CAPTURING CLEO

by Linda Winstead Jones

Just a few feet away, the six men huddled around the trunk of one car watched Jim step from the Mercedes. Jayne knew she was a bit of a snob; her mother had trained her well. But even if she hadn’t been such a self-confessed elitist, she would’ve felt uneasy at the sight of these six men.

  All of them were dressed in jeans and T-shirts, and at first glance it seemed they all fingered or puffed on cigarettes. In this day and age, who smoked? One of the men had long greasy hair. The fidgeting kid beside him had either very short hair or none at all. The light was not good enough for her to be certain. The unusually tall man who stood beside the open trunk of one of the cars was so large that his rounded belly, tightly encased in a ripped Harley-Davidson T-shirt, hung in a distressing way over his low-slung jeans. Two of the men were more conservative in appearance than the others, looking almost out of place. Their jeans were pressed, their T-shirts were free of wrinkles and tucked into those jeans, and each of them had what could only be described as an executive haircut. They stood side by side, obviously together. The sixth man… the sixth man hung back a little, his face in shadow. He looked as common as the others in tight jeans and heavy boots and a leather jacket. A leather jacket at this time of year? The nights could become cool here, she knew, but late spring was definitely not the proper season for leather. Grandmother would call them all hooligans.

  Jim shone his flashlight before him, checking the road for potholes as he called out a cheerful greeting. “Hi, fellas. I seem to have gotten myself lost...”

  Jayne heard nothing more except a loud popping noise that made her jump. Jim crumpled to the ground before her eyes and disappeared from her limited view. She snapped her eyes to the crowd of thugs. The two more conservatively dressed men backed warily away from the others. The man with the long greasy hair calmly lit another cigarette and offered the pack to his bald friend.

  The large man who’d done the shooting waved the gun in his hand toward the thug in the leather jacket, who seemed to be arguing with him.

  It took a moment for the information to register, for her heart to quit beating so fast that she couldn’t even think. They’d shot Jim. Shot him. Poor dumb Jim, whose only crime was getting lost on the way to Marsh’s vacation home, who was the worst blind date Jayne had ever suffered... who had taken the keys to the car with him.

  The greasy-haired hood spoke softly and nodded toward the car, and the bald one headed her way. She had nowhere to run to, and even if she did she wasn’t likely to get far in the high heels that matched her chic coral suit. She thought of kicking off her shoes and running in her bare feet, but she knew how rocky the land she’d have to run across would be. Her feet needed to be protected. She wasn’t going anywhere fast. Still, if she could manage to get lost in the darkness...

  Before the hoodlum reached the car, Jayne threw open the passenger door and sprinted out. She ran without looking back, her legs a little wobbly on the uncertain terrain, thanks to her high heels. She was supposed to be at a political party, sipping wine and drumming up support for her father, not running from a murder!

  The men behind her seemed to all shout at once, as Jayne ran farther and farther into the darkness. She didn’t know where she was headed, but she didn’t care as long as that place was away from the scene of the shooting. Behind her the gun fired again; she actually heard the bullet zing past her ear. A man shouted, another yelled, a third howled like a wolf, and still Jayne ran without looking back. A car engine roared. She could hope that they would all leave, couldn’t she? They could take off, leaving her to disappear into the darkness.

  No such luck. Long before she heard the heavy footfall behind her, she knew that running from the hoodlums was a hopeless cause. If they wanted to catch her, if they wanted to stop her, they could. Several of them were chasing her, or so it seemed from the sound of the approaching steps and the vile curses she heard muttered and shouted. A harsh voice ordered her to stop.

  Her heart pounded so hard she thought it would burst through her chest. She couldn’t breathe, and her legs ached. Every step was perilous in the heels, but she was not going to stop.

