On the Edge

by Heather Graham, Carla Neggers

  Lord. I sound as if I’m describing a good horse.

  Determined to get some rest, she pulled the covers back on what was left of the bed and gave him a slight shove.

  “Move over, Lone Ranger. You’re taking your half out of the middle, and I don’t like to share.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Scoot,” she said softly, and gave him an easy push.

  He rolled without waking, taking her pillow with him.

  “Well, crap all over again,” Kelly said, then picked up his pillow from the floor, carried it back to the bed and crawled in.

  Moments later, they were both sound asleep.

  Just before daylight, Kelly started to cry in her sleep. She didn’t know it and would have kicked herself all over the room before doing it in front of her bed partner. But Quinn heard it, and the sound shattered what was left of his rest.

  He rolled over to find himself face-to-face with a very bruised angel, saw the tears on her face and took her in his arms.

  “It’s just me,” he kept whispering, as he wrapped his arms around her and held her close against his chest. “Rest easy, honey. They won’t hurt you again.”

  This time his voice soothed, rather than panicked, and his touch gave her comfort, not fear. Instead of waking completely, she began to relax. Moments later the nightmare had shifted to a dark, unplayed corner of her mind. And so she slept with her ear against his chest, lulled by the steady, unrelenting beat of his heart.

  Kelly dug through the sack of clothes that Daryl had brought for her yesterday. She’d gone through the toilet articles last night in getting ready for bed, but she’d ignored the clothes. Now she was faced with a wardrobe that looked more fitted to a waitress at Hooters instead of a Federal Agent.

  There were two pair of shorts, two pair of jeans, five T-shirts, some underwear, a pair of red cowboy boots and a nightgown that was so sheer it was a joke.

  Quinn fingered the nightgown, eyeing the red lace on the black nylon, and then sighed.

  “Sorry about this,” he said. “Daryl’s never been married. I guess we should have been more specific.”

  Kelly picked up a pair of panties with two fingers, as if touching them might contaminate her.

  “How the hell does one put these on?” she muttered.

  Quinn eyed the minithong warily, fearing she might use it to throttle him in the next breath.

  “Real carefully?”

  She looked at him and then tossed them aside. “At least we know what kind of woman appeals to him. I think I need to talk to your buddy. What’s his number?”

  Quinn sighed. Poor Daryl. He was going to catch hell for this—he just knew it.

  He dialed, then handed her the receiver. The old man answered on the first ring.

  “Hello.”

  “Mr. Connelly, this is Kelly. I wanted to thank you for the clothes.”

  Daryl shoved his plate of bacon and eggs to one side and patted the part in what was left of his hair.

  “Well, now, missy…it was my pleasure.”

  “Yes. I’ll bet it was,” Kelly drawled. “However, we have a slight problem.”

  “Uh…I’m real sorry about that. Wrong size?”

  “No. Wrong style.”

  “Huh?”

  “Let’s put it like this, Daryl. Did anyone ever give you a wedgie?”

  She heard him choke, then cough, and figured he’d gotten the point.

  “Well now, I don’t know as—”

  “It’s the underwear, Daryl. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but I can’t wear underwear that goes up the crack in my ass. Do you think we can rectify that?”

  There was a moment of silence, then a swift intake of breath before Daryl answered.

  “I was an officer of the law for thirty-one years. I can rectify anything. You talkin’ granny panties or what?”

  Kelly rolled her eyes. “Just somewhere in between.”

  “Yeah, I got the picture. Give me thirty minutes.”

  “Gladly, and thank you,” she added, then hung up the phone.

  Quinn had made himself scarce, but she could hear him laughing through the bathroom door. She slapped her hand on the flat of the door to get his attention.

  “Hey, in there, it’s not funny.”

  “Hell yes, it’s funny,” Quinn said, then turned on the shower, drowning out her answer before she had a chance to reply.

