by Angi Morgan
“Ronnie, there’s only one thing I hate in life...that’s being left out of the fun.” He showed the tip of the utility knife, and Ronnie’s eyes got huge. “You need to know that I’m willing to do whatever it takes to find my partner. Even pick my nose.”
* * *
MEGAN ROLLED OVER, wrapped in pleasant warmth. Sunshine streamed through the flowy white curtains. She’d had the most delicious dream last night about playing strip Battleship.
She popped straight up in bed, the covers—including the electric blanket—dropping to her waist. Thank goodness she was still in her bra and panties. The realization that she was only grateful because she had no memory of what had happened was sobering. She must have fallen asleep and Jack had brought her to bed.
Alone. Joy.
It seemed the sunshine was a momentary thing. Rain pelted the ground outside the window. The wind shoved the trees from side to side. A true storm had begun. She searched the room for her clothes.
Facing Jack...without clothes... She threw the covers over her head and wanted to travel back in time a week. Shoot, maybe she should go back before any of the Dallas fires had landed on her desk.
“Oh. My. Gosh. That’s it.”
Jumping up, she pulled the closet open, searching for a shirt.
“Come on, come on, come on. There has to be an old shirt that—Perfect.” An old red flannel man’s shirt was just the softness she needed when she pushed her arms through the sleeves and rolled up the cuffs.
A quick search of the dresser led her to a pair of yoga pants. No pockets for the key to the double-bedroom side of the house made her stuff it inside her bra. It should be safe from Jack there.
Check that. Safe from her.
The strong man seemed interested but obviously could restrain himself much better than she could. Lightning broke through the clouds, quickly followed by thunder.
She looked to either side of the covered porch. Walls of water from the downpour made it impossible to see twenty feet away from the house. “Great—I’m stuck in a lifeboat.”
“A lifeboat?” a deep voice questioned.
She should have jumped, but his voice was a part of her memory now. It triggered security and...well, other things she couldn’t admit.
“Yeah. I might be glad to be alive, but the limitations will make me a bit stir-crazy.”
Jack shrugged. “I guess that does sort of sound like a lifeboat. Although we can leave anytime we want, Megan. It’s just rain.”
Backing his words was perfectly timed lightning and instant thunder.
“Man, that was close.” She was about to close the door behind her when the realization that he was soaked hit her over the head. “You should take a hot shower and get out of those wet clothes.”
“I was thinking about that. Do you mind?”
The mist from the downpour filled the air, and man, did she want that hot shower, too! Quickly stepping aside to avoid physical contact, she bolted for the living area, hearing Jack’s laughter echo around the porch.
Food. She checked cabinets and found soup, chili, canned veggies, bins of healthy cereal, protein bars, dried prunes. “Yuck.” The refrigerator and freezer were stocked with things that wouldn’t go bad.
Why was Jack wet? She stared into the freezer, looking at the uncooked chicken and steak. He’d checked the perimeter again. Even in this weather. Back and forth, her eyes shifted to the washer and dryer. She’d looked through all the clothes available in the bedrooms. Jack’s frame was much bigger than the available clothes. He’d never fit.
Even into stretchy yoga pants. The thought made her laugh.
Before she could change her mind, she darted across to the bath. She heard the shower and Jack’s deep voice talking to himself. It wasn’t singing...just running through threat scenarios and escape routes. She plucked the pile of soaked clothing from the sink and gently pulled the doors back.
She started the washer and threw everything inside. Her things could use a quick wash, too. So she shimmied out of her underclothes and back into the flannel and stretchy nylon. The key she left on the counter.
Then she was back staring at dried prunes, potato flakes and creamed corn. She’d just switched to staring into the refrigerator when the door burst open.
“I have a good idea why you took my clothes, but it’s not happening. Where are they?”
She didn’t turn around. Lightning. Thunder. Door slam. And then she could hear the spin cycle on the small washer kick in. Apparently, so did Jack, because he wasn’t raising his voice any longer.
Megan closed the refrigerator and slowly turned around to face her protector. His bare feet were wet from crossing the porch, the hair on his legs still plastered to his muscular calves. The plain white towel held together with one tuck hung low on his hips. Tanned skin covered the abdominal six-pack she admired. His shaggy hair still dripped onto his superbly built shoulders.
And, good Lord, his dimpled chin predominating from the frown on his face just gave her shivers of excitement.
“That wasn’t a good idea,” he finally said.
Nope, he was wrong. She thoroughly disagreed. Washing his clothes for him was one of the best ideas she’d ever had.
Chapter Twelve
It wasn’t normal for anyone to come to the office on Sunday. Alvie Balsawood accepted that today was different. Everyone connected to this case was either being interviewed or helping with Megan’s files. He hadn’t been called as most of these morons had, but they’d allowed him in the building anyway.
Not having received a call for interrogation proved—to him at least—that he’d covered any connections to Megan. He mentally shrugged. Knowing he was good did little to locate her. All of his calculations couldn’t have accounted for the unknown factor of someone offering her assistance.
