Crazy Hot

by Tara Janzen

  They continued on toward the back, to a place with a couple of desks sitting out in the open. Sweat was beading on her brow, even though she felt frozen.

  At the desks, Roper had them all stop, but only the dogs got to sit. The men with him spread out, looking through the hangar, before coming back to the desks to confirm everything was in order.

  Roper checked his watch.

  “Danny, go open the hangar doors. Brad and Russ, go back to the car and get the fossil. The woman can work on it until the guns get here.”

  “Guns?” she asked. “What guns?”

  She had nothing left to lose by asking questions, and she had the faint hope that if he could see her as a real person instead of a hapless victim, he might treat her as such.

  He smiled at her, as if pleased by her question. And then he told her. But something in his eyes told her the reason he was telling was because he didn't plan on her being alive long enough to tell anybody else.

  “The big guns, baby.” He glanced down and picked up a sheaf of papers, then tossed them aside and turned on the computer on the desk. “The Pentagon wanted something to fight the fucking terrorists with, so they commissioned a new assault rifle for U.S. forces. It's real good for getting up close and personal in a fight, so naturally, we figured every terrorist group from al-Qaeda to Hamas would like a few so they could fight back.”

  “You're giving away U.S. military secrets?” She was appalled.

  “Not giving, selling.” He punched a few keys, and after a couple of seconds, a soft glow of illumination reflected onto his face from the monitor. “There's a difference, and it's a time-honored transaction. Free trade, they call it. It's how the American weapons merchants have armed the world. I'm just getting my share, that's all.” He tapped a few more keys, then looked up at her. “I get a few Siberian diamonds to take to Antwerp, and a whole new trade route opens up between Russia and the United States. It's the new world economy, the underworld economy, and I'm in. Business, that's all it is. Just business, with me in the middle to grease the wheels for all the world's fanatics.”

  “Like who?” she asked.

  He let out a snort of disgust and gave his attention back to the computer, ignoring her.

  She looked around the hangar again, desperately seeking a way out and not seeing a damn thing. Then she spied a miracle—or the world's most awful disaster—walking down the middle of the hangar.

  Quinn. He was handcuffed and roughed up, being pushed rudely along by a very sullen Christian Hawkins. In a flash, she understood what was happening, and she was both intensely relieved and thoroughly horrified. They'd come to save her, with Hawkins dragging Quinn in like he was a hard-won prize.

  How in the world, she wondered, had they found her so quickly?

  Then she knew: Hawkins. He'd been heading back to Roper when he'd left the warehouse in Lafayette. He was working both sides toward the middle. But from the looks of Quinn, she suddenly doubted whose side he was really on.

  Don't be crazy, she told herself. Hawkins and Quinn had been together forever—but Christian looked very cold, very hard, and like he didn't give a damn about the man he was shoving ahead of him.

  “Jefe, boss man,” Hawkins called out, giving Quinn a final, rough push forward. “Here he is, just like I promised. How about that money?”

  Roper looked up at the sound of their approach, and a truly diabolical expression came over his face.

  “Cristo,” he answered, his teeth flashing white in a broad grin. “You found the son of a bitch.”

  Hawkins grinned, a predatory curve that caused Regan's heart to miss a beat.

  “For fifty thousand dollars, I would find you the devil himself.”

  Roper laughed. “Yes, and bring him to me in chains. This is turning out to be my lucky night all the way around.” He walked over to where Hawkins and Quinn had stopped in front of the desk. In an instant, his laughter stopped and his smile turned grim. “You fucking bastard,” he said, grabbing Quinn around the back of his neck and squeezing hard. “Nobody steals from Roper Jones. Nobody. I'm going to turn you fucking inside out for even trying. What did you think you were going to do with my diamonds, huh? Keep them for yourself and the woman?”

  Quinn gave him a long look, but no answer. Roper's face flushed, turning ruddy with anger. His eyes flashed an electric, dangerous blue, and for a second, Regan feared he might do something horribly violent, right then, right there.

  “I'll take cash,” Hawkins interjected coolly. “Small bills.”

