Tailspin

by Sandra Brown

  He studied her as though considering it, then grumbled, “I don’t want the hassle. Another go-round with Rawlins? No thanks. I’m already ensnared more than I want to be.”

  “You wish I hadn’t told you, don’t you?”

  He didn’t reply to that, but said crossly, “I deserve at least a few minutes to ruminate, don’t you think? While I’m at it, you had just as well avail yourself of soap and water.”

  She had to admit that a hot shower was an appealing prospect. She looked with longing toward the open bathroom door, then stood up and shrugged off her coat. She laid it at the foot of the bed and walked toward the bathroom. Over her shoulder, she said, “I’ve probably burned my bridges with the car dealer. While you’re ruminating, try to devise a way for me to get back to Atlanta.”

  He may have declared her virtue safe, but she locked the bathroom door anyway.

  The water was hot. She used the shower gel, which didn’t smell all that flowery. When she rinsed her hair of shampoo, she was chagrined to see twigs and dead leaves in the water swirling toward the drain, leftover debris from when Rye had kept her pinned to the forest floor.

  Best not to think about those few minutes and the pressure of his thighs against hers. Or of the light brown chest hair she’d glimpsed, compliments of his open shirt. Or speculate on the yummy trail that was beneath those few done-up buttons. Or remember the erotic heat that had blossomed in her center when he so perfectly paired their bodies during that kiss. She had let it continue for far too long. And for not nearly long enough.

  He wasn’t a pretty boy, not dashingly handsome. But there was an essence of danger about him, a latent volatility, a raw sexuality to which women inevitably responded, unwisely and ultimately with remorse. He was the type of man who wouldn’t remain romantically attached for longer than twenty minutes at a time. But those twenty minutes—

  Brynn yanked her thoughts away from him. From that. She couldn’t let anything distract her from getting back to Atlanta with the vial of GX-42 in time.

  When she emerged from the bathroom, clean but wearing the same clothes, Rye was still lying on his back on the bed, staring at the ceiling in deep thought. His right arm rested atop the black box. Without prompting, he said, “I told Dash I would try to get to Atlanta later today.”

  “How are you going to get there?”

  He turned his head on the pillow in order to look at her. “It’s possible that we could persuade Marlene to let us take her car. You could get your juice to your patient. I could fly anywhere in the world from Atlanta.”

  “What about the airplane here?”

  “It’s still too foggy to take pictures today, and the plane can’t go anywhere until an insurance adjuster sees it. Dash is handling that.”

  She sat down on the edge of the bed. “How would we get Marlene’s car back to her?”

  He gave a soft laugh. “You’re worried about the logistics of returning a car when you’re smuggling a bootleg drug?”

  She gave him an abashed smile, stood up, and reached for her coat. “It’s a good suggestion. We’ll probably find her at Brady’s bedside.”

  “We probably will. When we get there.”

  The add-on arrested her in motion. She noticed that he didn’t look like he was going anywhere any time soon. His shirt was still buttoned only halfway, his boots lay on the floor, his bomber jacket was draped over the back of the chair where his flight bag occupied the seat.

  He said, “I can’t fly until I get some sleep.”

  “You can’t go to sleep now.”

  “I’m practically there already. I’ve been up for”—he checked his wristwatch—“going on thirty hours.”

  “That’s not my problem.”

  “It is if you want my help getting back to Atlanta. And forgive me for saying so, but you don’t look all that perky yourself. Lie down. We’ll sleep—”

  “I don’t require your help, you know. I can manage this alone.”

  “Great. Glad to hear it. Good luck. Shut the door gently on your way out.” He rolled onto his side and tucked the box against him.

  “Give me the box.”

  “The box stays with me,” he mumbled, adjusting his head more comfortably on the pillow.

  “It’s not yours!”

  In a sudden move, he left the box where it was, rolled to his opposite side, came up onto his knees on the edge of the bed, and took her by the shoulders where she stood. “It’s not yours, either, is it?”

