by Tara Janzen
“Mongolian?” His voice was suddenly very serious, very quiet. “We have Mongolian dinosaur bones?”
She nodded. “If Wilson is right in his identification, you have at least one Mongolian fossil.”
“Does anyone else know?”
“No. I don't think so.”
He looked at her for a long, silent moment.
“Okay,” he finally said. “I'll take pictures for you.”
“I should take the pictures,” she insisted. “I'm the one who knows what to look for.”
“No. You're going to the Southern Cross.”
“But—”
“No.” He was adamant, and she was just about ready to tell him she didn't take orders from anybody, thank you very much, when his expression softened. “Look, Regan. I'm sorry, but it has to be this way. The bones are the bait for Roper. I don't want you anywhere near them.”
The look on Quinn's face told her there was absolutely no way she was going to change his mind. It was a done deal. She was going to the hotel, and he was going to set a trap for a man who had already nearly gotten him killed.
She didn't even want to think about it.
But, damn, despite the danger, she wanted to get her hands on the Mongolian monster, the Cretaceous carnivore of every paleontologist's dreams. She wanted to get her hands on it, get the museum's claim on it, and get it locked up in her lab—all without getting anyone killed.
There had to be a way.
CHAPTER
18
WELL, WELL, WELL, Kid thought, completely flabbergasted by the sheer torrent of conversation gushing out of Nikki McKinney. They were still on the run, headed southeast out of Boulder, away from the Southern Cross Hotel, and he could absolutely guarantee nobody was following them. He'd taken every evasive maneuver in the book. Twice.
But Nikki McKinney—geezus, there was obviously nothing like a little danger to put a nickel in her. He'd stopped trying to actually understand what she was saying, or God forbid, respond to it, quite a while back. It was an incredible amount of verbiage, sort of a life story soliloquy, and he was afraid she might just fry something, like her brain or her vocal cords, if she didn't get a break. She was so freaking wired, and maybe still scared. It wasn't every day a person got shot at. And it wasn't every woman who could render him speechless, or with one look, one smile, make him think about stuff he'd never thought about. Like what she would look like in the morning, or twenty years from now. Geezus squared. What in the hell was going on with him? He didn't think about women in those terms. Morning after. Down the road.
“Of course, Regan just about died when she walked into my studio, which was really still the garden shed back then, before I finally got it cleaned up and convinced Grandpa to put in a pair of northern exposure skylights, because the light is so important, especially for painting, and I was doing a lot of painting, before I started using photography and printing techniques to create some of my bigger pieces. But Travis was there, naked, of course, and I was only sixteen, and Regan thought all the worst possible things, him being older and all, but not by much, two years is all. And it was really weird, but Travis practically fell in love with her that day as she was standing there, trying so hard not to stare at him and practically fainting from the shock. It was terrible really, she was struggling so hard not to overreact, and you know Travis, he doesn't even notice if he's naked or not, and Regan was thinking the worst—oh, I guess I already said that.”
She paused for just a bit longer than usual, and that was probably his cue to say something, but before he could think of anything, let alone spit it out, she jumped back in the breach.
“Of course, there wasn't anything going on. Travis and I just don't find each other attractive—well, I guess I shouldn't say that, because of course I find Travis incredibly attractive. He's gorgeous, the most physically gorgeous, unbelievably photogenic man I've ever seen in my whole life.”
Perfect, he thought grimly, trying to concentrate on the road in front of him and continually checking the road behind him. Travis James was her ideal man, and Kid didn't look anything like Travis James. He was not blond-haired and blue-eyed. He did not have that dreamy, artsy thing going for him, and he didn't have a fucking clue if he was photogenic or not—or why, all of a sudden, he cared.
“But poor Regan, her husband must have been like the world's worst lover, because she was so miserable with the whole bedroom scene, and then to literally expose her to Travis like that, who quite frankly just exudes sensuality. I think it was a serious shock to her system.”
