiet for a few minutes, but she knew he hadn't gone back to sleep. "It's what I do," he said softly, his hand moving gently in her hair. "I … find lost children. I take them home. I'm not leaving Arizona without Andrew."

  His dedication made her own life seem so meaningless. She spoke to women's clubs, attended teas, worked with her father in a strictly social capacity, when Lucille Barrington had another engagement or could not be persuaded to leave Mississippi and the home she loved. There was some charity work, but Jayne had never been as passionate about any cause as Boone was about finding Andrew Patterson.

  "Fine," she murmured. "At least bring in some backup. Get someone to help you. A lot of someones would be even better."

  "Don't worry about me," he said, his voice low. "I'll be fine."

  She wished she could believe that, but she didn't. Boone was reckless, and a dedicated man who was also reckless was bound to put himself in danger. "I can talk to my father. The local authorities might not want to believe that Gurza exists, but we can convince him. I know we can."

  Boone raised himself on one elbow and looked down at her. "I don't want anything from your father. I don't want his help, I don't want him to pull any strings for me. I don't want him to call in the National Guard."

  "He could do all those things."

  "Yeah, and if word got out, the kid would be in serious trouble. Let me handle this on my own, sugar."

  She wrinkled her nose, annoyed. "All right, BooBoo, but I don't like it. I don't like it at all."

  He grinned. "Cute. I have to warn you, if you ever call me BooBoo in front of anyone over the age of six months, there will be serious repercussions."

  "What kind of repercussions?"

  "You don't want to know," he said ominously, and then he settled back down beside her, gathered her into his embrace and stroked her back. "Go to sleep, Jayne."

  She cuddled against his chest, buried her nose there and took a long deep breath. She loved the way he smelled. It was the way a man was supposed to smell—clean and musky, warm and smoky. He smelled of leather and soap. And her. "Boone?"

  "Mmm."

  "You won't ever have to worry about me calling you BooBoo in front of anyone over the age of six months, because after today we won't see each other again." Her heart hitched. "Right?"

  "Right," he answered sleepily.

  Jayne lay there, warm and worried and confused. Boone had no problem falling back to sleep. His arms relaxed, his breathing became deep and even.<
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  In a matter of days her entire life had changed. She had changed. How was she supposed to go back without missing this? No man would ever again hold her quite this way, not even if she did manage to find one who didn't want her for her father's political connections, even if she did find a man one day who made her shake and shudder the way Boone did. Even if all that happened … it wouldn't be like this. She knew it.

  She tried to tell herself that she felt this way because Boone was—in every sense that mattered—her first. The fact that he had saved her life, that he was her guardian angel, her knight in tarnished armor, only made what she was feeling for him now more intense.

  How could he sleep so well, knowing that come morning they'd head their separate ways?

  "I'm going to miss you," she confessed, her voice a whisper. "I don't think I'm ever going to meet anyone like you, not ever again." She brushed her cheek against his chest and closed her eyes. "Heaven help me, I think I could love you."

  * * *

  Fully dressed and wide awake, Boone leaned over a sleeping Jayne. "Wake up," he said for the third time. Finally deciding that a word or two was not going to do the trick, he slapped her on her bare bottom.

  That did it. Jayne sat up quickly, grabbing the sheet that was twisted around her and pulling it to her chest. Her eyes were wide, her cheeks deliciously pink. That one exposed leg—delicate foot to shapely calf to sweet knee to even sweeter thigh—was tempting. With a little persuasion he might be convinced to delay their parting for a few more minutes.

  But he couldn't do that, no matter how much he wanted to. He'd promised Jayne one night and they'd had it. And what a night it had been. She'd had her yee-haw and he'd been amazed in a way he had not expected. But today it was back to business for both of them. Besides, Dean would be here in less than half an hour.

  "Get up and get dressed, unless you want to meet my big brother wearing nothing but a smile."

  "Your brother?" Jayne scrambled off the bed, modestly taking the sheet with her. Still wrapping the sheet around her, or trying to, she stooped to snag the T-shirt he'd peeled off her and tossed aside last night.

  "He's a deputy U.S. marshal. The good brother," he added. "Dean's going to escort you back to Flagstaff."

  Jayne glanced over her shoulder as she stepped into the bathroom. "I thought you were going to do that."

  Did she really sound disappointed? Or was that his imagination?

  "No. I'll ride with you most of the way, but I can't go all the way to your hotel. It would be best if we weren't seen together. As a matter of fact—" he moved closer to the bathroom door "—I'd like to ask you to do me a favor."

  Jayne stepped from the bathroom, wearing only that pale-blue T-shirt. "Anything," she said.

  "Keep a low profile for a few days. Don't answer the reporters' questions, don't give any interviews. Most of all, don't mention my name. Either of them."

  She pursed her lips. "Because you're going back."

  "Yeah."

  His insistence on continuing with this case made her angry. Her cheeks flushed and her lips thinned. "You are the most stubborn man I've ever met."

  "Thank you."

  Her hands balled into tiny fists. "Are you at least going to get some help?"

  Boone shrugged, took his eyes off Jayne and reached for his weapon, sticking it into the waistband of his jeans. "Maybe."

  Jayne lifted her hand slowly and wagged her finger. "Aren't you afraid you'll … shoot off your favorite body part?"

  He grinned. "Safety's on."

  "Oh." Without further argument she collected her suit and returned to the bathroom, closing the door behind her this time.

  Just a minute later, the door opened a crack and Jayne's arm shot out. "You have my, um, underwear in your jacket." How could she sound even the tiniest bit embarrassed after last night?

