"Here's what I see happening," he said, pulling his cop face as she polished off her slice of pizza, then chased it with M&M's. "You fly back to West Palm. Get your brothers to go with you to grill Edwards until he's well-done and see what kind of information you can bake out of him. I'll snoop around here, get a read on what the local PD turns up on Reno's and Gorman's murders, and you call me if and when Edwards gives you anything to go on."
He dug back into his pizza, nonchalant as hell, hoping she bought the ploy and he could personally put her on a plane and send her out of harm's way.
The prolonged silence on the far side of the room, however, did not bode well for the plan.
Finally, he chanced a look her way.
Shit.
She was sitting there, evil-eyed and intent, waiting for him to make eye contact.
"Why don't
you
go back to West Palm?" she suggested with a combative stare. "Instead of grilling Edwards, you can roast him over hot coals. And while we're in cooking mode, you can marinate your thick head in a bucket of brine for oh, say, thirty to forty minutes. That ought to clear out your sinuses and help with your thought process."
He slowly finished chewing. "That transparent, huh?"
"As glass. What is it? You look at me and all you see is blond?" She rose, walked over to the bed. "I'm not stupid. Neither is Edwards. He's not going to roll over just because I ask him to, and you know it."
"Look," she insisted. "I can handle myself. You're not sending me out of the line of fire while you play Mr. Macho and keep the little lady safely on the sidelines."
OK. Truth time. He set the pizza aside. Reached for her hand. "I don't want you hurt."
"Excuse me?"
Oops. Guess
that
was exactly the wrong thing to say. He cleared his throat. Rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand. "OK. That sounded proprietary."
She snorted and mimicked one of his earlier cracks. "Ya
think?'
"Eve, look—"
"Stow it, McClain. See, this is why I didn't tell you. I don't need you looking out for me, got it? I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself. And you do not make decisions for me. I mean, my God. What do you take me for?"
Now, he hadn't intended to get sidetracked. But he couldn't help it. She was just so vital standing there. Her blue eyes raining sparks, her nostrils flared in defiance, her shoulders thrown back with pride, and that incredible mouth set in an indignant line.
"What I take you for," he said, catching her by surprise when he tugged her down on top of him, "is damn beautiful when you're mad."
As he'd intended, she actually growled as she wedged her palms against his chest and pushed up so she could glare at him.
"You just keep opening your mouth and filling it with your size eleven chauvinist foot, don't you? Want to try for three out of three? You haven't pointed out that I'm the weaker sex yet."
He took it as a good sign that she was smiling—even if it was laced with sarcasm and pity. And Jesus, he needed her pity, he realized as she hovered there above him and a tide of emotion swelled up inside him, sending his heart into overdrive.
Panic had him rolling her to her back on the bed, pinning her with his body. He pushed up to his elbows, caged her head in his hands, and searched her face. He saw surprise, humor, even remnants of shock, and thought,
Damn, I could be in real trouble here.
All the signs were there. He couldn't bear the thought of anything happening to her. Didn't want to consider the day when they found Tiffany and they went their separate ways and he wouldn't see Eve every day. Hell, he was simply
looking
at her and he felt a groundswell of want and need and—
"McClain?"
He blinked, shook his head in the hopes of clearing it. "Yeah?" The word came out on a rusty croak. As rusty as his ability to deal with all the crazy thoughts tumbling around in his head.
"What is it about this part that always hangs you up? Are you going to kiss me, or what?"
He searched her face, saw everything good and worthy, and at the moment he also saw a healthy level of confusion his sudden silence had caused.
Well, that made two of them who were confused.
About one thing, though, he was crystal clear.
"Yeah," he whispered, and lowered his mouth to hers. "I'm going to kiss you."
And he did. Slow and deep. Long and sweet. Needing her softness. Needing her heat. Craving her hunger that the humming tension of her body, the restless give and the greedy take of her hands, told him was escalating by degrees.
Oh no. He knew what she was about. She wanted fast and hard. She wasn't going to get it. Not this time. This time, he was going to take her slow no matter how easy it would be to let her drag him under in a whirlwind of blinding greed.
Sometimes a man needed slow. He needed it now. Needed to know she was here, safe and secure in his arms. So did she; she just hadn't figured it out yet.
They were exhausted. Their defenses were down and the sexual tension that had chased them from Palm Beach to New York and now to Vegas had nipped at their heels every step of the way.
So he settled her with the deep press of his hips into hers. Set the pace with a languid sweep of his rough hands down the silken length of her body. With a host of lazy, languorous kisses that he scattered along her brow, the delicate rise of her cheekbone, the elegant curve of her jaw.
"Easy, cupcake," he whispered against her mouth. "Let's just take this one easy."
On a thready sigh, she relented. On a protracted moan, she surrendered. Let him undress her. In his own good time.
She let him play with the velvet softness of her breasts, tease her rosy pink nipples to aching peaks, let him explore with unhurried wonder that amazing crease where hip met thigh.
With her fingers gripping the sheets beside her hips, she rose to him, allowed him to savor, sip by thirsty sip, the sleek, wet flesh between her thighs. Let him drink until she couldn't take any more. And when he gently sucked her clitoris, she cried his name and poured like a vessel into his mouth.