Hell, Travis's exuding sensuality was starting to be a bit of a shock to Kid's system, and he most definitely did not want to hear about Regan McKinney's love life, not after seeing her underwear, and not after seeing the look on Quinn's face when she'd fainted into his arms.
No, sir-ree. Quinn would not want him hearing this.
“And don't you know, she started divorce proceedings just a few weeks after that?”
She came to a full-out stop and after a second or two, he realized that, unbelievably, she was actually waiting for an answer.
“Uh . . . no.” He hadn't known.
Apparently satisfied with his comment, she started up again at full tilt. “I'm sure it was seeing Travis naked that made her decide there had to be something better out there for her than musty old Scott Hanson, and I like to think my work with him has the same effect on the women who come to my shows, and I don't just mean that he's beautiful on the outside. Travis is beautiful on the inside, and that part of him, that more feminine part, just glows. I think women really respond to it.”
Shit. Now the guy was glowing? And what was this about Regan seeing him naked and deciding to leave her husband? That made no sense. He'd seen Travis's package and it was just a regular guy package, a few working parts, everything in the right place, like—
His brain came to a screeching halt, and really, he had to take a breath and ask himself just what the fuck he thought he was doing, and how in the hell she'd gotten him off on such a freaking weird train of thought. He did not go around thinking about other guy's dicks, at least not since he'd been fifteen and realized he was okay in that department.
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and tried not to listen anymore, but that was impossible. The sound of her voice, like everything else about her, was irresistible.
“I think he makes women question their position in life through their association with the dichotomy of his physical power and his whole feminine mystique. That's the part of Travis I'm always trying to capture. The tension. You must have felt it in the studio.”
She was serious. He could tell by the tone of her voice. And again, unbelievably, she was waiting for an answer.
“Uh . . . no.” Oh, yeah. He was scoring points all over the place with this conversation.
He flipped on his blinker and gunned the motor for the highway entrance ramp ahead. With the Southern Cross compromised, Kid had decided she needed a fortress, not a safe house. They were headed to Denver. He was taking her to Steele Street. He'd called in his change of plans, catching Quinn halfway to the Southern Cross from Steele Street, and Hawkins halfway to Steele Street from Commerce City. Neither had liked hearing how fast Roper's men had moved in on them.
“You didn't feel the tension?” She sounded like he couldn't possibly be telling her the truth.
O-kay, he thought, doing a quick about-face.
“Yeah, there was tension. I just didn't realize it was the dichotomy of Travis's physical power and his, uh, feminine mystique creating it. I thought it was the paint and the hellish death motif, not to mention the, uh, sheer demonic luridness of the eternity-sucking vortex.” God, he was skating on thin ice here, damn thin.
“Well, yes, that's the obvious interpretation,” she said, a shade of relief in her voice, which just left him even more flabbergasted. She'd bought his line. “But the whole piece is powered by the duality of man's nature, innocence and evil, male and female. Didn'
t you ask yourself what an angel was doing in hell? I mean, what awful thing could he have done to have fallen so terribly from God's grace?”
No, he hadn't asked himself those questions. He'd been too distracted by her, but now that she mentioned it, he didn't have to look far for the answers. That poor freaking angel didn't have to have done a damn thing to lose God's grace. Sometimes it just happened, between one breath and a man's last. He'd seen it in combat. Grace died. Death won, and for a while, the whole world felt like hell.
There was nothing easy or simple about Nikki McKinney—but she was definitely naive.
“Do you know what the angel did?” he asked. Yeah, he had his own answers, but he wasn't going to rock her boat with them, not when she was so damn close to going under. To hell with Travis's tension, she was wound tighter than a boatswain's knot, with tension rolling off her in waves. Everything about her was giving off caution warnings—Woman on the Edge of a Meltdown—in big red, flashing neon letters. Her hands were nearly white where she had them clasped around the little box of doodads in her lap. Her shoulders were stiff, and her posture ramrod straight, a near impossible feat in a bucket seat.