  She refused to answer.

  “How do I know? Two things. You haven’t explained the men tracking you.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t know who they are, what they want, and it’s probably a mere coincidence that you saw them parked across from the sheriff’s department.”

  “Better odds of winning the Powerball. But, for argument’s sake, let’s say it’s a mere coincidence. Reason number two, why haven’t you called Dr. Lambert to report this latest snag? Why haven’t you asked for his help returning to Atlanta?”

  She expelled a huff. “Because I didn’t want to alarm him, much less the critically ill patient, by telling them that I’d been further delayed. Besides that, I haven’t had cell service since you whisked me out of that café.”

  He glanced beyond her shoulder. “There’s a telephone on the bedside table.”

  “With a lock on it! I’d hate for you to be out more than your forty-five bucks.”

  She struggled against his hold. He let go of her, but his incisive gaze didn’t. She stared back, refusing to be the first to look away.

  Abruptly he asked, “Who thought of the blood sample ruse?”

  “Nate. Just in case the box were opened for any reason. But I wasn’t sure the pharmacologist had done it correctly.”

  “I was right, then. You were nervous when Rawlins opened the box.”

  “Very. The drug is packed inside the foam lining, as you guessed.”

  He thought on that. “What’s the deadline before the stuff goes bad?”

  “The vial was capped at nine last night. It will take an hour to infuse. Therefore the drip needs to be started no later than eight o’clock tomorrow night.”

  “Tomorrow night? Then what’s the rush? You’ve got plenty of time.”

  “Eight o’clock tomorrow is the absolute deadline. I, we, want to make sure it makes it there with time to spare. We want everyone to be relaxed, not stressed. Anxiety wouldn’t be good for the patient.”

  “Or for you either, I think.”

  She didn’t speak to that.

  He looked at her for a moment longer, then said, “I never sleep for very long at a stretch. I’ll set an alarm for five hours.” He began setting his watch.

  “Three hours,” she said.

  “Four.”

  He fiddled with his watch, then held his wrist out to where she could read the time he’d set. “See? I didn’t cheat you a single minute.” He lay down, turned onto his side facing out, and cradled the box.

  “You’re a bastard,” she said.

  “I think I like freight dog better.”

  After that, she heard nothing but deep breathing. She leaned forward and across the bed so she could see his face. He’d already fallen asleep.

  10:07 a.m.

  Rye was playing possum. He wasn’t about to fall asleep until Brynn did.

  But she was restless and frustrated. She paced the length of the bed several times. She went over to the window and parted the curtains just wide enough to peek through the crack, then impatiently overlapped them again after cursing the persistent fog.

  She returned to the bed and sat down on the other side of it. Sighing with resignation, she removed her boots, then lay down and pulled the bedspread up over her. She didn’t move again.

  He knew the instant she fell asleep because the cadence of her breathing changed, and he found himself charting its lulling tempo. He was tempted to turn and check out the rise and fall of her chest but didn’t. He recalled
how good her breasts had felt against his chest and knew they’d feel even better in his hands.

  And he had to keep his hands off her.

  His hands he had control of. His head was another matter. He clearly remembered how well their bodies had conformed to each other at the notch of her thighs. And that wet, seductive kiss. Her mouth.

  He squeezed his eyes shut against the images that flickered through his mind like a silent movie. A silent X-rated movie. His cock swelled. But he willed it down. Because, for all her appeal, getting tangled up with Brynn O’Neal would be a bad idea.

  More likely than not, she was a thief. He knew for certain that she was a liar.

  While she’d been showering, he’d called the FAA office in Atlanta. He’d reported a no-casualty crash and promised to send a full report as soon as the fog cleared and he could get photos. The agent he spoke to was fine with that. No one wanted to work over the holiday weekend. All together the conversation had lasted three minutes.

  The cell phone service had been perfect.

  Chapter 13

  1:28 p.m.

  Brynn, wake up.”

  “Hmm?”

