Marty, still shaking his head, left the kitchen and headed straight for the television in the connecting living room. "Hey, maybe the news about that guy Darryl shot will be on TV!" Darryl and Doug followed.
The expression on Boone's face changed subtly, darkening. "You missed the morning news."
"Yeah, but the one station we get kinda clear has an update at ten." He glanced at his watch. "Just a couple of minutes."
With his hands positioned so that no one else could see, Boone motioned to Jayne. She had no idea what he was trying to tell her, but she did know one thing: they didn't want these guys to know that Jim was alive or that she was a senator's daughter.
"Don't look at me like that," he said sharply. "You think what happened last night will keep you alive? Piss me off and you're history, just like your boyfriend."
Sure enough, a curious Marty glanced into the kitchen. Doug wasn't far behind. Darryl remained firmly planted in front of the old television, waiting for the update.
"You wouldn't dare," she said frostily. "Not after … you know."
"Sex," Boone said. "You can't even say it!" He launched into a tirade, using every foul word she had ever heard and some she hadn't.
"You … you crude bully."
As it had last night, the word bully made Darryl laugh. But he didn't move away from the TV.
"I can be cruder and I can be meaner," Boone promised.
"Impossible."
The teaser about the news update came on, sending a shiver down Jayne's spine. They had a minute, maybe less.
Boone crossed the room and swept Jayne off her feet. "Fight me," he whispered as he hauled her up and tossed her over his shoulder.
She did, kicking, beating ineffectually against his back with her fists as he carried her into the living room.
"Can't you do better than that?" Boone whispered.
She tried, but she wasn't a violent person. As Boone carried her through the doorway into the main room, where Darryl sat before the television, she fought as best she could, feet and hands flailing. "You … you uncivilized brute!"
"Last night you seemed to like that about me, sugar."
"Don't call me sugar." She glanced up to see that the two dim-witted criminals grinned, while a disgusted Darryl shook his head in wonder or dismay. Maybe both.
"I'll call you whatever I want to call you." Boone put Jayne on her feet between Darryl and the TV, raising his voice. "Don't forget who you are, or how you got here, or that I might get tired of you at any moment and then you'll be in a world of trouble."
Jayne placed her hands on her hips. "You wouldn't dare! Not after … not after…" She stopped and gave Boone an exasperated huff. Darryl leaned to one side as the newsbreak came on. With an outraged cry, Jayne turned and gave the television a shove. It wobbled backward, finally falling from the unsteady stand and crashing to the floor with a spark and a puff of smoke. The screen went black.
"I can't believe you'd say that to me, not after last night. You said … you said…"
The three other men gathered around the remains of the television as Boone grabbed Jayne and pulled her against his chest. "Now, sugar," he said in a soothing voice, "don't get all upset."
Jayne hid her face against Boone's chest. Oh, Darryl would be furious, but what else could she have done? Pushing the TV off its stand had seemed like a good idea at the time. Now she wondered.
"Becker," Darryl said slowly, "your woman just broke my TV."
"I'll buy you a new TV. That one was a piece of crap, anyway." Boone's arms protected her as he brushed off Darryl's complaint.
"How am I supposed to watch my soaps?" Marty asked, not quite as outraged as Darryl, but definitely unhappy.
"Soaps are for old women," Boone growled. "You'll survive a few days with no TV."
Jayne chanced a quick glance at the three men. None of them were happy with her at the moment. She'd made a lousy breakfast and broken their television. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "I just got so upset…" The tremble in her voice was not manufactured; it was very real. She returned her gaze to Boone. "You can be so mean."
He lifted her off her feet and spun her around. "I know how to make you feel better."
"Now?"
"Now."
"But, Boo…"
He shut her up by laying his mouth over hers. Immediately she knew why, and even though she had insisted on knowing, for a split second she wished Boone had never told her his real name. Would she always remember to call him Becker when the others were around? If she forgot in a moment of anger or forgetfulness, it could mean death for both of them.