  Without further warning she was caught from behind. Arms snaked around her waist, snared her, held her, and with those arms on and all around her, she fell to the ground. She screamed breathlessly, and the man who’d caught her let out a loud whoosh as he landed practically on top of her. Since his arms were already completely around her, she was partially protected from her fall to the hard-packed ground. But still, it hurt.

  Jayne closed her eyes, lost in darkness and the weight and suffocating heat of the man lying atop her. They were going to kill her, just like they’d killed poor Jim. Dammit, she would never forgive Pamela for this.

  “On your feet, sugar,” the one who’d caught her ordered.

  He dragged her up, keeping his hand tightly around her wrist even when they were standing face-to-face. Well, her face to his broad chest was more like it. It was the hoodlum in the leather jacket who’d caught her, and he wasn’t even breathing hard. She could barely catch her breath.

  The man who’d shot Jim raised his weapon and pointed it at her. Jayne closed her eyes.

  “Put that down,” the man in the leather jacket ordered calmly. He took a step to the side, effectively shielding her. “Does she look like a fed? Does she look like some dealer who’s here to snatch your stuff? Hell, what we have here are two yuppies who have the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He turned to face her again, and she had no choice but to see his stubbled jaw and cruel lips. And though she couldn’t see well in the dark, she sensed that the look in his eyes was accusing, as if this catastrophe was all her fault.

  “Don’t matter,” the fat man with the gun in his hand said. “She’s seen us. Ain’t nothing else I can do but shoot her.” He sounded so matter-of-fact, so insanely logical.

  The man who held her too tightly shook his head in what appeared to be dismay. His long dark hair swayed softly, his stubbled jaw clenched. He muttered the most foul of words beneath his breath. The grip on her wrist was a vise she didn’t even try to fight. He jerked her around thoughtlessly, placing his body between her and the man with the gun. All the while he cursed, low and gruff. His body tensed; a muscle in his jaw twitched.

  “I want her,” he growled.

  The fat man lowered his gun. “You what?”

  “I said I want her,” he repeated in an almost grudging manner. “We’ve been stuck out at that damn shack for over a month, and let me tell you, the women in that pisshole you call a town aren’t exactly up to my standards.”

  Jayne panicked all over again. “I’d rather die,” she said. She tried to jerk away from the man and attempted to kick him where it was supposed to hurt the most. She ended up falling, landing on her backside in the dirt. The grip on her wrist never let up.

  The man who manacled her wrist turned his shadowed face toward her, leaned down, and whispered, “Be careful what you wish for, sugar.”

  Boone kept his body between the woman and the gun. She thanked him by kicking him in the knee with a pointy-toed shoe. He had a feeling she’d been aiming higher before she’d lost her balance and stumbled. The skirt of her obviously expensive suit rode high on her shapely thighs. Her knees knocked together and her toes pointed in, in a fashion that should’ve been comical but wasn’t.

  Light from Marty’s wavering flashlight raked over the woman’s body. Soft, barely curling hair not much longer than chin-length brushed pale cheeks. That baby-fine hair was blond, but not golden. A touch of red made it brighter. Different. The pearls she wore around her neck were surely real and expensive, like everything else about her. Her suit was the color of an Easter egg, not pink and not orange, not pale and not bright. She was all creamy white and golden pink, and she was rightfully frightened half out of her mind.

  Focusing on her gave him a moment to collect his thoughts, to still his racing heart. No one was supposed to die here. Tonight’s sale was to have been a simple exchange,
a little business Darryl had to take care of before his next meeting with the man who ran things around here. Boone had had no choice but to tag along, taking mental notes, knowing that in less than a week this entire operation would be shut down. Just a few more days, and he’d be meeting the infamous Joaquin Gurza face-to-face.

  “Watch your step, sugar,” he said as he hauled the woman to her feet.

  “Do not call me sugar, you… you goon,” she said indignantly. Her honeyed Southern drawl reminded him of home.

