by Sandra Brown
“You can say that again, Royce,” muttered the man backed into the corner.
Royce’s old lady finally had enough of his braggadocio. She suggested that it was time for them to go. When Royce said he wasn’t ready yet, she insisted that they go. Royce ignored her. She then shouted an ultimatum: Either he leave with her right then or not bother coming home at all.
Royce saluted her a so long. This time, he slung his arm across the shoulders of a starry-eyed young woman who’d been more appreciative of and attentive to his story.
Royce’s live-in stalked out, accompanied by two female friends who lent full support to her grand exit. The man in the corner overheard them urging her to change her door locks and telling her that she would be better off never to see that asshole again.
Another hour passed. Royce Sherman became drunker, and the young woman more in thrall of him. In a particularly amorous move, she reached up and used his stringy goatee to pull his face down to hers. They kissed while the crowed hooted and hollered encouragement.
The spectacle almost caused the man in the corner to miss the incoming call on his cell phone. While glad that the phone, which had been dormant all day, was finally vibrating inside his pants pocket, he was equally annoyed that the call was so late in coming. He sidestepped his way along the wall till he reached the door, then gratefully pushed through.
He took the phone from his pocket and, as he threaded his way across the parking lot toward his car, glanced down at the phone’s LED. Unknown Caller. But it could be only one person: Shaw Kinnard. And he would be calling for only one reason: He’d killed Jordie and wanted to be compensated.
He was about to answer when he paused to reconsider. In any transaction, whoever held out the longest gained the upper hand. Up till now Kinnard had had it. This time, let him grow anxious.
He only had to wait for three minutes before the phone vibrated again. Leering with self-satisfaction, he took the electrolarynx from his pocket and pressed it against his voice box. “You had better be calling to tell me she’s dead.”
“’Fraid not, Billy.”
It wasn’t the hired gun’s voice.
“This is Special Agent Joe Wiley, FBI, New Orleans office.”
“Fuck!” The expletive was out before he could control his reaction. While he was at it, he filled the feeb’s ear with a few more.
Seemingly unimpressed with the profane litany, the agent talked over him in a conversational tone. “The media hasn’t broken the story yet, so you’re getting an exclusive. Shaw Kinnard has been arrested. Jordie Bennett is alive and well and in our protective custody. So your reprisal scheme is kaput. And it only gets better, Mr. Panella.
“Josh Bennett is still at large, but he’s been in touch with me personally, and—you probably won’t find this surprising—once again he’s ratting you out. You know that he’s a chicken liver at heart. He’ll sell you—”
Seeing red, he didn’t wait to hear the rest of whatever the federal agent had to say, but immediately disconnected, then flipped the phone over and removed the battery. He walked toward the bayou until he got close enough to make a good overhand pitch that plopped both the phone and the battery into the water.
Every blood vessel expanding with fury, he returned to his car where he could sit and mull over the call and its dire implications. He couldn’t dismiss or underestimate them. The news of Jordie’s rescue might not have been broadcast yet, but the fed had sounded too smug not to be believed.
This was definitely a kick in the teeth. Clearly, retaining Mickey Bolden and his onetime partner had been a mistake. But that was water under the bridge. He must think forward, not backward.
He stewed and reviewed and ultimately determined that there was an upside. Shaw Kinnard was a write-off. The authorities had him for a capital crime. The nature of the beast was to lie, so nothing he said would be believed. And, anyway, he was a Johnny-come-lately on the scene. He didn’t know anything of substance about the Panella-Bennett partnership.
The downside was that Jordie did. And Jordie was alive and well and in the FBI’s protective custody.
She still had to die, but he wasn’t going to rely on anyone else to do it. Enough with the hired help. He couldn’t trust either their competency or their loyalty. Besides, taking on the chore himself was an exciting prospect. Death throes had a way of shattering cool reserve like hers. It stirred his blood to think of instilling mortal fear in the condescending bitch and then watching the life fade from her big blue eyes. He would enjoy that very much.