  “Small bills?” Roper repeated, turning his attention to Hawkins and releasing Quinn. A short laugh escaped him. “You're fucking crazy, Cristo. No problems, eh?”

  The rumbling entrance of a forklift drew everyone's attention to the hangar door. The Tarbosaurus nest was on a pallet, its uneven shape causing it to rock from side to side. Regan could hardly bear to watch, her breath was caught so tight in her throat.

  “Small bills.” Roper laughed again. “Wait until you see this.” He waved the forklift over. “Put it here.” He cleared a place on the desk without the computer.

  This is awful, Regan thought, watching the two men named Danny and Brad manhandle the fossil of Wilson's dreams, dropping it on the metal desk with a thud. Plaster dust and shards flew off the fossil in a settling cloud, accompanied by a terrible cracking sound.

  She bit back a curse. It sounded like they'd just broken the heart of the thing, fractured it right through the middle. What a nightmare. They hadn't been careful when they'd picked it up with the museum's portable hoist either. All they'd cared about was the plaster jacket and the small canvas sack Wilson had been using to put the diamonds in.

  Roper had put the sack in the pocket of his suit coat, and now pulled it out.

  “See what else you can get out of there, and put the rest of the diamonds in with these,” he ordered her, dropping the canvas bag next to the fossil. “And hurry up, we're running out of time.”

  Time for what? Regan wondered. More mayhem? Murder?

  She glanced at Quinn, hoping for a clue as to what she should do. The slight nod he gave her could have been her imagination. It was hardly a movement at all, but she followed his lead and turned her attention to the fossil and the hundreds of rough diamonds embedded in the plaster.

  She'd hardly gotten started when some compelling force made her look back up. Her gaze collided with Hawkins's, and her heart caught in her throat.

  Christian Hawkins was looking at her, looking long and hard, his eyes dark, intense, and filled with enough raw appreciation to make a shiver go down her spine.

  His predatory smile returned, as if he knew exactly what had just happened to her inside the privacy of her skin, and with an insolence she wouldn't have thought possible, he let his gaze slide down the length of her body.

  Suddenly she wasn't at all sure what was happening. She looked back to Quinn. He'd been hit, hard, more than once. She could see the swelling on his lip, the bruise starting under his eye.

  What had Hawkins done? Beaten him? For the fifty thousand dollars?

  Every doubt she'd ever had, every story she'd ever read about Christian Hawkins, came back to her in that moment. What did she really know about Hawkins, besides the time he'd done in jail, and the fact that Quinn trusted him?

  Yet Quinn had been hurt, and Hawkins was the one turning him in to the man who had threatened to remove his head and feed the remains to the dogs.

  As if sensing a change in their luck, the two rottweilers roused themselves from the side of the desk and padded around to the front. At a signal from Roper, low growls began emanating from their throats.

  Whatever composure Quinn had been holding on to up until that point was clearly shaken by the sound. He slanted a glance to Hawkins and got a disdainful shrug for his trouble.

  “This is your fucking problem, Younger, not mine.” He turned back to Roper, but first let his gaze slide over Regan again. “The money, if you don't mind.”

  �
�Sure, Cristo,” Roper said slyly, following the path of Hawkins's eyes. “You can have your money, unless there's something else you want.”

  A true grin curved Hawkins's mouth, and he let out a short laugh. “She's for sale?”

  “Everything in this building is for sale, except his life.” Roper jerked his thumb in Quinn's direction. “I'm keeping that for myself.”

  Regan watched, horrified, as without so much as a twinge of emotion, Hawkins turned his back on Quinn and walked toward her.

  “Everything, huh?” he asked, coming to a stop in front of her and reaching up to slide his fingers up her cheek. “She's a bit of a mess.”

  “She's had a big day, but if you want time to clean her up a little, I can get one of the Jack O' Nine girls down here with some clothes and makeup.”

  Regan would have jerked away from him, but she was frozen to the spot by his callous betrayal. Quinn couldn't possibly have put his trust in someone who cared so little. Or could he have?

  “No,” Hawkins decided after a lengthy pause. “I'll take her just the way she is. How much for half an hour?”

