by Paula Graves
Remy waved at the television.
Maggie's father was on the news again, the graphic under his name noting he was now in New Orleans. "Marguerite told me more than once his behavior with her was inappropriate," Cole was saying. "I thought she was exaggerating, to my shame."
"You never reported his behavior?" the anchorwoman asked.
Jack stared at the television in disbelief. His photos was on the screen—his driver's license photo from three years ago.
"I didn't want to ruin the man's career. Marguerite was going through a difficult phase. I didn't think she was telling the truth." Cole looked into the camera. "Marguerite, if you can hear me—I'm sorry I didn't believe you about Jack Bennett."
Jack looked at Maggie. Her expression suffused with guilt.
He dropped heavily onto the sofa. He shouldn't be surprised; she'd pulled a dozen such stunts to make his life hell during their time together. Guarding Marguerite Cole had done more to damage his career than anything else that had happened over the rest of his stint with the Secret Service.
"You believe Mr. Bennett had something to do with your daughter's kidnapping?" the anchor asked in voiceover.
"Perhaps not at first. But I believe he's with her now, and he hasn't taken her to the authorities, has he? I'm afraid Bennett has his own agenda where Marguerite is concerned."
Remy crossed and sat down across the coffee table from Jack, holding a paper sack. He reached into the sack and pulled out a box, setting it on the table in front of Jack.
It was the unused box of hair color.
Jack pitched the bottle of hair dye slowly from one hand to the other, taking a certain perverse pleasure at the smack off the cardboard against his palm. He glared at the tanned, blond pretty boy on the box, all dimples and blinding white teeth.
He was not going to turn himself into a Ken doll and run with his tail tucked between his legs just because the cops were looking for him. Hell, yeah, they were looking for him. They ought to be—he was aiding and abetting a kidnapping.
His life was out of control. Two nights ago, his biggest worry was whether or not to talk a client into a newer, more expensive alarm system. He had a handful of pending contracts and more in the negotiating phase. Yet here he was, sitting in a cramped little bathroom, staring at a bottle of blond hair color and brooding like some damned Victorian poet.
All because of a woman.
Well, it was over. He was taking control. Of the case and of the sexy game of cat and mouse he and Maggie had been playing ever since the night she burst back into his life.
He wanted her. She obviously wanted him. And it was only sex, right? Forget what he'd said this afternoon. If she wanted him buried inside her, driving her to screams of pleasure, no strings attached, then he was damned well enough of a man to do it her way.
Damned straight.
He hurled the box of hair color at the bathroom door.
"I should go," Remy said.
Maggie looked up to find the boy standing at window. Waning afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees outside, casting the boy's profile in gold. He looked oddly beautiful, his dye-lightened hair shimmering like a halo.
And he looked young. So young.
Maggie's heart clenched with affection. "Go where?"
"Anywhere." He turned to look at her, his gaze unexpectedly serious. "I go away, the trouble goes away."
Her stomach twisted into a knot. "Remy—"
He smiled slightly. "I was thinkin' I could hitch a ride to Mexico. Se habla a little Español, you know."
Maggie shook her head. "No. We're a team, remember? You're not going anywhere without me."
"What about Jack? Is he on the team, too?"
Maggie wished she knew the answer. Jack had disappeared into the bathroom a half-hour earlier, carrying the box of hair color. They'd heard nothing from him since.
Suddenly, something smacked against the bathroom door, making Maggie jump. She turned around quickly, half-expecting to see a hole in the door. But it was intact. "Jack?"
"Dropped something." His voice was muffled by the door.
Maggie looked at Remy. "We're not through with this." She crossed to the bathroom and tapped on the door. "Jack?"
After a brief pause, the door opened. Jack loomed in the doorway, large and daunting, blocking her from entering. After a moment, he stepped back to let her inside.
As she entered, her foot kicked something on the floor. The unopened box of hair color, its corner now smashed in.
"I'm not dyeing my hair." Jack's voice was quiet but firm.