It wasn't a real kiss, but a necessary caution. Still, his mouth was nice and firm, sweet and gentle. She had a feeling that when Boone really kissed a woman, he did it right.
He took his mouth from hers, a warning gleam in his eyes.
"But, BooBoo," she said when she could speak again, hopefully covering her mistake. "I still haven't done the dishes."
"Marty!" Boone yelled. "Do the damned dishes."
* * *
BooBoo! Oh, this was bad. "BooBoo?" he asked, hands on hips as he glared down at Jayne, who sat on the side of the bed looking composed, calm, perfectly in control. One foot rocked, drawing his eye to her shapely ankle.
"It's no worse than sugar."
"Yes," he insisted with a nod of his head, "it is."
He didn't let on that his heart was still hammering. He had thought about shooting the television and then trying to pass it off as a rash moment of rage, but Jayne's seemingly impulsive shove had worked much better. But for how long? They would meet with Gurza in four days. Four days, after three months of undercover work! And one wrong word could blow it in a heartbeat.
"I shouldn't have told you my name," he said in a low voice.
Her face softened. "I know but … I'm glad you did," she whispered. "It makes me feel so much safer."
She wasn't safe, not at all, but he didn't bother to tell her so.
Boone moved to the head of the bed and grasped the post in his hand.
Jayne sighed. "Not again. This is so embarrassing." Boone ignored her and began to shake the bed. The springs squeaked. Jayne covered her face in her hands.
"Come on, sugar," Boone said softly. "Help me out here."
For a moment she did nothing. Then she dropped her hands from her face, looked him in the eye and gave a little hop that made the bed squeak even more. "Why Becker?" she asked as she gave another little bounce.
"Is that like a middle name? A family name?" Boone leaned down, placing his face close to hers.
"Rhymes with my favorite body part," he whispered.
She screwed up her nose. "Becker? Becker doesn't rhyme with…" Suddenly her face turned red. "That's disgusting!" she said, her voice rising slightly.
He grinned. "Say that a little bit louder."
"I will not," she said primly.
He began to bang the headboard against the wall, faster and faster, harder and harder. "Moan," he whispered.
"I do not moan," she said, her Southern accent deepening as she protested.
"You poor thing. I guess I'll just have to pinch you again to make you squeal."
"That won't be necessary." She looked away from him, squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. And then she made some kind of noise. It wasn't a moan or a squeal. He wasn't sure exactly what it was.
"If I can barely hear it, they can't hear it at all."
She snapped her head around and glared at him. "You know, I'm sure there are women out there who make love silently."
"I've never met one."
"You're vile."
"You're a prude."
It was the wrong, or perhaps the right thing to say. Prude was an insult Jayne took personally, and her response was apparently going to be to prove him wrong. She closed her eyes, tossed back her head and moaned. The sound was low, long and real enough to make Boone's insides tighten. Her soft voice was the kind that might creep under a man's skin if he
went for her type. Which he didn't.
Jayne took a deep breath and moaned again, louder this time. Boone tried to convince himself that Jayne Barrington was not his type at all. He liked his women with long dark hair, long legs and plenty up top. Not gentle, delicate curves, but prodigious breasts that made a man's eyes pop out of his head when the woman walked into a room. He shook the bed harder, faster, his eyes on Jayne.
Head back, throat bared, mouth slightly parted, she was a fascinating sight, with her creamy skin and reddish-gold hair and soft lips. Her throat was nice and long, he noticed. Shapely and delicate, like the rest of her. His body began to respond. Enough was enough.
"Scream," he whispered.
She laid those green eyes on him and glared. "Maybe I'm not ready," she mouthed.
He grinned and reached for her with his free hand.
"Okay," she said softly, scooting away from him. She closed her eyes again, took a deep breath and screamed. Loud and long. Boone banged the headboard a couple more times, for good measure and then stopped. Thank God. He really couldn't take much more of this.
"Not bad," he said as he sat beside Jayne on the side of the bed. He took a deep calming breath. "Who were you thinking of when you let loose?"