  Her shoulder was shaken. “Wake up.”

  Feeling as though she were being roused from a coma, she opened her eyes and blinked Rye into focus. “It’s already been four hours?”

  “No, but we have company.”

  He left her, skirted the foot of the bed, and went over to the window, where he peered through the split in the curtains. “I heard their car. They’re just pulling up.”

  “Who?”

  “Your mere coincidence duo.”

  That brought her wide awake. She kicked back the bedspread, came off the bed, and watched in alarm as Rye took his pistol from his flight bag. “What are you doing with that?”

  “If we’re lucky, nothing.” He slid it into his back jeans pocket and covered it with his shirttail. Giving her a fulminating look, he said, “You’ve got one more chance to tell me who these guys are.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yeah, and there’s no cell phone service, either.”

  Having caught her in that lie, he had a right to be angry, she supposed.

  Still seething, he said, “Take off your jeans.”

  “What?”

  “Take off your jeans,” he repeated, enunciating each word. “Or at least make it look like you’re pulling them back on.” He glanced through the curtain. “You’ve got ten seconds.”

  While instructing her, he’d been unbuttoning his fly and had got it undone just as two hard knocks landed on the door. He grabbed the pillow he’d been sleeping on and pitched it over next to hers.

  A harder, louder knock.

  In a grumpy and scratchy voice, Rye said, “Who is it?”

  “We’re looking for Dr. O’Neal.”

  “What do you want with her?”

  “Is she in there?”

  “Are you sick?”

  The person on the other side of the door called out, “Dr. O’Neal?”

  With a curt nod, Rye signaled for her to answer. Her heart was in her throat. She didn’t need to pretend to stutter. “J-Just a second.”

  “Hurry up,” said the voice through the door.

  She undid her jeans and lowered them a few inches. Rye opened the door as wide as the chain lock would allow and said through the crack, “Somebody had better be dying.”

  Through the sliver, Brynn could see the tall, handsome man from the café. He said, “Let us in.”

  “Like hell I will,” Rye said. “Who are you?”

  “Makes no difference to you. Unlock the door.”

  “Give me one good reason why.”

  “Dr. O’Neal’s patient.”

  Rye looked back at Brynn, his expression an unspoken question.

  Her mind was in turmoil, but she wanted to know who had sent these men and why. She gave Rye a go-ahead nod to let them in.

  His eyes boring into hers, he shut the door and was intentionally clumsy sliding the chain from the slot, rattling it noisily as he whispered to her, “Whatever I say, go along, or I swear to God I’ll leave you to them.”

  Only then did Brynn realize that the box was no longer on the bed. It was nowhere in sight.

  But she didn’t have time to ask Rye what he’d done with it. The chain fell loose against the jamb. He flipped the lock on the doorknob. The large Hispanic man caught her doing up her jeans when he came in, shouldering Rye out of his way. The punk—Rye’s description fit him to a tee—followed his partner inside and snickered as he took in the scene Rye had staged.

  For effect, Rye was buttoning his fly with his left hand, unhurried, looking not in the least embarrassed, but extremely put out with her. “‘No strings,’ you said. I should’ve known better.”

  She ignored that and addressed the tall man. “All right, you’re in. Who are you, and what do you want with me?”

  “We were sent to check on you.”

  “I need checking on?”

  His dark gaze took in the room, Rye, then came back to her. “Apparently.”

  “I explained to Dr. Lambert—”

  “Wasn’t him who sent us,” he said, interrupting her. “Your patient has been fretting over you getting back in time.”

  “There was no cause to fret. I’m well aware of the deadline, Mr.…?”

  “Goliad.” He tipped his head in the other’s direction. “That’s Timmy.”

  “And how do I know you work for…my patient?”

  “You want to verify it, fine. Call him. He and his missus will be glad to know we finally tracked you down.” He gave the room another survey, stopping on the bed. “Can’t say they’ll be happy to learn the reason for your delay.”