  Boone reached into his pocket and withdrew the bra and panties. They were silk, tiny little slips of satiny material. With lace. He offered the ultrafeminine garments at the end of an outstretched arm, and Jayne quickly snagged them.

  With the bathroom door firmly shut on him once again, Boone paced the motel room and ran his fingers through his hair.

  "All that matters is the job," he muttered. "Not some witchy woman, not the itch in my pants, just the job."

  "Did you say something?" Jayne called.

  "No," he said curtly.

  His eyes bored into the bathroom door. Why did he have this awful nagging feeling that putting Jayne Barrington out of his mind was going to be the hardest thing he'd ever done?

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  « ^ »

  Deputy U.S. Marshal Dean Sinclair was very much like his brother Boone in some ways. They both had dark-brown hair, a sharp jawline and stood six foot. Both had the wide Sinclair smile. But Dean wore a suit and a conservative haircut, and his eyes were blue, not brown. And she could not imagine Dean Sinclair ever trekking across the wilderness with some woman's panties in his pocket. He was much too dignified.

  He reminded Jayne, just a little bit, of the men who had pursued her in the past. Clean-cut, all-American straight-arrows. In as many ways as they were alike, he and Boone were very different.

  Her father would most likely adore Dean Sinclair.

  They rode toward Flagstaff, she and Dean in the front seat, Boone in the back. He had insisted on riding there, even though Jayne had suggested, more than once, that he sit up front with his brother. She wished she'd been more persistent. This way she couldn't see Boone at all unless she turned her head, and she couldn't very well endure the long drive to Flagstaff in that contorted position.

  Boone must've filled his brother in by phone last night. While Dean had a few questions, he seemed very much up to speed. There wasn't nearly enough conversation to make the miles go by faster.

  Boone stuck his hand into the front seat. "Do you have a pen?"

  Dean reached into his shirt pocket and blindly handed a pen back.

  While Boone scribbled away, Dean glanced at Jayne and smiled softly. "Are you really okay? Sounds like you've been through quite an ordeal."

  "I'm fine," she said demurely, fiddling with the pearls at her throat as they sped toward Flagstaff. "It was an ordeal, but it would have been much much worse if Boone hadn't been there."

  She would not have survived if Boone hadn't been there. She would be dead now if Boone hadn't been there.

  Boone handed the pen back over the seat, and Dean took it, returning the pen to its place in his pocket.

  Last night she had accepted the fact that when tomorrow came, she and Boone would part company. Tomorrow had arrived, the parting was imminent, and her stomach was tied in knots. She wasn't ready. She would likely never be ready to say goodbye.

  All she could do was pretend it didn't hurt so that when Boone remembered her, the memories would be only good ones.

  As they neared the city, Boone leaned forward and gave Dean directions. Not to Jayne's hotel, but to the place where he was to meet with his DEA cohorts. Jayne had met plenty of federal agents in her day. Most of them were cookie-cutter copies of Dean: dark suit, conservative tie, determined jaw. How could men like that go up against Darryl?

  With every minute that passed, Jayne became more and more anxious. This was it. Boone was going to get out of the car and walk away and she'd never see him again. They didn't have any choice. She didn't fit in his world and he didn't fit in hers. Still, she hated the very thought of the coming goodbye.

  Boone pointed to a corner up ahead, where two longhaired thugs stood, smoking and laughing. One was tall, black-haired and wide-shouldered, and wearing a black leather jacket. The other man was smaller, thin, blond and scraggly-looking.

  "Maybe you should go to another corner," Jayne suggested softly.

  Dean ignored her and pulled up to the curb. Boone threw open the back door as the car was coming to a stop. The two thugs approached.

  Jayne's heart jumped into her throat, and she ro
lled down her window quickly. "Boone," she said, her hand on the door handle. Heavens, he was jumping right back into the fire!

  She couldn't open the door, because Boone placed himself in a position to block her. "These gentlemen are Agents Wilder and Shockley," he said softly. "Take it easy."

  Take it easy. How on earth was she supposed to take anything easy! The three of them standing there together looked like every mother's worst nightmare.

  "Didn't anyone ever tell you that long hair is no longer in fashion?" she snapped.

  Boone's eyebrows shot up. "Oh, no. I didn't get the memo." The two DEA agents were standing too close behind Boone. He turned to glance at the dark-haired one. "Wilder, did you get the memo about long hair being out of style?"

  "Nope. I musta been on vacation that week."

  The little man with the stringy pale hair spoke up, his voice whiny. "They never tell me anything. I think we should sue. How embarrassing."

  Jayne felt herself blushing. She'd spent most of her life making sure she knew exactly what to say and what not to say. She never got flustered and said the wrong thing, but where Boone was concerned, all bets were off. This was no way to say goodbye.

  "Sorry," she said. "I just … thank you."

  He grinned, that wonderful Boone grin, and offered his hand for a proper handshake. "Any time, Miss Barrington." The handshake was quick, professional, cold. When it was done, he handed her a business card. "If you ever need a P.I., give me a call."

  Jayne's heart dropped to her knees. Miss Barrington? If you ever need a P.I.? "Good luck," she said softly, but it was too late. Boone had already turned away and was talking to his two long-haired buddies, and Dean pulled the car away from the curb.

  Jayne stared out the window as Dean drove toward the hotel in silence. Well, what had she expected? To Boone, last night was just a chance to blow off a little steam. Sex without strings. That was exactly what he'd offered her, and she'd accepted without a second thought.

  She could have been anyone. In a week he wouldn't even remember her name. A couple of tears she refused to shed burned her eyes. Damn him and his business card. She glanced down at the plain white card. "Boone Sinclair, private investigator. Specializing in finding lost children." There was a phone number, a cell phone number and a Birmingham, Alabama, address.