Maggie closed the door behind her, shutting them inside together. Unfortunately, the combination of small bathroom and big, sexy man made coherent thought damned near impossible.
Jack seemed to surround her, the force of his restless emotions hitting her like a tidal wave and dashing her good intentions against the rocks of their relentless attraction. She'd come here to apologize, to explain, to discuss what to do next. Anything but to walk up to him, curl her fingers around his neck and rise to her tiptoes to kiss him.
But where Jack was concerned, she'd never been much good at sticking to a plan.
His lips moved roughly against hers with punishing pressure, but softened a moment later, pleasure replacing pain. He nibbled at her lower lip, soothing the nips with his tongue. Lifting her onto the counter, he nudged open her thighs and moved urgently between them, pressing against her, hard and hot.
She swallowed a low moan as liquid fire shot through her belly down to her aching center, spreading heat and moisture.
His hands roamed over and under her cotton t-shirt, branding her skin with his fiery touch. He slid his hands lower, cupping her buttocks, squeezing, pressing her against his hips until she felt the hard evidence of his desire.
She tangled her fingers in his hair as he rained kisses over her face and throat, then moved lower, his mouth dancing across the soft rise of her breasts through the thin cotton. More heat flooded her body, settling in the softness cradling his growing erection. "Is this really what you wanted from me ten years ago?" he growled against her breast.
Maggie drew his head up, forcing him to look at her. "I thought we decided this was a bad idea."
He gazed at her for a long, unnerving moment. His lip curled in a half-smile. "When did you start listening to me?"
Maggie's lips twitched. "I'm serious. We have to talk."
"I'm not the one who barged in here, hormones blazing."
She put her hands on his shoulders and gave him a nudge backwards. Sighing, he retreated to the wall opposite the sink. There was still precious little space between them, but at least he was far enough away that she could draw a steady breath.
"Why aren't you going to dye your hair?" she asked.
His chin jutted forward. "I'm not going to play fugitive."
"You are a fugitive."
His lips tightened. "I don't have to be."
Maggie's muscles tightened, but she tried not to show her fear. "So you're saying this is the end of the road for you."
"It's got to be the end for all of us. You must see that."
"What I see is that there are only two possible ways that the New Orleans police connected you to me. Either your psycho ex-girlfriend sold you out, or those thugs who broke into your house are New Orleans cops with enough connections and clout to finger you without anyone asking any hard questions about how they got the information. Either way, we're screwed."
"Which is why we have to get help."
"From whom? Laura Sandoval is a U.S. Attorney, for God's sake. How much higher up can we go?"
"I'm telling you, Laura didn't sell us out."
"Hell hath no fury . . ."
Jack shook his head. "She'd have sent real authorities to pick me up, not a goon squad with lock picks."
"Those goons didn't have any trouble finding where you lived. They didn't have any trouble picking your insanely complex deadbolt locks. How far does their power reach?"
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"They're cops. They know about beating locks. But they didn't know how to disable the alarm system, did they? They don't know everything. With the right help, we can beat them."
Maggie gazed at him for a long moment, wishing she could believe him. She was tired of being afraid. She hadn't been able to sleep soundly in days, subconsciously listening for the out-of-place noise, looking for the lurking stranger.
She wanted to go home to her cozy French Quarter apartment and pretend she'd never walked into the too-neat living room of the Baker house and plunged her world into a tailspin.
"What do you want to do?" she asked finally.
"We have to start high up the chain. There's an F.B.I. office in Mobile. I don't know any of the agents personally, but the office has a good reputation for integrity and competence. I can arrange to meet an agent alone first, if you want. You and Remy can stay here until I come for you."
Maggie could see the doubt in his eyes, but she couldn't tell what worried him most-that the F.B.I. wouldn't come through for them as he hoped, or that if he left Remy and Maggie alone, they wouldn't be here when he came back.
She could hardly blame him for that, she supposed. They'd tried to ditch him twice already. "What if things go wrong?"
