Tailspin(43)

“Three hours,” she said.

“Four.”

He fiddled with his watch, then held his wrist out to where she could read the time he’d set. “See? I didn’t cheat you a single minute.” He lay down, turned onto his side facing out, and cradled the box.

“You’re a bastard,” she said.

“I think I like freight dog better.”

After that, she heard nothing but deep breathing. She leaned forward and across the bed so she could see his face. He’d already fallen asleep.

10:07 a.m.



Rye was playing possum. He wasn’t about to fall asleep until Brynn did.

But she was restless and frustrated. She paced the length of the bed several times. She went over to the window and parted the curtains just wide enough to peek through the crack, then impatiently overlapped them again after cursing the persistent fog.

She returned to the bed and sat down on the other side of it. Sighing with resignation, she removed her boots, then lay down and pulled the bedspread up over her. She didn’t move again.

He knew the instant she fell asleep because the cadence of her breathing changed, and he found himself charting its lulling tempo. He was tempted to turn and check out the rise and fall of her chest but didn’t. He recalled how good her breasts had felt against his chest and knew they’d feel even better in his hands.

And he had to keep his hands off her.

His hands he had control of. His head was another matter. He clearly remembered how well their bodies had conformed to each other at the notch of her thighs. And that wet, seductive kiss. Her mouth.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the images that flickered through his mind like a silent movie. A silent X-rated movie. His cock swelled. But he willed it down. Because, for all her appeal, getting tangled up with Brynn O’Neal would be a bad idea.

More likely than not, she was a thief. He knew for certain that she was a liar.

While she’d been showering, he’d called the FAA office in Atlanta. He’d reported a no-casualty crash and promised to send a full report as soon as the fog cleared and he could get photos. The agent he spoke to was fine with that. No one wanted to work over the holiday weekend. All together the conversation had lasted three minutes.

The cell phone service had been perfect.





Chapter 13

1:28 p.m.



Brynn, wake up.”

“Hmm?”

Her shoulder was shaken. “Wake up.”

Feeling as though she were being roused from a coma, she opened her eyes and blinked Rye into focus. “It’s already been four hours?”

“No, but we have company.”

He left her, skirted the foot of the bed, and went over to the window, where he peered through the split in the curtains. “I heard their car. They’re just pulling up.”

“Who?”

“Your mere coincidence duo.”

That brought her wide awake. She kicked back the bedspread, came off the bed, and watched in alarm as Rye took his pistol from his flight bag. “What are you doing with that?”

“If we’re lucky, nothing.” He slid it into his back jeans pocket and covered it with his shirttail. Giving her a fulminating look, he said, “You’ve got one more chance to tell me who these guys are.”

“I don’t know.”

“Yeah, and there’s no cell phone service, either.”

Having caught her in that lie, he had a right to be angry, she supposed.

Still seething, he said, “Take off your jeans.”

“What?”

“Take off your jeans,” he repeated, enunciating each word. “Or at least make it look like you’re pulling them back on.” He glanced through the curtain. “You’ve got ten seconds.”

While instructing her, he’d been unbuttoning his fly and had got it undone just as two hard knocks landed on the door. He grabbed the pillow he’d been sleeping on and pitched it over next to hers.

A harder, louder knock.

In a grumpy and scratchy voice, Rye said, “Who is it?”

“We’re looking for Dr. O’Neal.”

“What do you want with her?”

“Is she in there?”

“Are you sick?”

The person on the other side of the door called out, “Dr. O’Neal?”

With a curt nod, Rye signaled for her to answer. Her heart was in her throat. She didn’t need to pretend to stutter. “J-Just a second.”

“Hurry up,” said the voice through the door.

She undid her jeans and lowered them a few inches. Rye opened the door as wide as the chain lock would allow and said through the crack, “Somebody had better be dying.”

Through the sliver, Brynn could see the tall, handsome man from the café. He said, “Let us in.”

“Like hell I will,” Rye said. “Who are you?”

“Makes no difference to you. Unlock the door.”

“Give me one good reason why.”

“Dr. O’Neal’s patient.”

Rye looked back at Brynn, his expression an unspoken question.

Her mind was in turmoil, but she wanted to know who had sent these men and why. She gave Rye a go-ahead nod to let them in.

His eyes boring into hers, he shut the door and was intentionally clumsy sliding the chain from the slot, rattling it noisily as he whispered to her, “Whatever I say, go along, or I swear to God I’ll leave you to them.”