Naturally there was some risk to coming out from hiding, but the reward outweighed it. From now on, whenever he wanted something done properly and in a timely fashion, he would do it himself.
Starting now.
Beside him Jordie lay naked and soft.
Well, soft except for the tips of her breasts that tightened as she rubbed them against his chest. He took one between his fingers and worried it gently. She made a purring sound. He pressed his tongue into her mouth to catch that sweet vibration.
Someone almost ruined their kiss by bumping into the bed, and Shaw wanted to snarl at the offender for the interruption, because Jordie’s kiss was delicious. She wasn’t a passive kisser, either, but an active and ardent participant. Her mouth compressed around his tongue, and he knew then how amazing it would feel once she took his penis. When they got to that. For now, however—
“How’s he doing?”
“Oh, hello, Doctor. I thought you’d left for the night.”
“I was about to, but decided to check on him once more before I go.”
“He’s been stirring, but hasn’t woken up. His vitals are good.”
“Temperature?”
“Normal.”
Somewhere far in the back of his mind, Shaw acknowledged that kissing Jordie was a bad idea, but now that he was doing it, not for the life of him could he stop. Although, classifying this as a mere kiss was like comparing a candle flame to a wildfire. This kiss was the stuff of wet dreams. He had unrestricted access to her. Mouth, the sexiest. Breasts, so easily aroused. The more of herself she allowed him, the more he wanted.
If word of his obsession got around, he’d become a laughingstock. His reputation was that of a hard-ass, a badass. Ruthless. Merciless. An unfeeling and unshakable son of a bitch. No one would expect bad Shaw Kinnard to go soft over a woman.
Oh, Jesus. Was he soft? No. He was hard. Wasn’t he?
He wasn’t sure. Things down there didn’t feel quite right. There was a persistent, throbbing heaviness in the lower part of his body, which was somewhat reassuring. But it didn’t feel like a normal erection. Strangely, he was reluctant to explore the source of that odd pressure. All he actually wanted to explore was Jordie, every enticing curve and hollow of her.
“I’m sorry, sir, you can’t come in here.”
“I’m Deputy Sheriff Clint Morrow.”
“And I’m the surgeon who just repaired this guy’s gut. He’s still in recovery ICU. You have to leave.”
“He’s my prisoner.”
“He’s my patient.”
Indifferent to their squabble, Shaw ignored them. He wanted to touch Jordie where it counted, and, judging by the way she was shifting against him, with restlessness and urgency, she was wanting him to.
He slid his hand down her smooth belly and cupped her sex. Yes, Shaw, yes.
Music to his ears. Because after what he’d put her through, she should hate him. She should be afraid of him, but she wasn’t. She was arching against him with what could only be desire and whispering naughty encouragement against his lips.
“Kinnard? Kinnard? Can you hear me?”
“Deputy Morrow! What are you doing back in here?”
“Just checking to see if he’s come around.”
“He hasn’t. And I heard the doctor ordering you out.”
“Can Kinnard hear me?”
“He’s unconscious.”
“He could be faking it.”
“He’s still under anesthesia. In any case, you must wait until after the doctor has checked him in the morning, and only then will he determine if the patient is up to being interrogated. It’s not like he’s going anywhere. Are these restraints really necessary?”
Somebody tugged on Shaw’s hand. It didn’t move. Not that one. The other one was stroking Jordie in that softest of soft places on a woman’s body. She was pressing herself up into his palm with want and invitation. He extended his middle finger down into the cleft, collected her moisture on the pad of his finger, and tantalized that most sensitive spot. Dipping his head, he did the same to her nipple with his tongue.
Teasing strokes in perfect concert. Pleasuring by painting small circles.
She clutched handfuls of his hair, chanted his name in gasps and sighs, implored him not to stop.
