Baddest Bad Boys(47)

Under the covers, she shimmied out of the robe and let it slide to the floor. Mac draped it over the foot of the bed.

Her head nestled deep in the soft pillow, her eyelids weighed down with lack of sleep, she said, “Right now the only problem I can think of is how I’m ever going to leave your bed, Mac.” Then she promptly fell asleep.

Mac wasn’t so lucky. Between the rage of the storm battering his window and a cock that felt as if someone had loaded it with hot steel, he prowled the house for hours.

Close to 9 A.M., the storm took a break. It hovered offshore in a line of black clouds that told him it hadn’t finished its dirty work yet. He decided to use the break to check out Night Waters, his 35-foot power boat, to see how she weathered the night.

Anything to get out of the house and away from the woman sleeping down the hall.

He rolled his head to ease the growing tension in his body. It didn’t work.

Need slammed into him like a well-aimed punch when his sorry excuse for a mind replayed that glimpse of breasts and thighs he’d caught last night; the dark pink areola ringing a jutting nipple begging for his tongue, the long, lean legs leading the way to heaven—or hell, depending on a man’s point of view.

But, damn it, right now he’d take either if it meant going in hard and deep—making Tommi climax, come soft and wet under his hand, his mouth…

He cursed, sealed his eyes tight.

After last night, if there were justice in this world, he should be anointed for not being all over her. Which he damn well would have been if she’d dropped that skimpy robe of hers.

Convinced it was going to be a long, frustrating few days, he headed for the shower.

A few minutes later, when he passed her door, he stopped and listened. Nothing. He felt a stab of guilt about the unwaveringly carnal direction of his thoughts. He’d bet sex wasn’t on Smith’s mind. Guessing at the extent of her exhaustion, she’d probably sleep until noon.

Fine with him.

Because if there was one thing he knew for certain, Hugh hadn’t sent her up here so Mac could fulfill an adolescent fantasy. She was here for his protection, not sex. Plus, he reminded himself, the lady had a lot on her mind.

The morning was bitter cold, and Mac quickly discovered his visit to Night Waters was well timed. One of her lines was free and another frayed.

He had work to do—thank God—and he got right to it.

“McNeil?” Borg had given up on his cell phone and was now crammed into the smallest phone booth in North America in the rattiest, smelliest gas station this side of the Pacific. “You owe me. And I ain’t lettin’ you forget it.”

“Where are you?”

“Close Bay, a godforsaken place on a godforsaken island in a godforsaken rain forest—that’s where I am.” Borg was pissed, even more pissed when he heard McNeil pause and take a drink of what he imagined was hot, strong coffee. He’d kill for that right now. Hell, he’d kill just to get this damn job over with.

“More to the point, where’s Smith?” McNeil asked, his voice slick as a whore’s tit. “You didn’t lose her, did you?”

“No, I didn’t lose her. I slept in my damn car under her damn nose, but I didn’t lose her. Rained all night. I’m f*ckin’ deaf from the sound of it, but I didn’t lose her, McNeil, which means you better be ready to flash up that checkbook of yours and write a pile of numbers.”

“You’ll get your money.”

“Yeah, so you keep sayin’.” Borg took a pull on his smoke.

“Can you see her now?”

“No, I can’t see her now!” he spat into the phone. “I’m in a damn phone booth calling you, because my f*ckin’ cell phone won’t work. This place is in the middle of hell’s *.”

McNeil’s voice was lethally low when he said, “You don’t want to do this job, Borg, I can find someone who will.”

Borg tossed his smoke into the muck outside the booth. He wanted to get in his car and drive back to Seattle, tell him to stuff his damn job, but he knew if he did, McNeil would stiff him for sure. And he needed the green.

As his tire iron-wielding bookie took pains to remind him.

“Look.” He kept his voice flat. “There’s one road in and one road out—the last eight or ten miles is nothing but a cow trail. I go in there, get stuck, and it’s game over. If she leaves she has to travel this road. I’ll pick her up then.”

“Where the hell is she, anyway?”

“At a private fishing camp. With some guy”—he fumbled in his pocket for the piece of paper he’d written on—“named Mac Fleming. A big shot, the locals tell me. Lots of bucks. Lots of smarts. Owns some TV stations or something. Looks like she’s got herself a safe, warm nest and ain’t planning to leave anytime soon.”

“Shit!”

“You want I should do something?”

Borg sure as hell hoped not, because right now all he wanted was a room in that roach motel he’d spotted down the road. It probably had a twelve-inch TV, soap the size of a cereal flake, and towels you could spit through, but right now it looked five-star to him.

But the silence on the other end of the line made him uneasy. He could damn well hear the bastard’s mind clicking.

“I want you to kill her, Borg. You do that and you’ve got a ten-grand deposit into that empty bank account of yours.”