Operation Midnight

by Justine Davis

  He turned on her then. Stared her down with a look that had cowed armed men.

  “Get. Out.”

  She hesitated for that fraction of a second that told him instead of instinctively running, she was actually considering what might happen if she didn’t. Was she crazy? Or just too gutsy for her own good?

  But then she turned and went, and he’d never been so glad to see the backside of anybody.

  And all the ways that could be interpreted, fueled by appreciation for that fine backside, erupted in his imagination, and he forced himself back to shredding chicken with a ferocity that threatened to make his thumb start bleeding again.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Hayley managed to control her shaking until she got out of the kitchen doorway. But then she ran smack into Rafer, back from his watch and standing just a couple of feet out of sight.

  “Singed?” he asked, very quietly, as if he didn’t want Quinn to hear.

  Hayley glanced at the older man, saw a spark of something in those dark, haunted eyes that looked oddly like admiration. Or maybe it was just interest? Curiosity? That made a lot more sense.

  “Maybe a little,” she admitted.

  “I gotta admire your nerve, lady. He’s an intimidating guy, and not many men I know would stand up to him the way you just did, pushing like that.”

  “Might be good for him if they did.”

  She wasn’t sure what had made her say that, or what had possessed her to speculate what might be good for the impossible man who had her so on edge. And to one of his own men.

  “Maybe. Rattle his cage a little.”

  This support from such an unexpected quarter startled her. For a moment she just stared at this man who had been a quietly lethal—about that she had no doubts—presence since they’d arrived here.

  “I’m not sure anyone could rattle that cage.”

  Rafer studied her for a long, silent moment. And finally the slightest hint of a smile curved his mouth. It was something she’d never seen before, and it struck her suddenly that, when his face wasn’t grim or his eyes haunted, this was a handsome man.

  “I don’t know. I’ve known him since he was a kid, and I’ve never seen anybody get to him like that.”

  “Maybe he just doesn’t like his prisoners talking back.”

  Rafer lifted a brow. “Prisoner?”

  “What would you call it?”

  “Nothing. Which is exactly what I’m going to say, as ordered. Because I want some of that fry-up of his before I head out to the perimeter.”

  “Too bad you can’t hide from me, like Vicente.”

  “Be careful,” came Quinn’s voice from behind her, “or we’ll reverse this and you can stay confined to the bedroom.”

  She froze. She refused to acknowledge the crazy place her mind had careened when she’d heard the word bedroom, even in this context, said to her by this man. Just as she refused to acknowledge the way her body tensed up in a hot, tight way any time she was close to him. She simply wouldn’t, couldn’t accept that she could be that stupid.

  She spun around. “Why haven’t you?”

  “His choice.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s his business.” He gestured to Rafer, a nod of his head toward the kitchen. “It’s ready, and the skillet’s hot. Turn the heat down after you get yours.”

  Rafer nodded and vanished quickly into the kitchen. Whether he was glad to escape or simply hungry for Quinn’s concoction, she had no idea.

  “So you’ve ordered all your men not to talk to me, too?”

  “No.”

  “But he just said—”

  “I’ve ordered them not to talk about this operation. You want to chat about the weather, wizards or anything else, have at it.”

  “How generous of you,” she said, making no effort to rein in the sarcasm in her voice.

  He studied her much as Rafer had. But for reasons she didn’t want to analyze just now, it unsettled her much more.

  “You just never quit, do you?”

  Before she could answer, the outer door opened.

  “Sorry,” Liam called from the doorway. “Thought I’d see if I could borrow Cutter. I’m on my way to the south side now.”

  “Wait,” Quinn ordered the other man. “I’ll take it. Go eat.”

  Liam’s face lit up. “Seriously?”

  He didn’t have to be told twice.

  “Smells great,” he said as he passed them. “Tastes better, huh?” he said to Hayley.