  She stared at the odd assortment of clothing and told herself it shouldn’t matter what she wore. She was alive, which was more than she had expected this time yesterday morning. And as soon as she had some underwear that didn’t disappear in her nether regions, she would brave the rest of the lot.

  She spread the T-shirts out on the bed, trying to decide between the slogans, then opted for the pink one with a smoking gun and the letters PMS in purple below it. She held it up to herself in the mirror and then sighed. Between the scratches and bruises on her face and the mess her hair was in, the message on the shirt should be the least of her worries. God, how had her life gotten in such a mess?

  She tossed the shirt aside while she waited for Daryl to arrive, then sat down on the side of the bed, contemplating her options. She was twenty-seven years old. She’d been with the DEA for the past five years, three of which had been in undercover, and this was the first time she’d come so close to dying. She was mad at the situation she’d gotten herself into and worried about getting to D.C. to testify. If only she knew for certain that Ortega was dead.

  A faucet squeaked.

  She turned toward the bathroom door. Quinn had turned off the shower. Within minutes, he would be back in her space, needling her with those chocolate-dark eyes and that smirk of a grin. He made her uncomfortable in a way no man had done before. It wasn’t as if he was any kind of a physical threat. And she was assuming that, since he was an officer of the law, he could be trusted not to betray her in any way. But she couldn’t relax around him.

  Then the door opened, and he came out wearing nothing but a towel.

  “Forgot my clean shorts,” he said, then opened the dresser and pulled out a pair of white cotton briefs.

  It was fortunate that a response was unnecessary, because for the life of her, Kelly would have been unable to make one. Dressed, he’d been interesting, even attractive, but she’d already acknowledged that to herself. However, butt naked, he was downright devastating. One thing that had been bothering her was suddenly clear. Now she knew why Quinn McCord made her nervous. He was boyfriend material, even serious relationship material—never mind possible husband material. Kelly didn’t have time for any of the above—hadn’t even considered the latter since her last serious relationship, which had been over for almost three years.

  “Go put some clothes on,” she snapped.

  He eyed her long bare legs and the feminine curves of her body beneath his T-shirt and frowned.

  “The same could be said for you.”

  Before she could get past the hiss in her throat, he yanked the towel from around his hips and tossed it in her lap as he disappeared into the bathroom.

  Kelly closed her eyes, but it was way too late. She’d seen all there was to see of Quinn McCord and then some. She wadded up the towel and threw it at the door, where it fell to the floor with a soggy thump.

  “Put on some clothes, indeed,” she muttered, as she grabbed a pair of shorts and yanked them over her own panties, ignoring the rips and the shredded elastic. “I’m not the one parading around naked by choice,” she yelled.

  He punctuated her statement by flushing the toilet, which only ticked her off more.

  She picked up the pink PMS T-shirt and yanked it over her head, only afterward realizing she’d forgotten to put on a bra. “To hell with it and with all men in general,” she muttered, as she crammed everything back into the sack but a pair of white socks.

  Eyeing the red cowboy boots with disgust, she pulled on the socks, then the boots, stomping her feet as she stood in order to jam her feet the rest of the way
inside. Then she strode to the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door and rolled her eyes.

  There was a two-inch gap of skin between the tail of her T-shirt and the waistband of the shorts. With the long length of legs between the shorts hem and the top of the boots, she looked like a bad version of the token female on that old television show The Dukes of Hazard.

  “Eat your heart out, Daisy Duke,” Kelly muttered, then sat down in the only chair to await Daryl Connelly’s return.

  Quinn was still smarting from sexual frustration when he came out of the bathroom. And what he saw didn’t help matters any. She was a teenage boy’s vision of heaven on earth, and he felt himself regressing. The only way he knew to make sure he stayed safe was to keep her ticked off.

  “Nice outfit,” he said.

  “Go to hell,” Kelly countered.

  The knock on the door saved both of them from making a miserable situation worse.