She looked him in the eye. "Not who, what. Snakes."
His eyebrows lifted slightly. "Snakes?"
"I'm terrified of snakes," she said with a shake of her head and a shudder that seemed to rack her from head to toe. "And I don't care if they're poisonous or not. I hate all snakes equally."
"Why?"
Her eyes met his. "I don't have to have a specific reason," she said. "A lot of people hate snakes."
Boone waited a couple of minutes before leaving Jayne, shaking his head as he stood. It had been a pretty damn good scream.
He wasn't terribly surprised to find a scowling Darryl waiting at the doorway between the hallway and the television-less living room. Marty and Doug were nowhere to be seen, but as he glared at Darryl, Boone heard laughter from the kitchen and then a splash of water. The boys were doing the dishes.
"I don't get it," Darryl muttered, his hard eyes on Boone and his arms crossed over his massive chest. "It doesn't make any sense. You hauled that woman here last night because you wanted her in your bed. She was none too happy about the idea at the time, as I remember. And then this morning she's calling you BooBoo and screaming her head off. Something stinks."
Boone grinned. "What can I say? I'm good."
Darryl was not impressed.
Boone's grin faded. "She's a society sweetheart who's been handled with kid gloves all her life. Nobody's ever touched her right, nobody's ever made her scream. Since she's never had one before, she thinks an orgasm means she's in love. Three or four and we're soul mates. Don't worry about Jayne. I can handle her."
"What are you going to do with her when we're through here? I can't have her coming to her senses and talking about what happened last night."
"She won't."
"You can't be sure…"
As far as Darryl knew, Richard Becker was a badass drug dealer from Atlanta, looking to move up a notch in the world. An association with Joaquin Gurza would make that happen. Thanks to big brother Dean—who was a deputy U.S. marshal and had all the right connections—and Detective Luther Malone, Boone had the background to make this cover tight. Airtight. Boone would protect Jayne Barrington with his life. Richard Becker wouldn't hesitate to kill anyone who got in his way.
"When I'm finished with Jayne," Boone said tightly, "I'll take care of her. She's the one with the illusions, not me. You have nothing to worry about."
Darryl nodded, slightly mollified. "Glad to hear it."
Boone headed past Darryl, intent on the coffeepot on the kitchen counter. He had to keep Darryl and the boys away from the news for the next four days. Could he do it? If Darryl found out that the man he'd shot was alive and that Jayne was a senator's daughter, he'd panic and insist on doing away with her immediately. And since Boone had told them all that Jayne's friend Jim was dead, Jayne would likely not die alone.
If they got that far, how was he going to get Jayne, the kid and himself out of here alive?
His life and his mission had just become very complicated.
* * *
Chapter 4
« ^ »
Jayne lay back in the bed and stared up at the ceiling. A shower had helped her to feel a little better, but still she wished for a change of clothes—her own clothes—as well as underwear, a soft nightgown, her hair dryer, and an entire package of chocolate-chip cookies. The soft ones.
She hated being shut up alone in this room, but it was better than facing Darryl and his two brainless accomplices. Even with Boone beside her—and when she left this room, he was always beside her, even going so far as to stand guard at the bathroom door while she showered—she was afraid of those thugs.
Earlier today Darryl had suggested that they turn the doorknob on this bedroom around so that they could lock her in and she couldn't lock her BooBoo out. Boone had hated the idea, and she didn't blame him. If they turned the doorknob around, Darryl would be able to lock them both in if he was of a mind to, and with the window painted shut, they'd be trapped. She had no doubt that Boone could get past the flimsy lock on the door, but reversing the knob would also mean that they couldn't lock the others out at night. That would never do.
Boone had told Darryl that no locked door could keep him out. After that, it hadn't been mentioned again.
Low voices drifted to her from the living room, where the four men had gathered to discuss business. She caught enough words to understand they were talking about drugs, money, some kind of meeting.
She couldn't help but wonder why Boone was here. He wasn't DEA, he wasn't official law enforcement of any kind. So what was he doing here undercover, and what was going to happen in less than a week?
