Baddest Bad Boys(48)

This guy was a wacko. Borg’s mouth went dry. “No way. I’ll watch her tail from now to neverland, but I don’t do spade work. Nope. I ain’t no killer.”

“Fifteen thousand.”

“Same answer.”

He heard a long, irritated sigh. “In that case, you useless bastard, give me directions—specific directions—to where you are. And go back in there and get me a layout of that camp. I’ll need a map. I’ll be there tomorrow. Wait for me. And while you’re waiting, go do some shopping.”

“Shopping? What kind of shopping?”

McNeil laughed, then added in a tone altered for an idiot, “Buy me a rifle, Borg, a great big rifle and lots and lots of pretty bullets. You can do that, can’t you?” His voice hardened. “And keep an eye on that bitch. Do not—I repeat—do not let her leave there. She moves, you move. Got that? Then you call me. It turns out dear old dad is coming home early and I’m fresh out of time.”

It was noon when Mac went back to the house. Plan? Get back to those files he’d brought. As a lust antidote, work was all he had.

When he stepped into the house, the aroma of frying bacon greeted him. Tommi was in the kitchen behind the long counter, fluttering between cupboards and pans. Damned if she wasn’t wearing that damn robe. It covered her from his eyes, but not his newly activated imagination. He hung his jacket on a peg, took a breath, and began his monk’s journey.

“Hi,” she said. “Hungry?”

“I’m a thirty-year-old male, and there’s bacon in the air. What’s your bet?”

She smiled. “That’s good because I’ve made enough for a logging crew.”

He watched her move around the compact cooking area, easy and competent, as if she’d worked in it a thousand times. But that was the thing about Tommi; even as a teenager, she was always so in control. Yet, she had this…sexually attainable look. Had to be all that bed-mussed blond hair, those smoky eyes of hers. But looking at her now, tense and vulnerable, Mac wondered for the first time how much of it was a mirage, brought on by wishful male thinking after one look at that centerfold-class body of hers.

Maybe he should ask Hugh. At that thought his stomach rolled. They might be brothers, but banter about sexual conquests wasn’t in the relationship mix.

Tommi must have felt his eyes on her because she shot him a look from over her shoulder, and from that point on, her movements in the kitchen were a lot less competent, more along the lines of a major klutz.

When she came close to burning herself pouring coffee, he got off his stool and went to take the coffeepot from her hand.

“Thanks,” she said. “But you can sit right back down. Everything’s ready.” She loaded a plate for him—eggs, bacon and a pile of perfectly browned hash browns, then made a smaller version for herself.

He took both plates to the table.

After a minute or two of silence, she said, “About last night. I’ve been thinking.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I don’t want to call the police about this thing until I talk to my boss—in person.”

“You’d be smart to do that sooner, rather than later.”

She stopped eating, put her fork down. He heard her take a deep breath, let it out. “Maybe so, but he’ll be back next week. I’m going to wait.” She lifted her eyes to his. “The thing is…I’d like to stay here until he does—get back, I mean.” Her voice went up on the final word, nervous, fearful. “Will that be okay?”

He shoved his plate back and took in her anxious expression. “This Reid guy—he’s bad news, isn’t he?”

She hesitated, then said, “Yes. I think he might be very bad news.”

He touched her robe-encased arm where the bruising lay hidden under soft cotton. “He did this.”

She nodded.

“Does he have any idea where you are?”

“No. Thanks to Hugh. God, I don’t know what I’d have done without him.”

Mac narrowed his gaze to her eyes. “And Hugh? What does he think about your being here? With me.”

She looked confused. “He was the one who suggested it. I thought you knew that.” She got up, took her half-eaten breakfast to the sink, then turned, leaning one hip against the counter and crossing her arms under her breasts. “When I called him for help, I’d hoped he’d lend me his cabin on Whidbey, but Veronica was there with her mother.” She grinned, a slight crooked grin that flashed in her eyes. “Making, as Hugh said, ‘more endless arrangements.’”

It was Mac’s turn to be confused. “What are you talking about? Who’s Veronica? And what arrangements?”

“You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“Hugh’s getting married to—”

“Someone named Veronica.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “I’ll be damned.”

“You didn’t know.” She came back to the table and sat down, looked wryly amused. “Men. Amazing what they don’t talk about.” She picked up her coffee mug, held it with both hands, and looked at him over its rim. “Hugh met Veronica in September. It was love at first sight. He proposed to her a couple of weeks ago.”

He shook his head. So that was it. During their call yesterday, Hugh hinted he had some news, but said he’d save it until they could get together. Now he knew what the news was—he was happy for Hugh. The guy was programmed for a wife and kids.