  “Half an hour?” Roper laughed. “Touch her again, Cristo. Trust me, you're going to want more than half an hour.”

  For the second time, Hawkins met her gaze, his eyes very dark, very intense, darker even than she had imagined. With his hand sliding back down her face, he moved closer to her and slowly ran his thumb over her lips, very gently from one side to the other, and against every rational thought in her head she felt the rest of the world begin to recede. Fear, she told herself, fear was making her feel so odd.

  “Don't move, honey,” he whispered, before bringing his mouth down to hers and whispering again against her lips. “Don't move, and everything will be okay.”

  His other hand came up to her waist and slid around to cup her bottom and pull her in closer to his body, until she could feel the long, hard length of his legs pressed against hers, feel the lean hardness of his torso and the steely strength of his arms.

  She started to protest, and he pulled her even tighter, his mouth came down on hers even harder, and yet more sweetly, if a forced kiss could even begin to be sweet.

  “Shhh,” he whispered, relenting just a little, before kissing her again. Some of his heat washed into her then, the heat from his pelvis, the soft, wet heat of his tongue sliding along her lips, asking for entrance. She gasped, just the slightest gasp, and to her horror, he took full advantage of her lapse, pressing his tongue into her mouth.

  She trembled in his arms, with anger and shame, and an undeniable awareness that Christian Hawkins was a world-class kisser—and a world-class heel.

  It wasn't until he broke off the kiss that she realized his hand was cupping her breast. Then she realized it all too much. Damn him. Damn him. Damn him.

  She couldn't even look at Quinn.

  “You're right,” he said to Roper without taking his gaze from hers. “I want her for an hour. Five hundred dollars.”

  “You're a rich man tonight, Cristo. Live a little,” Roper cajoled. “Keep her until you've had enough. I'll have one of the girls figure the price.”

  Which Regan figured would turn out to be the full fifty thousand dollars, no matter what Hawkins did or did not do with her—and he wasn't going to do much. She was going to make damn sure of that.

  “It's a sucker's bet,” she said under her breath, so angry her voice shook.

  In answer, he laughed, soft and low, and took her hand in his. “We'll see. Come on, sweetheart. There's a Motel Six just down the road.”

  He was too strong to resist, and rather than be dragged, she did her best to keep up with him. It was only near the door that she dared to look back at Quinn. What she saw startled and confused her. She didn't know what kind of expression she'd expected, but it sure as hell hadn't been satisfaction.

  HAWKINS hurried her through the door as quickly as he could. He had a death grip on her hand, and more than a few errant thoughts running like crazy through his head.

  She was sweet. Damn, she was sweet. No wonder Quinn had been all over her in the warehouse. Even unwilling, she'd warmed to his mouth just the slightest bit, and the softeness of her mouth had done more than just warm him. Hell, one more minute of kissing a reluctant Regan McKinney, and he would have been as hard as the Rock of Gibraltar.

  For friendship's sake, he was going to keep that information to himself. Quinn had been cool, but he'd probably strangle him in his sleep for getting an erection with his girlfriend.

  “H-how, h-how could you?” she sputtered beside him, having to race to keep up with his long strides.

  “It was easy, honey.” Too damn easy, which didn't do a damn thing to improve his mood.

  “You can't, I can't . . . we, w-we can't leave him,” she insisted, starting to balk, trying to slow him down. Desperation rang in her voice. “They'll kill him.”

  “Not if I can help it,” he gritted out between his teeth. “Come on.” He hustled her along even more quickly, breaking into a run.

  “Where are you taking me?” she demanded to know.

  “To Jeanette. Just stay put when we get there. The FBI is on its way.”

  They rounded the corner of the last hangar in the row, and skidded to a stop in front of the '69 Camaro. He opened the door and started to put her in, but she resisted him.

  “What are you doing? We can't leave him. I won't.” She was adamant, her hands digging into his upper arms, keeping him from putting her into the car.

  “Regan, Regan.” He tried to calm her. “Quinn is the last person I would ever leave anywhere. I'm going back to him, right now, but you have got to stay here.”