He whispered her name over and over as he kissed his way leisurely up the giving warmth of her body, tasting his fill, savoring the scent of her wasted on sex, her breath thready and broken in the aftermath, her heart pounding, pounding, pounding beneath his lips.
Finally, he filled her. Took her on a long, slippery ride that stole them both away from danger and unknown threats and sent them adrift on a haze of sensation. With long, deep glides and a slow, steady ride, he went the same way she had and slid down the path to oblivion.
Chapter 22
MESQUITE,
NEVADA-ARIZONA BORDER
BlLLIE CAUGHT THE SACK OF FAST-FOOD burgers and fries between his teeth and inserted the key in the motel room door. He wasn't sure what he would find when he let himself inside. He'd been hoping he'd make it back before Tiffany woke up. Figured it was a pretty good bet that if she woke up in a strange motel all alone, she'd freak. Or run.
He'd feel guilty if she ran. Especially since she didn't have any money. At least he hadn't seen any when he'd tossed her stuff in a carry-on earlier this morning. The only thing Reno had left her of any value was a cell phone that Billie had shut off in case Reno called her and woke her up. Money hadn't been a priority. Maybe it should have been, but he'd just wanted to get out of there.
"Come on," he muttered through the teeth he'd clenched around the bag, and rattled the key around in the lock when the door wouldn't open.
He fiddled with it a little more, was about to give up and go to the office for a new key, when he saw the curtain move. He stepped back, looked, and there was Tiffany, peering out at him.
Now what? She didn't look so sure of herself. Or of him.
The curtain fell back in place. A few seconds later, the door opened as far as the security bolt would allow it. She stared at him through the crack. And said exactly nothing.
"I brought food," he said, holding up the sack.
She considered him a little while longer. "Where's Lance?"
Billie considered her right back. "Last I knew, he was about fifty miles south of here."
Surprise widened her eyes. Then relief. Then the return of caution. "Abe?"
Billie lifted a shoulder. "Suppose he's with Reno."
She sucked her lower lip between her teeth—and Billie couldn't help but notice how young she looked, despite the layers of makeup and the thick mascara that was smeared all around her eyes.
"Where ... where are we?"
"Mesquite."
"Texas?" she asked, sounding puzzled.
"Nevada."
Silence, then a soft, "Oh. What's your last name?" she asked finally.
"Campbell," he said, and decided to go for broke. "Look. I got you out of Vegas because I didn't like what was happening to you. They don't know where you are or that you're with me. If you want to go back, fine. I'll buy you a bus ticket. But you were making noises about—"
He stopped abruptly when the door closed. Almost immediately, it opened again, wide this time, because she'd unhooked the security bolt.
"You saved my life," she said, and moved back from the doorway so he could step inside.
He entered the room cautiously, still not sure what she might do, even though she looked friendly enough. "Well, you seemed to think it needed saving."
She just kept staring at him ... like she didn't know what to make of him. Maybe she was scared. Maybe she was still stoned.
"I'm not going to hurt you." He set the sack of food on the dresser. "I just thought, you know, that maybe I'd better get you out of there."
She made a clipped nod, still uncertain. One corner of her mouth tipped up in a short, tight smile. Again, like she was afraid to trust what she was hearing.
"Do you want sex?" she asked flatly.
He blinked. Blinked again. "Hell no!"
She actually looked hurt.
"I mean, jeez. What kind of a question is that to ask out of the blue? I didn't do this because I expected you to, you know, have, um, sex with me." God. If this didn't beat all. He felt blood flood his cheeks with heat.
The smile that tilted her lips this time made her look almost pretty. "You're embarrassed."
"Am not," he sputtered, lifting his hat, then settling it again. "Look, you hungry or not?"
He tore into the sack, grabbed a burger and a box of fries and a Coke for himself, and held the rest out to her. Then he walked to the far side of the room, plunked down in a chair, and gnawed off a big bite of burger.
"Thanks," she said, and took the sack to the bed. Very carefully, she unwrapped the tissue paper from the burger, took a cautious bite.
She made a face. "It has mustard on it."
"So?" he said, feeling cranky all of a sudden.
"I don't like mustard."
"So don't eat it."
She blinked. Eyed the burger, eyed him, then took another bite. "Guess it's not so bad," she said after she'd chewed and swallowed.
Then they sat there and ate in silence. Billie still didn't know what to think of her. Didn't know what she'd do. But it was funny. All of a sudden, he had a hard time not looking at her. Seemed like she was having a hard time not looking at him, too. Weird.
"What were you doing with those guys?" she asked, touching her fingers lightly to the corner of her mouth and brushing away some salt. Her finger caught on one of those stupid lip rings, and she winced but didn't say anything.
"I liked the way Reno sang my songs. Figured we were on our way to a recording contract, maybe."
"What stopped you?"
"You," he said, and he said it mean so she'd understand he thought she was trouble.
She looked at her burger, looked back at him. "I'm sorry."
He showed her his disgusted face because he was just a little too tempted to try to make her feel better by telling her not to worry about it.
She rose suddenly, set the half-eaten burger aside, and headed for the bathroom.