Jayne pulled the comforter to her chin and tried to melt into the mattress. The news of her disappearance had probably reached her parents hours ago. Her mother would be frantic. Lucille Barrington was not a particularly stalwart person, and she had always been a little overprotective of her only child. Her doctor would have given her something to help her rest, Jayne supposed, as he had when Grandpa passed away. Lucille Barrington suffered as a Southern woman should—acutely, and in the privacy of her luxurious bedchamber. Jayne loved her mother dearly, but under certain circumstances the woman could be somewhat melodramatic.
The senator, however, was not a man to sit around and worry, and if any physician had dared to try to give him something to help him rest, he'd probably break the poor man's arm. He had doubtless called in favors, Jayne knew, marshaled the troops, spent the afternoon on the phone shouting and cajoling and doing everything humanly possible to get his daughter home safely.
Grandmother would be praying and cooking. Whenever she got anxious, Myra Jayne Barrington went to the kitchen. During the last senatorial campaign, she'd fed not only her son's entire hometown staff, but a lot of the reporters, as well. By now she was probably feeding the entire town.
Boone said he needed less than a week. She didn't think they had even two days.
When Boone returned, locking the door behind him, Jayne breathed a sigh of relief. She couldn't help it; she felt better when he was near.
He was quieter than usual as he sat on the bed to remove his boots and socks. His clenched jaw did nothing to make her feel safe.
"Do you have a cell phone?" she whispered.
"Yeah," he replied absently.
Thank goodness. "I just know my parents and my grandmother are worried sick."
"Scoot over," Boone said, lying back as if he actually intended to sleep here beside her.
Her first impulse was to give him a gentle shove and refuse to scoot over. But if she was about to ask him for a favor, maybe that wasn't the way to go.
She scooted. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"
"I'm not sleeping on the floor again," he said,
stretching out beside her. "I'll stay on top of the covers, you stay beneath." A grin flashed across his face. "That way I can be sure you'll keep your hands to yourself."
Jayne moved to the edge of the bed, giving the big man all the room he might need. "Won't you get … cold?" She had been surprised by the night's chill in this part of the country. Back home, May was warm. Some days felt almost like summer. Here the days were pleasant, but when the sun dropped, it was very clear that winter had not fully departed.
Boone turned his head to look her in the eye. "Are you asking me in?"
Jayne's eyes went wide, and her heat thumped hard. "No! Of course not."
"I didn't think so." He rocked gently and the old bed squeaked.
Not again. "I need to call my mother," Jayne whispered.
"Sorry," Boone said as he rocked again.
"But—"
"We can't take the chance," he said, before she even had a chance to present her argument. He continued to move in a manner that made the bed rock and squeak. "You might be overhead, the call might be traced, and cell phones are notoriously insecure. Besides, my cell company doesn't even have service out here. We'd have to swipe Darryl's phone, and trust me, that's not a good idea."
"Boone," she whispered, pleading.
He rotated his head and looked at her again. "Shouldn't you be moaning by now?"
"No!" she whispered. "I'm quite sure I should not."
"A nice loud yee-haw, then," he suggested with a grin.
"I do not yee-haw," she said primly.
"Oh, that's too bad." Boone's grin faded. His eyelids seemed to grow heavy.
Boone rocked so hard the headboard banged against the wall. And again. He moved faster, harder, and a mortified Jayne, who did not think she could watch this indecent display any longer, tried to turn away from him.
And rolled off the bed. She squealed and landed on the floor with a thud.
The gyrations of the bed came to a sudden stop, and a moment later a grinning Boone glanced over the side. "Well, that was different. But okay. The guys will just think we had a quickie."
"That was not…" Jayne began, and then she pursed her lips. She considered sleeping on the floor herself tonight, but there was a draft. It was cold down here! Boone offered a helping hand, which she ignored. His grin faded and he stared at her, his expression hard and dark.
IN BED WITH BOONE Page 4
