In Bed with Boone
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For a split second she thought she saw those dark eyes soften, and then they passed out of the light and his face was lost in darkness again. She shook her head. Any hint of softness she saw in that man was a hopeful illusion.
The car came to a stop in front of a ramshackle house in the middle of nowhere. A single low-wattage lightbulb glowed near the front door, lighting the less-than-illustrious dwelling too well. The gray paint on the walls was peeling, and the windows she could see had been covered in bedsheets, instead of curtains. There were no neighbors, but for the similar shack they had passed a mile or so back. And in truth, it had looked deserted.
She should be sipping wine at Corbin Marsh’s extravagant Arizona vacation home. Instead, she was…here.
By the time the bald thug exited the car, Becker was waiting for her. He looked none too happy as he offered his hand. Jayne refused to touch that hand as she stepped from the car. There was nowhere to go and she already knew she couldn’t run fast enough. Still, she glanced toward the gravel road.
“Don’t even think about it,” Becker said softly as he took her arm. “You wouldn’t get far.”
Because he’d shoot her? Because one of the other hoodlums would?
Jayne gathered every ounce of strength she had left and looked him in the eye. “Bully,” she said.
The other three laughed, but not Becker. The fat man who had shot poor Jim slapped his long-haired friend on the back. “I shoot her boyfriend, and you drag her back here to have your way with her, and the worst she can come up with is ‘bully’?” He snorted like a pig.
Jayne was tempted to look the fat man in the eye and deliver a criticism in his direction…but she didn’t. Becker scared her, but the man who had shot Jim and threatened to do the same to her terrified her beyond reason. She sensed that if she kept her eyes and attention on Becker, she might get through this.
They were all thugs, but the one who had claimed her as his own seemed to be the most intelligent of the four. Maybe when they were alone, she could reason with him. Offer him money to get her out of here, safe and untouched. Her father could and would pay anything to rescue her. Could Becker be bought? And if so, how much would it take?
She was led to a side entrance, where no light burned. As soon as the bald young hooligan threw that door open, she could tell that the interior of the shack was worse than the exterior. She would have thought that impossible. Becker led her through the door and into the kitchen. Fast-food bags and beer cans littered the floor, and the counter and sink were stacked high with dirty dishes. She had to step over a discarded pizza box as Becker dragged her through.
“Hey,” one of the younger criminals said as he followed them in. Jayne looked over her shoulder and saw it was the kid with the long greasy hair. “I wouldn’t step on your toes or anything,” he continued, grinning at Becker. “But maybe when you’re through with her, the bitch could clean this place up a bit.”
Jayne’s eyes shot fire at the kid.
“Clean it up yourself, Doug,” Becker said without looking back.
Doug’s smile died quickly, and he scowled at Becker’s back.
The living area was no better than the kitchen. More fast-food wrappings and beer cans littered the place, appropriate accompaniment to newspapers, a canted couch and a couple of chairs that looked as if they might have been retrieved from a trash pile. A small television sat on a table against one wall. No cable, she noticed, just a rabbit-ear antenna. A new fear gripped her. If they found out who she was, who her father was, would they decide to hold her for ransom? Or would they panic and dispose of her as quickly as possible?
Becker led her into a narrow hallway carpeted in faded and stained green. No matter how hard she tried to calm herself, nothing worked. Her heart pounded, her breathing was shallow, her knees shook. She found herself hanging back, fighting against Becker’s grip as he opened a door and dragged her into what appeared to be a bedroom. Behind her, she heard the two younger criminals laugh again.
With one last yank, Becker dragged her all the way inside and slammed the door shut. Her first thought was that at least this room was cleaner than the rest of the house. The double bed had been hastily made, there was no garbage on the floor, and the single narrow window was actually covered with a curtain, not a sheet.
“Sit down,” Becker ordered softly.
The only place to sit was the bed. Jayne shook her head in silent refusal.
Becker leaned in closer, just a bit. The dark of night had shadowed much of his face, but the uncovered lightbulb that burned overhead illuminated every detail. Dark-brown eyes that held no laughter. A sharp jaw dusted with dark stubble and softened by the long dark-brown hair that fell over his shoulder. A long, perfectly shaped nose, a wide, perfectly shaped mouth. A big gun shoved almost carelessly into the waistband of his jeans. “Sit,” he whispered.
Jayne sat. She perched on the side of the bed with her hands in her lap, her spine rigid and her knees together. “My father will pay a lot of money to get me back, unhurt and, uh…” She swallowed hard. Untouched. She couldn’t say that out loud, but surely he knew what she meant.
Becker paced by the side of the bed, staying between her and the door, running his hands through his hair and pushing the long brown strands away from his face. He kept his eyes on the floor, and occasionally he glanced at the door. Only once did he look at her, and when he did he shook his head and groaned low in his throat before casting that dark gaze to the floor again.
Finally he stopped pacing and stood before her. Close. Too close. And she had nowhere to go.
Boone stared at the girl on the bed. What the hell was he going to do with her?
“What’s your name?” he asked.
She flinched. “I’m not telling you anything,” she said frostily.
He almost smiled. She should be crying, hysterical, terrified, but she still had the guts to look at him coldly. She couldn’t hide the way her hands and knees shook, though. “Well, then, I’ll just call you sugar.”
She pursed her lips. “Jayne,” she said.
“No last name?”
“Not that I’d care to share with you.”
He leaned forward and down. “Don’t play hardball with me, lady. I’m your only chance of getting out of here alive.”
She swallowed, sending that slender, pale throat working in interesting ways.
In the hallway someone snickered. Doug or Marty…probably both.
Boone sighed. “Give me your jacket,” he ordered.
“I will not.”
He slipped off his leather jacket and placed it on the end of the bed, pulled off his T-shirt and tossed it atop the jacket. He drew the Colt pistol from his waistband, looked at the weapon, looked at the woman, then quickly went to the closet and placed the pistol on the top shelf. He didn’t think Jayne would actually try to shoot him, but until they got things straightened out here, he couldn’t be sure—and she wouldn’t be able to reach the top shelf without a ladder or a chair. Neither was handy.