  He cast a glance at Darryl, the drug dealer who’d been so quick to draw his gun and fire. Boone cursed himself for not seeing it coming. He likely couldn’t do a damn thing about the man lying in the road, but he’d do his best to save the woman—if she’d let him.

  “Well, then, what’s your name, darlin’?”

  She hit him, hauling off and landing a pathetic punch on his upper arm. “My name is none of your business,” she snapped.

  Darryl laughed. “Come on, Becker,” he said. “Have at her and then let me shoot her. She looks like an awful lot of trouble, and she’s got a big mouth.”

  Boone placed his face close to the woman’s. “Sugar, your choices are limited,” he whispered. “You shut your mouth and stick close to me, or you end up like the man in the road.” Even in the dark he could see the new wave of panic that flitted across her pretty face. “Was he your husband?”

  She shook her head.

  ‘‘Boyfriend?”

  She shook her head again.

  He couldn’t afford to tell her too much, but he sure as hell couldn’t hand her over to Darryl. Marty and Doug, who looked on as if this was the most amusing scene they’d witnessed in a long while, weren’t much better. Nope, the woman was his responsibility, until he figured out how to get rid of her.

  “No,” he said, his eyes on the woman, his words for Darryl. “I’m not going to ‘have at her’ and you’re not going to shoot her. It’s not going to be that easy.”

  The woman’s lips trembled, and she lowered her eyes. Maybe she didn’t want him to see the fear that had to be there. Oh, God, he hoped she didn’t start to cry. He had no patience with weepy women.

  “I’m taking her with me.” With that, he turned and headed back toward the car.

  Darryl didn’t like the idea of taking the woman along, but he simply grumbled a curse and stuck his pistol into his waistband.

  The buyers were long gone, having collected their purchase and taken off as Boone and the others chased the witness. They’d wisely left the money, neatly bound and stacked in a small suitcase, sitting in the trunk of Darryl’s car.

  Boone sped up and headed toward the man on the ground. He moved so fast the woman he dragged behind him had to run to keep up. Every foul word he’d ever used came to mind. He muttered them all.

  “You have a vulgar mouth,” the woman said primly, keeping her voice low.

  “Yep.”

  “A gentleman would never use such language in front of a lady.”

  Boone stopped and stared down at the man who was sprawled on the ground by the Mercedes, taking everything in quickly. High-priced suit, gold watch, salon haircut. A perfect match for the woman at his side. He hated people like these. Holier than thou, too rich for their own good, always looking down their noses at the rest of the world. They didn’t deserve to get shot for it, though.

  He didn’t have much time. Keeping a firm grip on the woman’s wrist, he dropped to his haunches and quickly rifled through the man’s pockets.

  “What are you doin’?” Marty called.

  Boone glanced over his shoulder. The kid who combed his hair with a razor was heading right for him.

  “Checking the man’s pockets. He looks like he has money, doesn’t he?” With that Boone ripped off the watch and stuck it in his pocket.

  The woman made a sound that was a tsk and a sigh and a grunt rolled into one feminine syllable that revealed her utter disgust for him.

  Marty grinned. “Can I have the car?”

  “No,” Boone said tersely. “It’ll lead the cops right to us.”

  Doug came up behind his buddy. As the woman’s frightened eyes landed on him, Doug flipped his long hair like a vain woman trolling in a bar. “And she won’t?” he asked bitterly.

  “I’ll take care of her when the time comes,” Boone promised darkly.

  Doug and Marty were not much older than twenty, neither was too bright, and they scared easily. All those facts had made Boone’s time here much easier than it might’ve been.

  Still, no matter how dumb they were, he couldn’t finish what he had to do with them looking on. “Put the girl in Darryl’s car,” he said, offering her imprisoned arm to Marty. Just before Marty grabbed the woman’s wrist, he felt a deep tremble pass through her body. Sorry, sugar, he thought silently. I have no choice. “Touch her anywhere else,” he added darkly, “and I’ll kill you. She’s mine.” Marty’s grin faded rapidly, and Boone said, “I’ll be right there.”