“The restraints stay on. Both hands. Be sure the rest of the nursing staff understands that. Don’t be taken in. He’s dangerous. Two nights ago, he shot a man in the back of the head.”
“Well, he’s not going to shoot anybody tonight. Please, Deputy. I’m the one who’ll get into trouble if I allow you to stay in here. Please leave. He won’t be fully conscious for hours yet.”
They left. Thank Christ. Now he could enjoy this erotic dream in peace.
Jordie’s breath had turned uneven. In shockingly explicit language, she begged him to put his fingers inside her. He was all too happy to oblige.
Holy hell. He’d thought her mouth was wet and hot and snug.
She clenched, drawing his fingers deeper. He eased them back, and when she whimpered in protest, he pushed them into her again. Higher. She clenched tighter.
And then in the miraculous way of dreams, he was suddenly on top of her, and it wasn’t his fingers but his cock embedded in her. She was squeezing it each time he thrust into her. God, it felt good.
Never one for prolonged foreplay—or kissing, for that matter—he’d always just as soon skip the preliminaries and get on to the main event. Not this time. Not with Jordie. He was in no hurry. He liked this unrushed fucking.
Best of all, he wasn’t going anywhere. He could keep at this for a long time. Till morning. Hours yet.
Jordie came awake as suddenly as though someone had shoved her out of sleep.
She expected to find herself reclined on a cloth-upholstered backseat, her hands and feet bound. It took several seconds for her to remember that she was in a hotel room. Creature comforts included fresh bedsheets and a pillow stuffed with the softest down. The temperature wasn’t sweltering; instead, she was chilled by air-conditioning.
However, while she was no longer a hostage in a nasty garage, she wasn’t in this hotel suite by choice.
According to the clock on the bedside table, it was four thirty a.m. Throwing off the covers, she left the bed and went into the bathroom. After using the toilet, she closed the lid and sat on it, elbows on her knees, head in her hands.
Was Shaw all right? Would he recover? Was he even alive?
Not knowing his current condition or prognosis was sheer torture.
Gwen Saunders, the U.S. marshal with whom she was sharing the suite, had received calls at various times throughout the long afternoon and evening, but she had never divulged the nature of those calls to Jordie.
When Jordie had pretended to nap, she had intentionally left the bedroom door ajar, hoping to pick up enough tidbits of the one-sided conversations to piece together some solid answers to all the questions plaguing her.
But either Gwen was aware of her eavesdropping or she had an unusually soft speaking voice. When Jordie had given up the pretense of napping, emerged from the bedroom and asked the marshal point-blank if she had received any word on Shaw Kinnard’s condition, her answer had been “The last report, he was still in surgery.”
That was all Jordie had gotten from her, and she had no way of knowing whether or not that was the truth. “Still in surgery” could mean that he had died on the operating table and they had left him there.
The marshal was no more forthcoming about Josh. After Jordie had asked several times if there had been any further contact with him, the marshal told her that Agent Wiley had repeatedly called the number from which Josh had called him. “He hasn’t answered, and he hasn’t called back.”
The story of her rescue hadn’t been reported until the last news broadcasts of the night. Maybe Josh, wherever he was, had learned of it by now. Perhaps he’d tried to reach her directly. With that possibility in mind, she’d asked Gwen if her cell phone had been recovered.
“It was found in Kinnard’s car.”
“But I searched that car. Thoroughly.”
“Apparently he had cleverly hidden it.”
“I’d like it back, please.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Bennett. It was taken into evidence.”
Evidence of what, Jordie wondered. Evidence against whom? Gwen hadn’t specified, and Jordie was afraid to ask for fear of what the answer would be.
In any case, it was doubtful that Josh would be foolish enough to call her phone. He would know the authorities were closely monitoring it in the hope they could use an incoming call to pinpoint his location.
After consulting Agent Wiley, Gwen had permitted her to communicate with her office staff on the condition that she talk to them on speaker. Her employees became uncharacteristically emotional when they heard her voice. They expressed relief and gratitude that she was unharmed.