Worse, he wasn't doing much beyond holding on for the ride and hoping she wouldn't explode or something. Or even worse yet, cry. It was damned frustrating, and more than a little unnerving. She needed help, and he was clueless. That's what came from growing up with a bunch of older brothers and no mother: incompetence, pure and total. She was going to self-destruct, and he was going to be left picking up the pieces.
But, God, she was a steamroller, and as afraid as he was of her melting down over there all on her own, he was even more afraid of saying the wrong thing and being the cause of her collapse.
“No. I actually don't know why the angel fell.” She shook her head. “I should, but I don't, but it's one of the things I'm trying to do, expand the work beyond the boundaries of the canvas. Of course, it's only been the last year or two that I've learned to take a piece all the way to the edge. I think Travis knows what the angel did, and I think he uses that knowledge to get where he goes, but he hasn't told me. He never tells me much of anything, but he's not afraid to show me, and more than any other model I've ever had, he understands the innocence of his sensuality and the feminine power inherent in his own masculine nature. He lives the dichotomy of the fallen angel.”
Kid stifled a heavy sigh. The dichotomy of the fallen angel? What in the hell, he wondered, was she talking about?
For a second, he'd hoped to get home without having to hear too much more about Travis, his exuding sensuality, or his feminine mystique, or any more of his freaking dichotomies. One more gushing comment, and it was quite possible he was going to be sick. He was already starting to feel a little woozy.
Food, he realized, was a big part of the problem. Having half a gallon of adrenaline unloaded into his system in about 0.2 seconds on an empty stomach always made him hungry. The food she'd mentioned being in her studio had never quite materialized, and he was reaching critical nonmass. He needed food, a lot of food, and less Travis. The EMT was actually a nice guy, but Kid was going to hate him in about five more minutes if Nikki couldn't find another subject. She'd gone through about eight subjects since they'd done their nitrous blast out of the canyon, but she seemed to have gotten stuck on Travis the glowing wonder stud.
One thing he'd figured out while she'd been talking nonstop was the absolute necessity of never, ever posing for one of her paintings. Models were weighted down with some pretty heavy freight in her book, and the freight made them untouchable. He wasn't even sure she saw them as real men, and he definitely did not want to be put in an untouchable, not-real-man category by her.
No way. He wanted to be touched by her, a lot, like in full body contact with sweaty skin and open mouths, but at this point he realized that was probably thinking way ahead of the game. Way ahead. She had hardly so much as looked at him since they'd met. It had all been about Travis, who, twenty bucks said, wasn't her lover.
So who was? he wondered for about the millionth time, and hoped like hell the answer was nobody. The way she talked about Travis made him think there wasn't anybody else in her life.
“Travis—”
Exactly, he thought.
“—has a small business on the side, where he sexually imprints women who have had bad experiences, putting the innocence of his sensuality to a really super good use. He's doing quite well. It's very pure, very cool, but Regan refuses to take him up on his offer of unlimited free sessions. It's crazy, of course. I'm sure he could help her, just the way he helped a friend of mine last year, whose boyfriend was having a, uh, problem, you know?”
No way could she expect him to answer that. But she'd gone dead silent again, leaving an expectant pause hanging in the air, torturing him, probably on purpose.
“No,” he ground out. “I don't know.” Nor did he want to know. Yet at the same time he was morbidly fascinated with what else she'd said. The guys back at the 24th Marines would love to get their hands on an idea like sexual imprinting, and he'd bet they'd all be happy to offer all the free sessions any woman wanted. Of course, there wasn't a Marine on the planet who could be described as innocent. Neither was there one who didn't already think of himself as a first-class sexual imprinter.
A broad grin split his face. What kind of racket was Travis running?
The boyfriend problem was something else, and he hoped to hell she would show some discretion and keep the details to herself.
“I'm hungry,” he said abruptly, and hoped his panic didn't show. “Are you hungry?” Eating always made him feel better. Maybe it would work for her, too. Honestly, he was such an idiot. He should have been feeding her the minute they'd gotten out of the canyon. He'd been hungry since way before that, and the odds were good that she was hungry, too. “There's a bunch of fast-food places up ahead at the next exit. Mexican, Chinese, a sub sandwich place, hamburgers if you want one. We'll be fine, if you want to stop and get something quick.”
