At the sight of those ugly discolorations on her smooth skin, Finn felt a flush of cold anger that didn’t quell but at least redirected his present bad case of burning lust. He didn’t like seeing women get hurt, but that wasn’t the source of this sudden urge he felt to commit extreme violence on the perpetrators. The thing was, the bruises on Riley felt personal. She might be, as he was beginning to fear, up to her neck in George’s scheme, but it didn’t matter: she had his protection now. The next asshole who tried to hurt her was going to have to go through him.
And he would take the motherfucker apart.
What that said about the state of his relationship with Riley he refused to think about. Instead, he kept his gaze focused on the road, and turned his thoughts to exactly how he was going to find the damned money if Riley’s visit to George didn’t pan out.
Ten minutes later, they reached the designated exit, and he pulled off the interstate. Not far outside of Dallas, it was one of those freeway pit stops with a Super 8 motel, a Denny’s, a McDonald’s, a couple of gas stations, and not much else.
He had a date to meet an intelligence operative in the Shell station’s men’s room.
— CHAPTER —
TWENTY-THREE
The ladies’ room at the Shell station was on the side of the building, accessible from the parking lot. The door was brown metal, the inside was grungy and smelly, there were no windows, and it had two stalls. Finn walked in behind her, totally oblivious to both her protest and the havoc his presence might have caused if anyone else had been in there, and checked both stalls and the rest of the room to make sure it was empty.
Leaning against the sink, arms folded over her chest, Riley watched him with a mixture of speculation and alarm.
Would a man who was thinking about hurting her go to this much trouble to make sure she was safe?
He backtracked to the door, checked to make sure it had a lock that worked. It did.
“What, do you think some kind of bad guy might follow me in here?” Panicky visions of how quickly Emma’s kidnapping had gone down flashed in her mind’s eye, only to be immediately dismissed: she wouldn’t be able to function at all if she allowed herself to think of that.
He shrugged. “I don’t, but why chance it? Lock the door behind me, and don’t come out, or open it for anyone, and I mean anyone, until I come back and you’re sure it’s me. Got it?”
His expression told her how serious he was. She’d been feeling a little drowsy from her nap in the car, a little achy, a little out of it, but now this reminder of present danger snapped her wide awake.
She nodded as a thrill of apprehension raced through her. “Got it.”
“Good.” He exited, pulling the door shut behind him. As it closed the last inch or so he added, “Lock it.”
She did. He tried the knob—the door didn’t budge—as a test, then gave a single sharp rap on the door and said, “I’ll be back.”
Everything she needed to do, including tidying her hair and refreshing her makeup, could be accomplished in minutes. She did it. After that, she waited.
The knob rattled once, which made her stiffen and stare at the door, but no one spoke and whoever it was went away. Not, she concluded, Finn.
By the time he announced his return with a knock and an unmistakable “It’s me,” she was beyond antsy.
Pulling open the door and walking through it into the wall of heat and car exhaust smells and sounds of traffic that were typical service-station-during-a-Texas-summer stuff, she frowned up at him.
“I was getting worried.”
Unexpectedly, that uptick of a smile of his teased her. “About me?”
She was stepping off the curb, heading for the car, and his hand slid around her upper arm right above her elbow. It was an automatic masculine courtesy that she’d experienced many times from many different men, but this time was different. She was acutely aware of the warmth and strength of that hand, and how good it felt against her bare skin. She was acutely aware of him, and how good it felt to have him beside her, her shoulder brushing his arm, her steps matched with his. A big, bad federal agent who was acting as her own personal bodyguard. Remember the picture, she warned herself, and she did, but even that didn’t keep her from being glad he was with her.
How she would have gotten through this without him she couldn’t imagine.
She also couldn’t imagine him hurting her. But then again, she reminded herself severely, maybe that was just because she lacked imagination.
“About me,” she clarified tartly, irritable because she was feeling totally conflicted. “I was starting to worry that I’d be stuck in that bathroom forever. What took you so long?”
“Angel, you don’t want to know.”
Angel? She cast another swift look up at him, not irritable at all now, but he appeared unaware that he’d said anything out of the ordinary as he walked her to the car and opened the passenger door for her.
When he closed it behind her and walked around the front of the car to get in, she watched him with a little bit of trouble in her expression, even as she pulled on her seat belt.
That angel uttered in his dark, gravelly voice had done funny things to her insides. Looking at him as he walked around the car did funny things to her insides. She’d never particularly liked big, muscular men. She’d certainly never liked bossy, aggressive, overtly masculine ones. Her taste had run toward lean, debonair, smooth-talking types.
Tastes change.
It was a scary thought.
As he got in beside her, started the car, and began pulling out of the lot, she was way too aware of him. Aware of the amount of space he took up, and of how, at, she discovered with a glance at the dashboard clock, not quite 1 p.m. his jaw was already starting to darken with the first faint signs of stubble. She was aware of the springy thickness of his short, coffee-colored hair, and the less than delicate contours of his hard cheekbones and straight nose, and the stern lines of his mouth.