  “Why?” She was looking up at him, the same desperation he heard in her voice making her face stark.

  “Because that's what Quinn wants, just like he wanted me to get you out of there any way I could.” He let his words sink in for a second.

  “Quinn wanted you to do that?” Her voice went from desperation to a mix of hope and confusion.

  “Yes, that was for Quinn,” he told her, then lowered his mouth and gave her one last, soft, slow, sweet, wet kiss. It was a rotten thing to do, but he'd practically heard her come in the warehouse, and he was half hard just from pretending to kiss her, and she was ungodly sweet, and he was just a little bit scared for Quinn—so he kissed Quinn's woman. When she opened her eyes, he kissed her again, just on the tip of the nose. “And that was for me. Now stay put.”

  He crossed over to Roxanne and got his submachine gun out of the backseat. He still had the extra magazines in a pouch on his belt, but he no sooner turned to leave than he swore.

  “Hell.” Things were happening faster than he'd expected.

  “What?” she asked, rising back out of the car.

  “Don't.” He gestured for her to get back in. “Stay with the car.”

  “What's going on?” she said, sliding back inside.

  “I think Roper's guns have finally arrived.” He pointed across the runway to a freight truck barreling toward the Avatrix hangar.

  CHAPTER

  27

  WELL, THAT HAD gone really fucking well, Quinn thought, watching Hawkins practically suck Regan's tongue down his throat while he had his hands all over her. Yessiree, now he could die a happy man.

  Breasts. Hawkins had touched her breasts, which Quinn was sure he hadn't authorized. But then, a guy didn't think he had to tell a best friend to keep his hands off his woman's breasts while he was kissing her. He'd thought that was just one of those unwritten rules that all guys—except, obviously, Hawkins—knew about.

  And now came the real fun part.

  He caught Roper's eye, only because to put it off any longer couldn't possibly be to his advantage. He was going to get hurt tonight. He'd known that going in, but he was counting on Hawkins to keep him from getting too busted up or killed.

  Despite the breast thing, which he was definitely going to bring up at a future date, there wasn't anyone he trusted more.
With Regan out of the way, nobody's hands were tied—except his own, of course, but only until he needed them. Even a flex cuff could be rigged for a quick escape.

  He knew Hawkins, knew he was already headed back inside the hangar with a full arsenal of goodies for creating mayhem. If the FBI showed up as well, that would just be great.

  If they'd all do it before Roper got too excited about his knife or his dogs, that would be even better.

  The guy was getting a bad look in his eye, like he wouldn't mind having some fun before the guns showed up.

  Yessiree, now would be a damn good time for the cavalry to arrive.

  The rumbling of a truck engine turned his attention to the open hangar door, and Quinn breathed a sigh of relief. The guns, no doubt. Not the cavalry, but close enough. Closing the deal should buy him at least a half an hour before Roper took his head off.

  Or at least that's what he'd thought.

  “Hey, pretty boy,” Roper crooned, stalking him from around the desk. “You think you're pretty fucking smart, don't you? Well, let's just see how deep pretty is. You've been nothing but trouble for me from the beginning of this deal, and now we're gonna settle the score. Brad, Danny, hold him.”

  Strong hands came around him on either side and dragged him backward into a chair, where they held him with bone-crushing diligence.

  The knife blade glinted in Roper's hand, and in the next moment, he struck.

  Searing, white-hot pain streaked through Quinn's body. He gritted his teeth against crying out, and at the same time thanked his lucky stars Roper hadn't decided to gut him on the spot. The bastard had gone for his face instead, cutting him from his temple to his ear and making a bloody mess, but the injury wasn't mortal.

  “We'll finish this later, Younger,” Roper said, taking a handkerchief out of his pocket and using it to wipe blood off his knife. “You, me, and the dogs.”

  He dropped the bloody handkerchief on the desk and walked toward the truck pulling up inside the hangar. Good old Brad went with him, but Danny-boy kept his death grip on Quinn's arm and his 9mm leveled directly behind Quinn's ear. It was enough to keep anybody from making any sudden moves.