Megan Harper was essentially alone. Her parents resided in Bristol, and after all the traveling in their lives, they didn’t even venture on the train to London. Oh, yes, he’d done his research. And he’d done his calculations more than once.
The chances for Megan to survive the encounter at the Austin airport had been higher than he liked. But drugging her before she’d gotten on the plane should have lowered those odds. No research or informant had let him know about two wild-card Texas Rangers coming to her rescue.
Why were they involved?
That was the question holding all the answers. If he could figure out how they’d stumbled onto Megan’s dilemma, perhaps he could either predict their actions or at least discover where they were hiding with his research.
Jack MacKinnon had obviously been sent by his partner to the airport. But how had Wade Hamilton become involved in the first place?
“Hey, Alvie. They called you in, too?”
He nodded and stopped, ready with his prepared explanation of why he’d decided to work on a Sunday and offer his services to the authorities. But the man who asked had already moved on with a wave at the woman in the next cubicle.
Walking a little faster, he rounded the corner and went past the restrooms and water fountain to the back of all the offices, where his was located. The opposite side of the building from the up-and-coming, ever-popular Miss Harper. But fortunately, today it was also the farthest from the activity and investigators.
The information he needed would have been flagged as suspicious if he’d gone anywhere other than here at TDI. But here, if caught...
That thought made him laugh. He’d never be caught. The searches might be flagged from somewhere, but here in his report they were disguised as part of what was already going on.
Logical. Methodical.
His two best traits.
The men working around him seemed devoted to upholding the law. Cracking their evaluations within the Texas DPS was a little harder, and before he knew it, several hours had passed. But of co
urse, no one had bothered him tucked away in his corner.
A few additional searches yielded everything he needed on the two Rangers. Known associates, their service history, credit history, places of residence, education, family, purchases. Aw...yes. Purchases led him to...a ring.
He was back on track and could leave now. Electronically, he’d hidden his path. Physically, some of his coworkers jokingly referred to him as the invisible man. He just wasn’t noticeable. How little did they know that their description was true?
But that would all change.
Soon.
The elimination of Megan Harper would clear his path, and then people would take note. Years from now, he’d be a required case study for the analysts coming after him.
By then he wouldn’t be invisible.
People with money never were.
Chapter Thirteen
“What’s for lunch?”
Jack had been waiting on his jeans to dry for the past half hour. They were close. Had to be close. Normally, he’d be comfortable watching a movie with a beautiful woman at his side. Not today.
Every half hour that ticked by had the potential to bring unwanted guys driving black SUVs to their doorstep. He couldn’t continue to sit here, naked except for a towel and a wolf blanket.
Megan wasn’t naked, but the yoga pants left nothing—absolutely nothing—to his imagination. The flannel shirt was too big, but it didn’t matter. She’d tied the shirttail to where it fell just below her breasts, perfectly outlining the firm...
“I found popcorn in the freezer. Want me to microwave it?”
The temperature had dropped to below sixty outside and he would be standing in the cold rain again if he didn’t restrict his thoughts. He wiped the sweat beaded on his forehead. Staying away from this woman was the hardest thing he’d done.
The house seemed safe. He’d checked the perimeter every hour since they’d arrived. No one seemed to be around. No new tire tracks on the main road connecting the three houses on it.
Yeah, it seemed like they had time to wait out the threats.
The nervousness tingling throughout his body was totally due to Megan, who couldn’t sit still. She seemed as antsy as him.
He purposely drew in a deep breath and released it silently and slowly to calm his body. “There’s lots of stuff in there to fix if you want real food.”
“You mean there are lots of ingredients. I don’t see any food to heat up at all.”
He threw his head back and laughed. Then stood, holding the towel together as the blanket stayed on the couch. “You don’t cook?”
“You do?”
“Yeah. I’m not bad, either.”
She bowed, and her breasts swayed, free from the entrapment of a bra. “By all means...the kitchen is yours.”
He tugged one-handed at the throw. It was firmly caught between the couch cushions, maybe even on his gun that he’d pushed there earlier. He left it. The kitchen island would be between them if his makeshift kilt came unhooked.
“If you feel like you need a cape, I can do that for you. But I promise to keep my distance and not attack you with my claws.” She gestured with her fingers in a catlike motion.
Ten minutes and he’d have pants. But did he really trust a woman who’d been suggesting they have sex? Did he trust that he was still sane after turning her down?
Strip Battleship, one of the sexiest kisses he’d had and now naked chef... Damn, he was not including this in any report.
Megan walked to the south side of the couch, and Jack chose the longer north side. He almost stopped to yank on damp underwear, but his guest would give him an even harder time about his timidity.
“What are you afraid of?” she’d asked after his shower. “It’s just skin.”
Right. Just his skin if headquarters caught wind of it. He’d be skinned alive, and that wouldn’t be a pretty picture.
“Just have a seat and finish the movie.”
Not to his surprise, she picked up the remote, switched off the television and sat on a bar stool at the island where he was working. The towel was hooked together at his hip. It wasn’t the first time in the past two hours that he’d wished for a clothespin, a safety pin or even a paper clip. Something to keep the thing closed.
