Jacked Up (Bowen Boys #4)(24)

She lifted her hand, those angelic eyes and that damn smirk on her face not boding well with him. He felt his ulcer acting up. He’d dealt with lowlifes and criminals all his life and not a glitch. He’d met her and gotten a f*cking ulcer.

He reached into his pocket and took another antacid.

Mullen needed to get his ass in gear and catch Maldonado soon, or Jack’s insides would burst into flames.

“There’s no food in your kitchen.”

“There’s ice cream.”

“What I said. No food.”

She threw a glance at him and asked, “You were joking in the plane, right?”

He pondered for a second. “Yeah, I didn’t neutralize any hijackers.”

“I didn’t mean that,” she said, between giggles. “I meant what you said about wanting a Pilgrim as a wife.”

“Nope. Totally serious.”

“You’re in the wrong century. Heck, the wrong millennium.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why a bread-baking wife?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. “Is it because you can’t cook? Because that’s why God created takeout. You just stick the menus on the fridge door, have a phone handy, and you’re set.”

“Of course I can cook.” Rather well, actually. Nothing fancy or gourmet, but he could create an edible meal from almost anything. He’d had lots of experience. He’d grown up on that. “Did I tell you already I prefer my women silent?”

Elle broke into laughter. “I prefer my men with a working brain. We can’t always win, can we?”

Smart-ass. Beautiful, sexy, exasperating smart-ass.

He caved. “I want someone that will have my children, and whose priority would be taking care of her family. Not someone who just wants to have fun and run around, flaunting herself and probably cheating on me the second I step out the door.”

He knew before he closed his mouth that he’d spoken too much.

Elle smiled, realizing that too. “Ahh, so that’s why you said you didn’t want someone like me. Because you think I flaunt myself and cheat? You think I’m a whore.”

“I didn’t use that word.”

“Didn’t have to, Borg. You’re spot-on about one thing, though. I’m anything but silent. In bed or out of it. Not that you’ll ever get to experience the ‘in’ part. The other, all the screaming and yelling I do outside, I’m going to give you plenty. I suggest you save yourself a world of pain and aggravation and take on another super-secret assignment and disappear.”

“I don’t think so, pet,” he growled, planting his feet onto the sofa table and looking at the ceiling. “Despite whatever you need to believe, you are a witness to a crime, and Maldonado plays in the big leagues. He will not hesitate to cut your throat. The second I think your cover is blown, I’m pulling you out and into hiding. And I don’t want to hear a word from you.”

Silence.

Oh, miracle.

Jack turned toward her and to his utter surprise found her sleeping. No wonder she hadn’t given him one of her clever comebacks. Even when she fell asleep, she always had the last word.

Her head was bent at an awkward angle, the spoon still dangling from her hand. Almost three. So this was why she always wrote to him at those ungodly hours.

He disposed of the ice cream. He was going to throw a quilt over her and leave her there, but before he even realized what he was doing, he was lifting her in his arms and heading upstairs. She was a flight risk after all, and having her sleep so close to the front door was stupid.

The first room he tried was Tate’s. The next one was definitely Elle’s. Bold, in-your-face, messy place. Bed unmade, clothes stacked on the chair. More of those inspirational sentences on the walls. Yep, Elle’s.

Life is short.

Break the rules.

Forgive quickly.

Kiss slowly.

Undressing her would make it more difficult for her to bail unnoticed and would piss her off immensely in the morning, but there was no way he could survive that. No way whatsoever.

He put her to bed, tucked her in, and made himself walk away.

He left his duffel bag in the guest room, the one that had been her brother’s. James had told him that Tate and Elle’s dad and older brother had died in a car accident almost a year before he’d met Tate. Drunk driver. Elle never spoke of it, not with him anyway.

No frills. No mess. Perfectly clean room. But instead of staying there he found himself heading to hers. He watched Elle for a long second, and before he could order his legs not to move, he was getting into her bed.

Jesus Christ, not even forty-eight hours around this woman and he was already in her bed. Unable to walk away, not even to the next room. His mind in turmoil, his dick hard as stone. His ulcer killing him. He repeated to himself that if he kept his arms around her, she couldn’t ditch him. This was just an extra precaution. Nothing to do with him at all.

Then she turned to him in her sleep, snuggling and burying herself into him, nuzzling her face on his chest, throwing her leg over him. She took a small, deep breath and went soft in his arms.

This was going to be a long night. A very long, very painful night.



I’m calling you exactly two seconds after I send this message. If you don’t pick up, I’m taking the car and heading your way. Haven’t slept much and I’m cranky as hell. I suggest YOU ANSWER OR ELSE.