  “I wouldn’t know,” she said, managing to tamp down the urge to sarcasm this time. It did smell good. Wonderful, in fact. Her stomach growled quietly on the thought.

  Liam’s gaze flicked from her to Quinn and back. He started to say something, then clearly thought better of it and darted into the kitchen.

  “You’re quite the host,” she said when he was gone. “Cooking and all.”

  Quinn gave her a chilly look. “I’ll cook for my men, my family and invited guests. Everybody else is on their own.”

  “Like I had any choice about being uninvited,” she muttered.

  “It is what it is,” he said, sounding exasperated. “Can’t you just make the best of it?”

  “Make the best of it?” She stared at him. “I get kidnapped, dragged off to the back of beyond, you won’t even give me a hint as to why—”

  “I’ve told you it has nothing to do with you.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” she retorted sharply. “So it has everything to do with me.”

  “So you’re one of those women who thinks it’s always all about her?”

  “Oh, please, enough with the diversions,” she said. “I know better than that, even if you don’t.”

  If he was surprised that she didn’t take the bait of his insult, he didn’t show it. But then, until today he hadn’t shown much of anything, emotion-wise at least.

  I’ve known him since he was a kid, and I’ve never seen anybody get to him....

  She wondered what exactly had gotten to him now; she’d asked questions before. And she’d pushed before, when he’d refused to answer those questions.

  She wondered why he was so cool and remote in the first place. She wondered, stupidly, what he’d been like as that kid.

  And even more stupidly, perhaps unforgivably so, she wondered if he’d reacted this time because he was as edgily aware of her as she was of him.

  Under normal circumstances, in the normal world, the thought might fascinate her, even thrill her a little, a man like Quinn unwillingly reacting to her.

  In these circumstances, in this crazy situation, it should terrify her.

  What she was actually feeling was an unsettling combination of all those emotions, leavened with a hearty dollop of fear brought on by the fact that she still had no idea who he was, what he was doing or what this was about.

  Instead of thinking about whether Quinn was as aware of her as a woman as she was him as a man, she should be worried about staying alive. She should be worried about what was going on, about the story behind the man hidden behind that closed bedroom door. She should be worried about escaping all this somehow, no matter that she had no idea where she was except that it was a long way from any outpost of real civilization.

  Instead she was letting herself be lulled, convinced they really weren’t bad guys, lulled by the routine the days had fallen into, fascinated by Liam’s seeming boy-next-door charm, by Teague’s polite, military demeanor and his thoughtfulness in picking up things for Cutter on his supply run. She was even drawn, in a way, by Rafer’s haunted, sometimes pained determination.

  But mostly she was captivated by the cool efficiency and rigid control—most of the time—of their boss.

  Not to mention that one glance from those eyes made her heart pound. Yeah, she was the perfect prisoner, wasn’t she? she thought, unleashing the full force of her sarcasm on herself. She’d never felt so tangled, so confused, so like she was going to fly apart at any moment. And Quinn w
alked away from her as if she didn’t exist.

  Without another word he grabbed up his jacket from the rack by the door, checked the weapon that he seemed to don as regularly and easily as other men put on shoes, and went outside. His absence didn’t calm her much; how did she reconcile the man she kept telling herself she should be afraid of with the man who would not only cook for his men, but take the watch for one of them so he could eat?

  A low whine came from Cutter as he stared after the man who had so taken his fancy. Yet he showed no sign of following, instead stayed close by her side as she walked over to the couch, as if he’d sensed her turmoil and decided his place was here this time.

  As if, indeed, she thought as she sank down, feeling as weary as if she hadn’t slept at all. She’d long ago given up trying to understand what uncanny instinct made the dog understand her mood so well. And she couldn’t help feeling a twinge of satisfaction that the dog had chosen her over Quinn when she’d needed him to. Petty, perhaps, but there it was.

