Operation Midnight. Justine Davis

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      He felt another inner jolt, a flash of heat and interest, more intense than the first time, fired further by thoughts of that mouth. He clamped down on it harder, angry at himself; he never let anything interfere on a job. It was why jobs kept coming.

      “Then you should know he can hold it longer. How do you think they wait all night inside a house?”

      “I never thought about it,” he said, although now that she’d said it, it sparked his curiosity. “Why can they?”

      She seemed startled by the question. But she answered reasonably. “My guess is it’s because when they were wild, they had to, to hide from predators. Now will you please find me a bathroom?”

      “Hold it,” he repeated.

      “I’m a human, not a wild animal,” she snapped.

      “You think humans weren’t wild once?”

      “Some,” she said pointedly, “still are.”

      He ignored the jab. “So hold it,” he said a third time, trusting his instincts and her body language that this was just a ruse to get out of the helicopter and onto the ground, where she likely figured she could make a run for it. Not a bad plan, and just about the only one possible given her circumstances.

      “Humans haven’t needed that talent since we hit the top of the food chain,” she said.

      Oh, yeah, a mouth. And a quick wit. If he wasn’t otherwise occupied, he’d like to find out just what else went on in that mind of hers.

      And he interrupted his own thoughts before they could slide back to that mouth.

      Teague was back then, announcing they were all fueled up. As he started to climb back into the pilot’s seat, the woman turned her plea on him. The younger man looked startled, then disconcerted, and Quinn had to admire the way she switched to the younger, possibly more vulnerable target.

      “Bathroom?” Teague echoed. He flicked a glance at Quinn.

      “She can wait.”

      “How would you know?” There was the faintest change in her voice. Her snappishness had an undertone now, just a slight flicker. But he recognized it; he’d heard it too often not to.

      Fear.

      Now that he thought about it, it was somewhat amazing that it hadn’t been there before. Something he should remember, he told himself. She doesn’t scare easy, or she hides it very well.

      “You’ll wait.”

      “Want a mess in your pretty helicopter if we’re in the air when I can’t?”

      “Then I’ll push you out.” She drew back, eyes widening. He pressed the point. “Or maybe the dog.”

      She gasped, as if that thought horrified her even more. And there’s my lever, he thought, as her reaction confirmed what he had suspected from the moment he’d seen her racing across that stretch of open yard after the animal. She’d risk herself, but not the dog. She’d protect him, no matter what.

      He pounded the point home.

      “He won’t save as much gas as you would, but maybe some.”

      She stared at him, saying nothing, but he could almost hear her mind racing, trying to analyze and assess if he really meant what he’d just said.

      “Get us out of here, Teague,” he said, and reached for the headphones. He put them on before they were really necessary, and pretended not to hear her call him an epithet he’d last heard from the lips of his ex-wife. Except she’d said it sadly, ruefully, whereas there was nothing but venom in this woman’s low, husky voice.

      Still fighting, he thought, but not stupidly. She didn’t try anything she was doomed to lose, like getting past him, or striking at him.

      He filed the knowledge away in his head as he settled into his cramped spot on the floor, shifting once to avoid pressure on the spot on his left leg where she had kicked him. She’d fought hard. He was lucky she hadn’t gotten his knee—or worse—with that blow, or he’d be gimping around for two or three days. As it was, he was going to be feeling it for at least that long.

      And if looks could kill, he’d already be dead.

       Chapter Four

      This wasn’t the first time Hayley wished she had a better sense of direction. Without the little compass reading in her car’s rearview mirror, she’d never know which way she was going, unless she was headed into a rising or setting sun.

      She wasn’t sure a good sense on the ground would translate to a good one in the air, however. And while she was sure this beast must have a compass, it was situated where she couldn’t see it from back here, so she had no idea which way they were headed. They’d changed direction more than once, and she was completely lost now.

      Her sense of time passing was pretty good, though, and she guessed they’d been airborne this second time over a couple of hours. Almost as long as the first leg, which she had pegged at around three hours. So they were better than five hours away from Vicente’s front yard, and her own little house among the trees. A long time in cramped quarters; even Quinn had shifted so he could stretch out his long legs on the floor of the craft.

      I hope your butt’s numb by now, she thought uncharitably. Even if it is a very nice one.

      She quashed the traitorous thought; not every bad guy was a troll, after all. The world would be in much better shape if they were, of course, but life was never that simple. If they were the good guys, surely they would have pulled out a badge and shown it to her by now, to ensure her cooperation?

      She tried to puzzle out at least how far they’d come, but she had no idea how fast they were flying, and without that crucial factor of the equation, what she did know was useless.

      The only thing she knew for sure was that her dog was about at the end of his considerable patience. He’d begun to squirm again about a half hour after they’d taken off the second time, clearly wanting down off her lap. Since it was awkward, overheating and by this time generally uncomfortable to hold the animal, who seemed to get heavier with every passing moment, she’d looked for a space to let him down. But there was little, not with Quinn on the floor in front of her.

      It occurred to her she should just dump the adoring Cutter in the man’s lap. That perhaps she should have done that while they were on the ground, then maybe she could have gotten to the door while he disentangled himself.

      But that had never really been an option. The man still had a gun, and he’d already threatened to pitch the dog overboard. That had been when they’d still been on the ground, but she wouldn’t put it past the steely-eyed man to do it when they were airborne.

      Cutter squirmed again. He gave it extra effort this time, and it worked; his hind end slipped off her knees and she couldn’t stop him. He gave a final twist and she had to let go or risk hurting him. And in the next moment, he was exactly where she’d thought of pitching him; in Quinn’s lap.

      Her heart leaped into her СКАЧАТЬ