"Regardless of your father's media blitz, I have a good reputation, people in high
places who'll vouch for my honesty."
She slid down off the sink and took a step toward him, closing the distance between them. She curled her fingers around his. "I don't doubt that. But I promised Remy I'd take care of him. We can't be wrong about whatever we decide to do next, for his sake."
He lifted her fingers to his lips. "You know I'll do whatever it takes to protect Remy, right?"
She nodded. "I know."
He released her hand. "So we call the F.B.I.? At least to get a feel for where we stand, legally?"
She took a deep breath and nodded again.
Threading his fingers through her hair, her drew her to him and pressed his lips against her forehead. "Brave girl."
"I really am sorry, you know," she murmured against the front of his shirt. "About what I told my father. I was a horribly messed-up kid back then. I was hurt that you didn't even blink when I made passes at you."
"Of course I blinked." He nuzzled her ear.
She looked up at him. "You did?"
"You were twenty-one, hot as a firecracker and a big fan of tight little black dresses. I'm a man. What do you think?"
The rush of pleasure coursing through her unnerved her, but she forced a smile. "I'll take that as a compliment. I think."
"I like you better like this, though." He smoothed one hand over the curve of her hip. "Not quite so scrawny. Or bratty." The corners of his lips rose. "Most of the time."
Something about Jack had changed, Maggie realized. He exuded power and confidence, without the flicker of doubt she'd always seen in the depths of his blue eyes during their other close encounters.
This new Jack was sexy. Irresistible.
And dangerous.
She drew away, retreating to the sink. Gripping the tile countertop behind her to give her hands something to do besides reach out for him again, she asked, "When do we call the F.B.I.?
He searched her face for a moment before he answered. "As soon as possible, I think. Now that the Feds know I'm connected, it's a matter of time before they find this place."
"I thought you said we were safe here."
"From goon squads without the resources of the F.B.I., yeah, I think we're safe. But the Feds will almost certainly subpoena my personal and business records. It'll take a while to work through the files and put things together, but I wouldn't put it past some blue-flame ladder climber in the F.B.I. to finger this place. The owner's out of town for months, it's hidden away in the Nowhere, Mississippi—"
The hair on the back of her neck prickled. "So they could be heading our way as we speak."
"Not yet. But it's probably a matter of days, not weeks."
Maggie tamped down her rising panic. Even after Jack called the F.B.I., there'd still be time to back out if she believed it was the only way to keep Remy safe. Time to go over Remy's story one more time, to figure out what he might have seen or heard that would add credence to his version of events.
"Let's go tell Remy what we've decided." Jack took a step toward the bathroom door.
Maggie caught his arm. "Let's discuss it with him first. He needs to feel that he's part of the decision."
Jack smiled slightly. "You turned out a lot smarter than I thought you would."
"Thanks, I think." She opened the bathroom door and called Remy's name.
Only silence answered her.
Chapter 10
Maggie's gaze darted around the empty great room. Apprehension rose in the back of her throat. "Remy?"
"Maybe he went outside." Jack headed for the back door, while Maggie checked the bedrooms and the bathroom off the smaller bedroom, heart sinking.
Remy was in none of those places.
Almost the last thing Remy said to her was that he thought he should leave. Had he run away?
Why hadn't she stayed out in the great room with him instead of cornering Jack in the? What was wrong with her?
She was losing control of everything. Her body, her mind and now her heart, all over a man who'd made it clear ten years ago that he didn't love her the way she loved him.
Focus, Maggie. Remy comes first. He has to come first.
As she returned to the great room, she heard the back door open and the sound of Jack's voice. Remy's younger voice answered, and Maggie nearly wilted with relief. She found them in the kitchen, Remy gazing up at Jack with a pleading expression. "Come on, it'd be just like camping."
"After the scare you just gave us, you think I'm going to let you out of my sight?" Jack growled. The tremor behind Jack's anger drew Maggie's gaze his way. The look he gave the boy was full of tender exasperation.