  She threaded her fingers through the thick fur at his neck, trying to focus on the dog instead of the man who had just walked out, without much luck. She could read, but she who thought she could never get enough reading time was actually tired of it. She was used to doing, going, not sitting around all the time, and she was as antsy as Cutter got when his outside time was curtailed. Too bad it took more than throwing a stick to distract her.

  It would, she thought glumly, take a lot more than that to get the man called Quinn out of her head.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “What are you guys hiding from?”

  Liam gave her a sideways look as he took a bite of Quinn’s concoction. Cutter, still sticking with her for the moment, sat at her feet, but watched the young man with the food hopefully. Sometimes he was just pure dog, she thought.

  “What makes you think we’re hiding?” Liam said after he’d swallowed.

  “You didn’t come here for the fine beaches and tropical breezes.”

  The young man grinned. “It has its own appeals.”

  “Like what? Lack of neighbors? Isolation? Impossibility of escape?”

  “All those,” Liam agreed as if that last were a normal requisite one might ask of their real estate agent. “But it’s also got wide-open spaces, peace, quiet and being able to actually see millions of stars at night.”

  It was the stars comment that got to her. Because it was one of the things she had missed most about being in the house she’d grown up in. When she’d moved, gone to work in the city, the stars had been lost, swallowed up by the constant glow of city lights.

  “Are you from a place like this?” she asked, genuinely curious. “Or is it because you’re not that you like it?”

  He hesitated.

  “I’m not asking you to tell me where here is,” she said. “I know you won’t. Quinn’s made sure of that, hasn’t he?”

  Liam shrugged. “Quinn’s a little short in the trust department. With reason.”

  “Who let him down?”

  She immediately regretted letting the question slip out; Liam clammed up as quickly as…well, a clam. He handed the patient Cutter the last bit of chicken, made a lame excuse and escaped to those wide-open spaces outside.

  That Quinn was a little short on trust was hardly a revelation, she thought. She wondered who or what made him that way. A friend? Colleague? A woman? Or was it some longer-ago betrayal? It seemed almost silly, a man as big, as strong as Quinn being tortured by some childhood memory, but she knew it could happen.

  If anything it was the other way around.

  What he’d said echoed in her head, just another part of the mystery that was Quinn.

  She paced the great room, as she’d taken to doing, antsy for movement, exertion of some kind. Never setting foot outside at all was beginning to wear on her. She wasn’t used to doing nothing, and she was finding long, lazy days weren’t as appealing as they might sound.

  Of course, long, lazy days because you were being held prisoner weren’t exactly a vacation.

  She heard voices on the porch, and instinctively walked that way. Liam she recognized. He must have stopped on the porch. But the other voice wasn’t Quinn’s. She felt a jab of disappointment that annoyed her. She had to stop this, get this stupid reaction every time she saw him or heard his voice under control.

  It was Rafer who stepped inside, glanced at her and nodded, then headed for the kitchen for his own lunch. The limp was worse today, she noticed, and there had been a new tightness in his face. But he still moved quickly, even if he was in pain.

  Still annoyed at herself, she retreated to the sitting area and took up her usual spot on the sofa. The book she’d been in the middle of sat on the coffee table and she picked it up, hoping the story would distract her from her inward irritation. At least it would keep her from feeling she had to make conversation with the closemouthed Rafer.

  Cutter leaped up beside her. With his usual uncanny intuition, the dog seemed to know she needed his steadying presence at the moment.

  After a couple of minutes Rafer appeared with a sandwich and a glass balanced in one hand. Gotta keep that gun hand free in case the little woman jumps you, she thought sourly. She knew it wasn’t fair, really, they all did it so automatically she knew it probably had little to do with her. They’d been trained, well trained, and it was likely as second nature as waking at any sound in the night had become to her when she was taking care of her mother.

  Rafer sat down on one of the chairs opposite the big coffee table and began to eat his lunch, rather methodically she thought. As if it were as impersonal as simply taking in fuel. Almost as if he were irritated at having to do it.