  Kelly flinched, then stood, her posture betraying her nervousness.

  “It’s probably Daryl,” Quinn said.

  “I wish I had my gun.”

  “You’d shoot a man over a tight pair of panties?”

  Kelly glared. “Shut up. Just shut the hell up and see who’s at the door. And if it’s not your friend Daryl, you’d be wise to duck. Ortega’s men don’t give second chances.”

  The teasing in his voice ended. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “Just trying to make a bad situation a little better.”

  Kelly sighed. There was no reason to take her clothing limitations and sexual frustrations out on someone who had saved her life—and who was still trying to help her.

  “I’m sorry, too,” she said. “I don’t know what’s come over me. I guess we could chalk it up to a big case of nerves.”

  “Or PMS?” Quinn pointedly eyed her shirt as he turned toward the door. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me, Daryl.”

  Kelly was struggling with the urge to just shove Quinn out the door when Daryl came striding into the room. He was carrying the sack of underwear as if it contained something foul. When he saw Quinn, he shoved it in his hands, then stared pointedly at Kelly.

  “Missy, these here better fit, cause I ain’t gonna go back into the store for a third round of shoppin’. Those lady salesclerks are startin’ to look at me funny.”

  Kelly took the sack from Quinn, then kissed the old man on the cheek.

  “Thank you, Daryl, more than I can say. I promise I’ll repay you.”

  “Oh hell, honey. It’s not about the money. I’m just not in the habit of buying this kind of stuff,” Daryl said, as he blushed. Then he realized what she was wearing and started to grin. “I knew you’d fit into that stuff just fine.”

  Kelly resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Yes…well…thank you again for being so thoughtful.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said.

  “Uh…I’ll just be a minute,” Kelly said, and headed for the bathroom to put on the clean underwear. She was in the act of closing the door when she stopped and turned around. “Hey, Daryl?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m guessing that you’re a big Dukes of Hazard fan. Am I right?”

  His eyes widened. “Why…yes, I am. How did you know?”

  Kelly wouldn’t look at Quinn. She couldn’t. Not and maintain her composure.

  “Oh…I don’t know. Women’s intuition, I guess.”

  She could hear Daryl talking as she closed the door behind her. He was saying something to the effect of she might be a little bit psychic and for Quinn to watch out. She didn’t hear Quinn’s answer, which was just as well.

  Ortega hurt, and he wasn’t used to feeling pain, only administering it. Even though he was being given enough morphine to fell an ox, he continued to demand more. In doing so, he also managed to alienate most of the staff. God knew he would rather have been drugged out of his mind than have to deal with this misery. But revenge was a strong taskmaster, and he wanted Kelly Sloan to die—at his hands.

  “So…Mr. Ortega…how are we feeling today?”

  Dominic glared at the doctor who’d just entered his room. His name was Fry. In Ortega’s opinion, it was not a name that demanded respect.

  “We don’t feel anything,” he snarled. “However, I hurt like hell.”

  The nurse handed Ortega’s chart to Dr. Fry.

  “We’ll see what we can do about that,” Fry said, and wrote some new orders on the chart.

  As soon as the nurse left the room, Ortega grabbed the doctor’s arm.

  “When can I be moved?”

  Fry frowned, then removed Ortega’s hand from his wrist. “I’m not sure. Why?”

  “I am not safe here.”

  Dr. Fry smiled. “Of course you are. You were admitted under the name of Howard Jones. No one knows who you are.”

  “You know it,” Ortega said.

  Sam Fry took a step back while fixing Ortega with an angry stare.

  “That sounded like a threat. I am assuming that when you leave you’re aren’t planning on ‘eliminating’ the man who saved your life. Because if you are, I can promise that doing that will raise far more questions than you would want to answer. I cross all kinds of legal lines when I treat men like you. But I’m not stupid. I have my own set of notes. Call them insurance, if you will. Should I die unexpectedly, the contents of my safety deposit box will be of great interest to the authorities.”