He must have felt her gaze on him, because he glanced her way. The Ray-Bans were tucked into the breast pocket of his jacket, and what she was suddenly aware of most of all was the cool blue-gray of his eyes.
To her bemusement, her heart started beating just a little bit faster as she met them.
“You hungry?” he asked. The prosaic question smacked her right back down to earth, thank God.
Riley started to shake her head—the mention of food gave her an instant flash-thought of Emma, who at best was certain to be so upset and frightened that she wouldn’t be able to eat even if whoever had her provided her with food—but then she reminded herself that she had to keep herself strong in order to do what she needed to do.
“Sure.” They were on the road that led to the freeway ramp, and she cast a look around. The pickings were slim. “Denny’s or McDonald’s?”
“Your call.”
“McDonald’s.” She wasn’t enthused, but she’d eaten plenty of McDonald’s over the course of her life and she could do it again.
He pulled in to the McDonald’s and got in line at the drive-thru. When he ordered a large coffee for himself in addition to the food, she frowned at him and realized that he was looking tired. Of course, he’d gotten approximately the same amount of sleep she had—not much—and hadn’t had the advantage of being able to nap in the car.
“I can drive for a while, if you want to rest,” she offered, when he settled her Diet Coke into a cup holder in the console between the seats, handed the rest of the bagged food to her, then took a long, appreciative swallow of coffee as he pulled away from the window.
She took the snort with which he answered that as a big no.
“Macho much?” she asked with a disdainful lift of her eyebrows as he stopped at the edge of the parking lot to let a semi rattle on by.
“You want to drive?” Settling the coffee into the empty cup holder, he pulled out onto the road and headed toward the on-ramp. “I’d be glad to let you—if you think you can evade a
carful of armed goons trying to force us off the road, or keep the car on the pavement in case someone should shoot out a tire, or—”
“Seriously? Are you expecting something like that to happen?” Riley had been lifting the food out of the sack and unwrapping it, and the smell of burgers and fries now filled the car. She paused in the act to look at him with widening eyes. Then, unable to help herself, she cast a nervous look at the vehicles around them as they merged into the traffic on the expressway.
“Probably not.” He plucked the Big Mac she’d been holding suspended out of its wrapper and her hand, and bit into it with obvious relish. “But just in case, we’re both better off if I’m behind the wheel.”
“Fine. I only offered because I thought you looked tired.” While he was devouring the first of his two Big Macs like he was starving, she was looking at her plain hamburger with near distaste. The knot in her stomach that had been there since the previous night made her almost afraid to try it.
“If I do, it’s because your snoring kept me awake.” He was busy chewing, but the faint deepening of the lines around his eyes told her that he was teasing her. They were barreling down the expressway by this time, tucked in among pickup trucks and semis and passenger cars zooming in and out of the four lanes of traffic. Ordinarily, she might have been nervous to find herself traveling at such speed with a man at the wheel who was busily engaged in devouring his lunch, but, she discovered, she had every confidence in Finn. Or in his driving, at least.
She would have argued again that she didn’t snore, but that seemed like a waste of breath. Instead, she took a small bite of her burger and forced herself to chew. Swallowing required an act of real willpower, and she followed up with a quick drink of Diet Coke to wash it down. Her inability to eat had nothing to do with the food, and everything to do with Emma: she was so afraid that—
“Stop worrying.” His tone made it an order. “If it makes you feel any better, the team searching for your sister-in-law has a promising lead on that van. The route they took away from the scene went right past an ATM, and the vehicle was caught on video.”
Riley stared at him, transfixed, as hope bloomed inside her. Then her eyes narrowed suspiciously. He was telling her that because, once again, he’d clearly been able to read her like a book.
“Is that the truth?” she asked.
He was gulping coffee. When he came up for air, he said, “You know, sometimes I get the feeling you don’t trust me.”
Riley didn’t bother to make the obvious reply. Instead she asked, “How do you know that about the van?”
“I met an operative at the gas station back there.” He returned the coffee to the cup holder, snagged a trio of french fries, and scarfed them. His gaze slid in her direction. “Guy I handed the SIM card off to for analysis. He told me.”
That would explain why he’d been gone so long. It also alleviated a small degree of her worry about the SIM card: if Finn wasn’t checking it personally, it was far less likely that the fact that his picture was on it would come to his attention. But at the moment, none of that mattered. Turning in her seat so that she faced him more fully, voice eager, she asked, “What else did they say? Do they have any idea who took her or where she is? Oh, my God, do they know if she’s safe? Are they close to finding her?”
“There’s no reason to think she’s not safe, but other than that I’ve told you all I know.” His glance flicked down to her barely tasted burger. “We’ll get her back. Eat your food.”
Riley wanted to ask more, but if that was the extent of his knowledge there wasn’t much point. She knew she needed to eat so she picked up the burger and took another bite and then a third. Swallowing—it was like trying to choke down mouthfuls of toilet paper—she made a face at him. “Happy now?”