  “How did you know where I was?”

  “We started looking for the blue Honda, but that was taking too long. So we tracked your cell phone. Signal brought us right to you.”

  “You went to a lot of trouble to find me.”

  “That’s what I get paid for.”

  “But I saw you in the café. If you were looking for me, why didn’t you come over and make yourselves known to me then?”

  He gave her a meaningful look. “While you were in the company of a deputy sheriff?”

  “Oh. Well, the reason for that had nothing to do with my medical errand. Soon after I got here last night—”

  Goliad interrupted her. “We know all about it.”

  “Oh? How?”

  “Dr. Lambert,” he replied smoothly. “He explained everything to my boss. First, the plane crashed.”

  She gestured to Rye. “He was the pilot.”

  Rye was leaning against the wall, ankles crossed, which Brynn was beginning to recognize as a pose typical of him. He looked annoyed, but not especially interested in what was being discussed. However, she noticed that his hands were stacked between his butt and the wall, within easy reach of the pistol in his back pocket.

  His eyes were at half mast as he said to Goliad, “What do you know about the crash?”

  Ignoring Rye’s question, he asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Something better than Go-lee-ad.”

  Goliad continued to stare at him. Rye shrugged and told him his name.

  Goliad stared a few seconds longer, as though committing Rye’s face to memory, then returned his attention to Brynn. “Bottom line, you walked into a crime scene and were taken to the sheriff’s office to give your statement.”

  “Which took much longer than I anticipated,” Brynn said, feigning asperity when what she actually felt was apprehension. There was no question now that Rye had been right. These men had been keeping track of her on behalf of the Hunts.

  Trying not to appear unnerved, she continued. “Thanks to Dr. Lambert’s intervention, the matter was settled. Did he tell you about my car?”

  The man nodded.

  “Since it can’t be driven, Deputy Wilson was kind enough to arrange a car rental for me. When you saw us in the café,
we were waiting for the man to deliver it.”

  “Except you snuck out the back with the flying ace.” That from the fox-faced Timmy, who gave Rye a wicked grin. Rye didn’t grin back.

  Brynn said to Goliad, “It seemed to be taking a long time. I feared there had been a breakdown in communication. In the meantime, Mr. Mallett had borrowed a car, the Honda you mentioned.” She tilted her head, asking Goliad, “By the way, how did you know about that?”

  “Go on with your story.”

  “There is no story. Mr. Mallett offered to give me a ride to Atlanta.”

  The punk made a nasal sound. “In exchange for nooky.”

  Rye moved nothing except his eyes, which cut to Timmy. “Bet your mouth wouldn’t be so clever if you didn’t have that blade up your sleeve.”

  Timmy’s smug grin vanished. He took a step toward Rye. “You wanna—”

  “Timmy. Drop it.”

  Goliad’s voice snapped like a whip, effectively halting Timmy and whatever form of attack he had planned. He backed down but continued to glare at Rye with malevolence.

  Goliad said to Brynn, “Dr. Lambert assured my employers that you would be rushing back. But you’re not. What are you doing here with him?”

  “None of your damn business,” Rye said.

  “But it is, Mr. Mallett.”

  “I don’t see how. The doctor here is a grownup. She isn’t married.” He looked over at Brynn. “Are you?”

  Before she could respond, Goliad asked, “Where’s the box?”

  Rye muttered, “That damn thing.”

  The big guy turned to him. “What’s it to you?”

  “I hauled it from Columbus, having no idea what was in it. If I’d’ve known, I would have put it in the back of the plane, the far back, not in the seat right next to me. Feel like Dracula. I’ve flown lots of weird cargo, but never a box of blood. Or if I did, I didn’t know it.”

  Brynn jumped in. “He saw what was inside when the deputies made me open the box.”

  Goliad’s obsidian gaze gave the room another sweep before returning to her. “I ask again, where is it?”

  Before she could answer, Rye said, “It was kinda killing the mood for me. I shoved it under the bed.”