  Ortega shifted restlessly in the bed, suddenly realizing it wasn’t smart to threaten the man responsible for his welfare.

  “I am not a monster. I did not mean that the way it sounded,” Ortega said. “Of course you are in no danger.”

  Fry arched an eyebrow and then nodded.

  “That’s good to know…. However, just so we understand each other, this only works if both sides keep their word.”

  “Yes, certainly,” Ortega muttered.

  “The nurse should be here shortly with your injection. I’ve increased the dosage a bit, but not much. Truthfully, you need to start weaning yourself from the painkillers, not demanding more.”

  “You never did tell me when I could leave,” Ortega asked.

  Dr. Fry patted him on the leg. “We’ll know more tomorrow, okay?”

  Ortega wanted to slit his throat. Instead he smiled and nodded. “Yes. Okay.” But as soon as the doctor left, Ortega picked up the phone and made a call. There was only one way to find out for sure if Kelly Sloan was alive. He would put a bounty on her head that would bring her out of hiding and force her to run.

  Quinn and Kelly were circling each other like snarling dogs. A day and a half of being shut up together with nothing but the television and a worn-out pack of cards to keep them occupied was wearing thin. Added to the discomfort of the situation were Kelly’s healing cuts and bruises. She was stiff and sore and had yet to be completely rid of the headache from the cut in her scalp. They’d been eating takeout food and sleeping in the same bed with a pillow between them. It was by no means a perfect situation, and with each passing hour, their fragile détente was coming undone.

  Quinn leaned over Kelly’s shoulder and pointed. “Red four on a black five.”

  “There’s a reason this is called Solitaire,” Kelly muttered, even as she slapped the four onto the five.

  “Just trying to help,” Quinn said.

  “I don’t need any help,” she countered.

  Quinn flopped backward onto the bed and reached for the remote, aiming it at the television as he muttered beneath his breath.

  Kelly frowned. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear what you said.”

  “I said…obviously you do need help, or you wouldn’t be losing to yourself.”

  It was the last straw. In a fit of frustration, Kelly swiped the cards into a pile, then flung them onto the bed, showering Quinn with the entire deck.

  There were several long moments of silence; then Quinn moved a card from his mouth.

  “Was it something I said?”

&
nbsp; Before Kelly could answer, the telephone rang.

  “Saved by the bell,” she muttered, and shoved her hands through her hair in frustration as Quinn rolled toward the phone and picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Quinn, it’s me.”

  “Hey, Daryl, what’s up?”

  “I heard something at the bar today that you need to know.”

  Suddenly Quinn was all business. He sat up on the side of the bed, ignoring the cards that fell to the floor.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  “Heard a couple of wanna-be badasses talking about a million-dollar contract that’s gone out for whoever can find and kill a certain DEA agent.”

  Quinn’s stomach turned as he looked at Kelly. A million dollars? This wasn’t good. Their days of “playing house” were over.

  Kelly could tell by the look on his face that something was seriously wrong.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  Quinn held up his hand, indicating that she should wait as he finished the call.

  “I’m thinking you two need to find some new scenery,” Daryl said.

  “Yes, I’m thinking you’re right,” Quinn said. “And, Daryl…thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Just take care of yourselves.”

  “The best that we can,” he said, and hung up the phone.

  “Damn it, McCord. Talk to me,” Kelly said.

  “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “There’s a million-dollar contract out on you.”

  Kelly flinched. “Then Ortega is alive.”

  “You don’t know that for sure,” Quinn said.

  “Sure I do,” she said. “He’s the only one who has a vested interest in seeing me dead.”

  Quinn reached for her, but Kelly pulled away and strode toward the closet.

  “What are you doing?” Quinn asked.

  “Packing.”

  “You can use my suitcase. It’s big enough to hold all our things.”

  Kelly stopped, then slowly turned around.

  “What do you mean our?”