  Doug and Marty moved away, Marty with his hand gripping the woman’s arm, Doug quickly checking the front seat of the Mercedes. Darryl was occupied getting his money situated, which gave Boone the opportunity to place his fingers against the neck of the man on the ground.

  He closed his eyes in relief. The man wasn’t dead. His heartbeat was strong and steady. What happened next was by necessity fast. Boone found the wound on the man’s side. It was nasty, but not fatal. He prayed the guy didn’t come to and start making noise. Darryl would finish the job if that happened.

  Moving quickly, Boone removed the man’s jacket. In the process, he snagged the wallet, in case anyone was watching. The cell phone in the inside pocket dropped into his hand.

  The jacket made an easy, quick, inadequate bandage. It was better than nothing. Keeping his hands out of sight, Boone switched on the cell phone and dialed 911. He positioned the phone on the man’s chest, then concealed the phone with a flapping portion of the fancy jacket that he’d fashioned into a bandage.

  “Come on!” Darryl shouted, slamming the car trunk closed and heading for the driver’s-side door. Marty and Doug were already sitting in the back seat, the terrified hostage pinned between them.

  There was no more time. If Darryl decided to come over and see what he was doing, the operation was finished. Done. Three months’ work wasted and someone dead. Either Darryl, or Boone himself and the woman.

  Boone leaned forward and whispered, giving the 911 operator who’d answered the emergency call the name of the road they were on. Nothing more. It would take them a while to find the exact location, but the delay couldn’t be helped. At least the man on the ground had a strong pulse and wasn’t bleeding too seriously.

  “Hang in there, buddy,” he whispered.

  He couldn’t afford to be caught. Not tonight. He hadn’t yet found the child the drug dealer Gurza had kidnapped, and until he did, nothing else mattered. Not this man and not the woman.

  He shook his head as he strode away from the Mercedes and the man on the ground. Very faintly, he heard the tinny sound of the operator’s voice from the cell phone asking for more information.

  What a night. A man shot, a hostage he was now responsible for… he was in too deep. Things were going very wrong, and once things started going wrong they usually didn’t stop. They just got worse.

  There was going to be hell to pay, but not until he found that kid and delivered him home.

  About the Author

  Linda's first book, the historical romance Guardian Angel, was released in 1994, and in the years since she's written in several romance sub-genres under several names. In order of appearance, Linda Winstead; Linda Jones; Linda Winstead Jones; Linda Devlin; and Linda Fallon. She's a six time finalist for the RITA Award and a winner (for Shades of Midnight, writing as Linda Fallon) in the paranormal category. She’s a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than seventy books. Most recently she's been writing as Linda Jones in a couple of joint projects with Linda How
ard, and re-releasing some of her backlist in e-book format.

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  Also by Linda Winstead Jones

  Mystic Springs

  Bigfoot and the Librarian

  Santa and the Snow Witch, a novella

  Beauty and the Beastmaster

  * * *

  Sinclair Undercover

  Hot On His Trail

  Capturing Cleo

  In Bed With Boone

  Clint’s Wild Ride

  On Dean’s Watch

  * * *

  Romantic Suspense

  Bridger’s Last Stand

  Running Scared

  Wilder Days

  Every Little Thing

  * * *

  Time Travel Romance

  Desperado’s Gold

  On a Wicked Wind

  * * *

  Fairy Tale Romance

  Into the Woods

  DeButy and the Beast

  Someone’s Been Sleeping in My Bed

  Big Bad Wolf

  Let Me Come In

  Cinderfella

  One Day, My Prince

  Jackie and the Giant

  Let Down Your Hair

  * * *

  Fantasy/Paranormal

  The Sun Witch

  The Moon Witch

  The Star Witch

  * * *

  Western Historical Romance

  Sullivan

  Jed

  Cash

  * * *

  For more, visit Linda’s website!