  She tried to focus on her book; obviously the man was in no mood to talk. A few minutes later, after she’d heard the sound of the glass being set down on the table, Cutter slipped quietly off the couch. He made no sound on the rug, so after a moment she looked up to see where he’d gone.

  To her surprise he was sitting at the gruff man’s feet, watching as he rubbed at his left leg just above the knee. Was it pain that made him seem so prickly all the time? Pain that put that scowl on his face, that tightness around his mouth?

  Cutter moved then, swiping his tongue over Rafer’s left hand. The man’s head jerked, startled, and he froze as he looked at the dog with a stunned expression.

  With an audible sigh, Cutter leaned to rest his head against the spot Rafer had been rubbing, as if he could ease the pain. Hayley knew from personal experience that, with her at least, the dog had exactly that effect. It was no doubt simply distraction from the ache, but however it worked, she couldn’t deny it did. But Rafer Crawford wasn’t exactly the kind of guy she’d expect to believe that.

  But even as she thought it, the man lifted a hand. Slowly he lifted one hand, and with a tremor Hayley was sure he’d have hidden if he realized she was watching, laid it on the dog’s head. Cutter’s tongue swept out again, laying a doggy kiss across the fingers of the hand that had been working the sore spot.

  Rafer wore the strangest expression she thought she’d ever seen on a man. A confused mix of wonder, wariness and welcome. That he could feel such a tangle of emotions over a simple expression of aid and comfort from a dog spoke volumes about where this man lived in his head.

  She quickly turned her eyes back to her book; the last thing she wanted was to get caught watching what somehow seemed a very private moment. A betrayal of emotions she was sure he’d rather keep hidden, at the least.

  She sensed rather than saw him get up, heard him pick up the dishes. Only when he turned and began to walk toward the kitchen did she risk a look. After about three steps he slowed. Reached down to touch his leg. Then took three more steps.

  He stopped. His head snapped around. For a long moment he stared at the dog, his brows furrowed.

  Hayley went hastily back to her book, her question answered. She hadn’t needed to see his face to know that the pain had eased, she’d known by the i
mprovement of his limp. Cutter had worked his small miracle again.

  Amazing how he always sensed who needed that particular kind of attention. When she got back home—if she did get back home—she was going to have to look into therapy-dog training. She might not be able to explain how he did it, but he had the knack for making anyone sick or injured feel better. She would do it, she thought, suddenly determined. And it wouldn’t be some empty promise made to some higher power, to be forgotten once she was safe again. The dog had some sort of canine genius, and if it could really help people, it should be put to use.

  The dog returned to his spot on the couch beside her. He curled up and rested his chin on her leg. She reached to scratch his right ear in that spot he loved. He sighed happily.

  He even made her feel better about this situation, she thought. Or maybe just less alone. Less scared. Something. It was probably as simple as the desperate hope that the dog’s uncanny judgment hadn’t failed, that when he’d decided so instantly that he adored Quinn, it wasn’t some aberration.

  And again she was back to the same two basic conclusions. Either the dog was right, they weren’t bad guys but, despite their actions, worthy of his help and in Quinn’s case, adoration and respect. Or he was wrong, they were bad guys, and she wasn’t going home. Ever.

  Cutter would be fine either way, she thought. They’d found him useful, would probably take him with them when they were done here; she’d heard Liam and Teague both talking to Quinn about the feasibility of adding a dog to their team. Why not one who’d already proven himself as helpful? He’d need some training, probably—training that would be far different from the therapy-dog training she’d been thinking about.

  She shivered slightly, despite the warmth of the room. Quietly, rationally considering what would happen after your own imminent demise did that to you, she guessed.

  …we’re not the bad guys.

  “I hope you’re right, furry one,” she whispered to the dog.

  Cutter lifted his head, and swept that soothing pink tongue over her fingers. She went back to her book, reassured.

  She only wished she could hang on to that feeling the next time Quinn was the one who came through that door.