“Keep eating,” he said.
“Are you always this bossy?” She managed yet another bite as he provided her with a sterling example by polishing off what was left of his second burger with apparent enjoyment.
“Only when I’m babysitting.”
She was in the act of swallowing as he said that. His words, laced by an unexpected touch of humor, made her choke. Quickly she reached for her Diet Coke.
“Babysitting?” she asked, too politely, when she could speak again.
“Whatever you want to call it.” His voice was wry. “This thing I’m doing with you.”
“Not babysitting,” she warned him. “And for the record, I’m not a fan of bossy men.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” The afternoon sunlight was blinding as it reflected off the pavement and the shiny surfaces of the passing vehicles, and he hooked his sunglasses out of his pocket and put them back on in self-defense. Not having brought any with her, Riley had to make do with lowering the visor to block the worst of the sun. He continued, “Speaking of how much you like bossy men, I’m curious: how’s your relationship with George?”
That was not a topic designed to stimulate her appetite. Giving up on the whole lunch thing and slipping what was left of her burger into the bag to be discarded later, she sipped at her drink.
“I don’t like him, he doesn’t like me.”
“Why is that?
Riley shrugged. “Does it matter?”
“It might.”
“I don’t see how.” But then, because she didn’t see any reason not to tell him, she added, “When Jeff brought me home with him to Houston, we’d been married three months. He hadn’t even told his family about me, which I didn’t realize until we stepped inside Oakwood. Margaret was shocked, but she was welcoming, and Emma”—Riley’s voice caught as she thought of Emma—“was great. She said she was glad to have a sister. George, on the other hand, pitched a fit, the gist of which was I wasn’t good enough to be part of his family. He never changed his opinion. I encouraged Jeff to stand up to him, and he didn’t like that, either. George bullied Jeff. Well, he bullied everybody, Margaret and Emma, as well, but Jeff worked for him so that made it worse. George wanted him to be a hardheaded, tough businessman, which Jeff just wasn’t. He tried to dictate his every move, and it was obvious Jeff was afraid of him, although he never would admit it. I think a lot of Jeff’s problems—” She broke off. There was no point in going into that: Jeff’s problems were history, over and done with, rendered irrelevant by his death, a reality that she faced with a pang. “Well, it doesn’t matter now. But George and I are not what you’d call best buds.”
“Then what makes you think, if he actually has the money, he’ll tell you where it is?” Finn’s tone was silky smooth. Nonetheless, the question jolted Riley.
She was surprised at herself, she thought wrathfully: she actually hadn’t seen that coming. She’d thought they were simply talking, getting to know each other, maybe, and come to find out he was interrogating her again.
“He loves Emma,” she said shortly. Then as Finn started to ask her something else she decided enough was enough, and interrupted with “Hold it. I’m tired of talking about me. Let’s talk about something else.” Her eyes glinted at him. “Like, say, you.”
She thought he glanced at her, but it was hard to tell with the sunglasses in place.
“Me,” he said. It wasn’t a question. It was more of a skepticism-laced statement.
Oh, yeah. Time to turn the tables.
“Yes,” she said with relish. “You’ve been questioning me since we met. I’ve got a few questions I’d like to ask you.”
“Have at it.” His tone made it clear that he was prepared to humor her.
“How old are you?” she shot at him.
“Thirty-seven.”
It occurred to her that there was something she didn’t know that she really should find out. “Married?”
Again she got the impression that he was glancing at her. “No.”
Much as she hated to admit it, that was a relief.
“Ever been?”
“No.”
“Children?”
“No.”
; “Girlfriend? Significant other?”
“Not at present.”
“When was your last serious relationship?”
“Forget it. No comment.”
“You did a background check on me. I’m guessing you know just about everything I’ve ever done in my life, including all about my relationships.” She took his silence as an admission that she was right, and pressed on. “Last serious relationship?”
His mouth tightened. “It’s been a while.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know. A while.”
“You do too know.”
“You’re pretty damned interested in my love life.”
“You’re pretty damned defensive about it. That makes it interesting.”
He made a sound of exasperation. “Her name was Jennifer. We broke up about three and a half years ago. Okay?”
“Why?”
“Jesus. She wanted to get married, start a family. I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I didn’t.”
“So you’ve just been casually dating in the three and a half years since?”
“I’m done talking about this subject. You got something else you want to ask me about?”
Riley considered. There was still a ton of stuff she wanted to know, so she decided to move on in the interest of keeping him from clamming up.
“Parents?” she asked.
“Yes. Two.”
Her eyes narrowed at him. “Ha-ha. What are their names? What do they do for a living? And don’t tell me you don’t know that about me, because I know you do.”
“Robert Bradley. An accountant. Died when I was five. Janet Bradley Oppenheimer. A schoolteacher who got remarried to a dentist when I was seven.”
Looking at the hard-faced, hard-bodied, armed and dangerous man beside her, it was difficult to imagine him as the son of an accountant and a teacher.
“Is your mother still alive?”
Hush Page 24