“You’re not going to finish the movie?”
“And miss this show? Absolutely not.” She winked.
“You’re really enjoying the compromising situation you’ve put me in.”
“This isn’t a compromise, Ranger MacKinnon. Would you feel more comfortable if I call you Little Jack?”
He removed some frozen catfish, dropped the plastic bag in a bowl of water and placed it in the microwave to defrost. “We can skip that conversation. I think you picked up real fast that it’s not my favorite nickname.”
Careful not to show everything God gave him, he knelt and brought up a deep fryer. Oil, cornmeal, a little flour, salt and pepper—they all came from the pantry while Megan remained on her stool.
Her rye-colored green eyes seemed to be watching him intently each time he dared to glance up at her. He dropped the first piece into the heated oil.
“What kind of fish is that?”
“Catfish.”
“You look like you’ve done that a lot.”
“My mom hated fish. When I caught it, I had to learn real fast how to fry it up. Deep fryers make it a lot easier—less grease spatters.” He sliced the next fish and dropped it in the cornmeal. “If I had milk, I’d mix us up some hush puppies.”
“I’ve never had catfish. I’ve seen it on menus, but I’ve had fried fish all over the world. It’s not my favorite.” She scrunched up her nose, making a face that was meant to be unflattering toward fish.
All he could do was smile.
“There you go again. If you want me to stop making advances, then stop showing off the dimples.”
“I wasn’t trying.”
“Oh, I know. That’s why it’s so appealing.” She leaned forward, swaying breasts and all.
“It smells good. All fried food does as long as the oil isn’t terribly old.” She sat back again. “You see, I’ve listened to a couple of cooking shows in my time.”
Why was he fighting the 100 percent cuteness in front of him? His career. At some point he’d have to recount what happened between them. But damn—a buzzer went off in his head, making him realize it wasn’t the risk to his career...it was sharing any part of her with Wade or the other Rangers in Company B. Two days around this woman, and he wanted her all to himself.
Okay, the buzzer was buzzing again.
“I’ll check it. Your hands are all gooey.”
Dryer...that was the dryer buzzer, not his brain. He might be thinking about things a whole lot more than he needed to be. Things like sleeping with Megan.
He might not make it alone with her in the house of his almost fiancée one more night. Hell, he might not make it through lunch.
* * *
EVERYTHING WAS DRY except Jack’s jeans. If she didn’t let him feel the dang things, he’d accuse her of lying. So she pulled everything out—except the jeans—and folded them. She was comfortable in the flannel shirt and in no rush to put her borrowed jeans back on.
“Are you sure I shouldn’t just eat another granola bar?” she teased, starting the dryer for another twenty minutes.
He harrumphed under his breath and reached for paper plates on the top shelf. She covered her mouth to keep her reaction to the bottom of his bum to herself. She wouldn’t mind catching a glimpse of that again.
“Looks like the rain is stopping. We aren’t going to be trapped down here or anything. I mean, the truck can still make it up that driveway, right?”
“I promise.”
He dished up the catfish on paper plates and placed a white substance next to it.
>
“Ketchup?” she asked, deliberately insulting the chef. “Sorry, just teasing. Fair warning, though. I’ve used ketchup my whole life. It was always available at the commissary, and Mom always bought it by the case.”
“Tartar sauce first. If you don’t like it then use the entire bottle.” He pulled it from the refrigerator, setting it next to her plate. He popped the can on an energy drink for himself. He tipped it toward her, silently asking if she wanted one as well.
“No, thanks. I think I’m going to have a hard enough time sleeping tonight as it is.”
“Careful—it’s still hot.” He turned the can up, taking a giant gulp.
“Don’t I know it?” She was staring at his biceps and his chest flexing, but quickly dived into the cornmeal-covered fillet, ignoring his warning.
Six pieces of fish later, she had a new favorite fried food and loved tartar sauce. She began clearing away the ingredients while Jack changed into his clothes. She’d tried to talk him out of it, since he was determined to go walk the perimeter and was certain to get everything soaked again.
The man was a strong-minded protection machine and she really, really liked him.
“All kidding aside, Megan,” he said, pulling his T-shirt over his head as he reentered from the half bath. “Get dressed. I don’t think we should hang around here too much longer.”
“Copy that.”
He looked up, that questioning gaze she admired catching her by surprise. “No arguments? No jokes about a perfectly good bed going to waste?”
“I never said that, but now that you’re mentioning it...”
“It’ll take me fifteen minutes. Tops. Be ready.”
“Do you think I could borrow the rubber boots?”
He paused at the back door. “Yeah. I’ll be calling up the owners and asking them for the cleaning bill.”
“Be sure to ask for a receipt. I can probably expense that...eventually.”
He laughed and shut the door behind him. She swiped her clothes off the dryer and quickly changed. That sense of urgency his voice had held rubbed off. Maybe they had been too complacent and now that the rain had let up, it was time to move on.