No one mentioned Josh, so she was spared having to address that issue with them. Nor did she provide them any details of her abduction and rescue, primarily because Gwen had instructed her not to. “Something you say innocently might impede the investigation.”
Jordie didn’t see how that was possible, but she didn’t argue, because she wasn’t ready to talk about those thirty-six hours spent with Shaw Kinnard anyway.
She had no idea when she would be allowed to return to work and resume normal life. After talking with her staff, she felt detached from reality and drained of energy. The remaining hours of the day had seemed to stretch emptily and endlessly ahead of her.
She’d availed herself of the suite’s Jacuzzi tub and had shampooed so vigorously she’d made her scalp sting. She used a spare toothbrush to scrub the caked blood—Shaw’s blood—from beneath her fingernails.
Gwen had collected changes of clothing and toiletries from her house in Tobias, as Wiley had said. Jordie was glad to swap clean clothes for those hopelessly blood-stained, although she was strangely reluctant to hand them over to Gwen when she asked for them. Jordie couldn’t account for why she was inclined to hug them against her chest and not let go.
Since her arrival, they’d ordered two room service meals. Jordie should’ve been ravenous, but she’d listlessly picked at the food. After drinking a half glass of minibar white wine, encouraged by Gwen, she’d pleaded exhaustion and gone to bed.
It surprised her now that she’d slept at all, but she supposed that her body had demanded it whether she’d desired it or not. The sleep had restored her physically, but she’d come abruptly awake with her anxiety intact.
Staring at the cold floor tiles between her bare feet, she thought how badly she dreaded tomorrow and the unwelcome surprises it could have in store. Then she realized that it was tomorrow. She had no alternative except to face it.
When she stepped into the bedroom, Gwen was standing backlit in the doorway that opened into the living area of the suite.
U.S. Marshal Gwen Saunders was of average height, her frame padded by fifteen pounds of extra weight, which she carried well and unselfconsciously. She wasn’t unkind, just…official. She was on high alert even at four thirty in the morning. Not that Jordie could blame her. Josh’s escapade hadn’t inspired much trust between the Marshal’s Service and the Bennett family.
Gwen asked, “Everything okay?”
“I just needed the bathroom.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“No thank you.”
>
“I received a text from Joe Wiley after you went to bed.”
Jordie’s heart tripped. Shaw?
“He’d like us to be at his office at nine thirty,” Gwen said, dashing her hope, and fear, of getting an update on Shaw. She went on to tell Jordie that she’d ordered a Continental breakfast to be sent up at eight. “Unless you want me to order something else.”
“No, that’s fine.”
Gwen asked what time she wanted to be woken up. Jordie gave her a time. “But wake me if you receive any news.”
The marshal nodded but made no promises. “Get some more rest.” She pulled the door closed as she went out.
Jordie got back into bed, rolled onto her side, and curled into the fetal position.
What a godawful mess.
By escaping, Josh had set things into motion, but it was unfair to lay her present circumstances entirely at his feet. She was also culpable. When the FBI agents had questioned her six months ago and asked specifically about her relationship with Billy, she should have told them about that cursed trip to Costa Rica. Of course, she hadn’t known then about the funds that Josh had transferred down there to facilitate Panella’s getaway.
She’d also made an egregious mistake by going to that redneck bar on Friday night. When Josh was being taken away and she’d told him, “I’m done,” she should have meant it. She should have ignored the anonymous phone summons.
Instead, she had responded as years of conditioning had trained her to. Old habits weren’t hard to break—they were impossible. Or so it seemed. Josh needed her, so she went running, this time plunging headlong into the appalling situation in which she now found herself. She was under the suspicion of the FBI.
And then there was the conundrum of Shaw Kinnard. Regarding her kidnapper, her heart and her reason were at odds. No, that was inadequate phraseology. She was foundering in an emotional maelstrom.