Her breath caught. How many times had he looked at her exactly that same way ten years ago? Back then, she'd seen only the frustration, the carefully controlled anger. How had she missed the affection so evident to her now?
Remy turned to Maggie. "I didn't run away or nothin'! I just went exploring. Tell him, Doc!"
Maggie dragged her gaze from Jack's face. "No, Remy. You went exploring without telling anyone where you were going. I don't think you should be rewarded for that."
"You two were takin' forever in the bathroom." Remy made a face. "And what was that about, anyway?"
Flushing, Maggie glanced at Jack and saw the same tender frustration on his face that she'd seen when he was talking to Remy. But smoldering beneath it all was desire, fierce and unquenched by their bathroom encounter.
Remy went on, ignoring the heated undercurrent flowing between Maggie and Jack. "Aw, come on, I just wanted to look around. I found a big ol' bunkhouse in the woods, just a little ways behind the house, Doc. It's really cool! It's got, like, a bunch of beds and a bathroom and a wood stove! I never seen a wood stove before, except in books."
"You read books?" Jack asked, his voice gruff.
"One with a lot of pictures." Remy rolled his eyes. "Look, I'm sorry I freaked y'all out, but come on! I've always wanted to stay in a bunkhouse."
"Bunkhouse?" Maggie looked to Jack for more information.
"My client keeps this place for hunting. Sometimes he brings his wife and daughter for the weekend, so he built this house so they'd have somewhere comfortable and modern to stay. But when it's just him and his friends, here for a hunting weekend, they use the bunkhouse. It's closer to the green fields and has all they need for hunting."
"I could stay there at night so Jack and me wouldn't have to share a room." Remy crossed to Maggie, giving her his most wheedling look. "C'mon, Doc, say yes. You know you want to."
She looked at Jack again. "What about security?"
"There's a security perimeter around the entire property. We'll have plenty of war
ning if someone trespasses. He'd be safe," Jack admitted.
Maggie nibbled her lip, torn between caution and the need to give Remy a little enjoyment. After all, their reprieve was about to come to an end. Once Jack contacted the F.B.I., it might be a while before Remy had a chance for a little fun.
And the look in Jack's eyes made it clear that with Remy was out of the house for the night, he had every intention of finishing what they'd started in the bathroom.
She could stop it by telling Remy no. One simple word and she would be safe from Jack—and herself.
Instead, pulse pounding in her throat, she said. "Okay."
Remy yelped with excitement, pumping his arm in victory. He darted toward the door, but Jack caught him by the back of his shirt and directed him toward the bedroom.
"Get some clean sheets and a blanket. It's not well-heated and if there are sheets on the bed, they'll need changing."
Remy ran into the bedroom to grab bedclothes. Jack turned to Maggie. "When do we tell him about going to the F.B.I.?"
"Tomorrow," Maggie said. "Let's let him have one night of being a kid while he still can."
Remy barreled out of the bedroom, sheets and blanket wadded up in his arms, and made a dash for the back door.
"Wait, what about dinner?" Maggie asked. "Hot dogs?"
Remy grinned. "Can I cook them on the wood stove?"
"No!" Maggie and Jack said in unison.
"Be back here at five for dinner," Jack added. "And if you're late, you can kiss the bunkhouse goodbye."
Remy grinned at them both and headed out the back door, hitting the ground running.
Jack turned to look at Maggie, meeting her gaze. Amusement was evident in his expression. So was apprehension. And beneath it all, something dark and roiling and thrilling.
Something that reminded her that night was falling, cool, blue and inexorable.
Laura Sandoval paced slowly around the colorful French Quarter loft apartment owned by the woman who now called herself Maggie Stone. Larger than Laura's condo in the Warehouse District, the loft was furnished with a funky mix of expensive modern furniture and eye-catching folk art that adorned shelves, tables and exposed brick walls throughout the space.
