In Bed with Boone. Linda Winstead Jones

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