“Uh, no, thanks,” she said after a slight cough, or maybe a choking sound, and a moment's hesitation. “I don't, uh, think I could eat right now.”
And she didn't sound like she could. Maybe it was the fast-food idea that turned her off.
“If you want an organic soybean-curd fajita or something, I'm sure I can find one.” Actually, he wasn't at all sure he could, not off the turnpike, but if it would help her relax a little, he'd whip one up himself at Steele Street.
“No, that's . . . uh . . . fine. I don't really like soybean curd.”
Go figure, Kid thought, an artsy Boulder chick who didn't like soybean curd.
He downshifted on the off-ramp, exiting the highway for the shopping malls, gas stations, and fast-food joints of the north Denver suburbs. If the choice was going to be his, it was gonna be cheeseburgers all the way, and if he was lucky, maybe he could get a few french fries or some milkshake down her. Anything, he was sure, could only help.
FROM her side of the car, Nikki looked at him, aghast.
Eat? Was he crazy? The only way she could keep breathing was to keep talking, and he wanted to eat? She might never eat again in commemoration of the most freaking awful experience of her whole entire life.
If she hadn't gone to the bathroom before they'd left the house, she would have peed her pants. Under normal circumstances the very thought would have been mortifying—but not now. Oh, no. She was way beyond being embarrassed by a small physical dysfunction.
And hadn't he been sitting right here in the very same car with her? The one with the side mirror that had been shot off in a wave of bullets?
Bullets!
Just before it had actually been scraped clean off the car by a gigantic Winnebago going full speed, head-on, up the canyon? Hadn't he been sitting right next to her as he'd taken them to certain death in a game of chicken so close she still didn't believe they hadn't gone up in a ball of twisted metal and flame?
Oh, yes, she'd pee
ked over the dashboard and looked death in the face, and wasn't that all just seconds before they'd almost gone straight off the cliff, just before he'd flipped that awful red switch, the one she still couldn't bear to look at, and turned his already dangerously powerful Porsche into an Atlas rocket with a built-in fear factor that made the Dreaded Drop of Doom at Six Flags look like a baby buggy ride?
And he wanted to eat?
God, the very thought made her feel faint.
And feeling faint made her hyperventilate, and hyperventilating made it hard to breathe, and having difficulty breathing made her want to talk and talk and talk, until she had distracted herself enough to keep from fainting.
It was a vicious circle, and it was wearing her out at an alarming rate, and once she got worn out, she was going to cry, and she did not want to start crying just because she was so scared, not in front of him, not when she was so aware of him. And that was something she'd been avoiding thinking about at all costs. He was so . . . so everything.
No. It was better to talk, which would be a helluva lot easier if he would just talk back a little. Damn it, it was like pulling teeth to get him to say anything.
Like right now. He'd gone completely silent on her again, leaving the ball in her court, where the ball had been for the last half an hour, ever since they'd done that unbelievable Dukes of Hazzard thing up in the canyon. Couldn't he help her out a little?
Oh, God, she was going to cry, and for the first time since she'd been sixteen, she wasn't going to be able to save herself. What in the hell had Wilson done? And was he okay? Was Regan? Or were they getting shot at, too?
Oh, please. She couldn't bear the thought.
“I never had a pony when I was a kid,” she blurted out, feeling a sob welling up in her throat. “I wanted one. I begged for one, but Regan and Grandpa wouldn't let me have one. They knew I wanted it to take to South America, to Peru. That's where my parents died, in Peru, in an earthquake, and I always thought if I could just get there with my pony, I could ride up into the mountains and find them, and the pony and I could dig them out, and bring them home, and then everything would be okay. It never occurred to me that they would still be dead. I was so sure that if I could just get them out from under the rubble, they would be fine. Funny, isn't it, the way kids think?”
