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  Kelly flinched as if she’d just been struck.

  “What guys? What boat?”

  Quinn silently cursed his big mouth. He hadn’t intended to mention that, simply because it was probably nothing; then he reminded himself that it was her life that was at stake. She had a right to know all the facts.

  “When I was driving away from the beach, I saw one of those speed boats…the kind they call cigarette boats. It was cruising pretty close to the shore.”

  “Was it going fast or slow?” she asked.

  “Slow.”

  “Damn it.”

  “Do you think it was some of Ortega’s men?” Quinn asked.

  “You talking about Dominic Ortega?” Daryl asked.

  Kelly sighed. “Just forget I said that, will you?”

  Daryl frowned. “I’m thinkin’ you two need a keeper. He’s bad business.”

  “He’s my business,” Kelly said. “Both of you back off.” Then she added, “But thank you for the food.”

  Daryl eyed her cautiously, then looked at Quinn. “I don’t think you should have fed her. She’s turning real mean.”

  “She’s going to get even meaner if we don’t get her some stuff to wear,” Quinn said.

  Daryl looked nervous. “What do you mean we? I don’t know how to shop for no girl.”

  Kelly turned on Quinn. “Damn it, McCord. You need to quit running my life. I can shop for myself.”

  “See…she wants to shop for herself,” Daryl said.

  “And what if one of Ortega’s men sees you? What if they’re already in Galveston asking around? What then, Ms. DEA? If you get yourself killed, you’re going to screw up your friend’s trial big time.”

  Kelly frowned. Damn the man for being right.

  “Okay, fine. Just find a Wal-Mart and do your best, Daryl. I’ll write down my sizes. At least everything I need will be under one roof.”

  “What do you mean…everything?” Daryl asked.

  “I’ll make the list. If you can’t find some of the stuff, ask an employee. They’ll help you find it.”

  Daryl blanched. “Just don’t tell me it’s your time of the month, cause I swear to God, friend or no friend, I’m not buyin’ anything that comes under the heading of feminine hygiene.”

  Kelly grinned, then surprised both men by giving Daryl a quick hug.

  “Daryl, my man, this is your lucky day. I am in no need of anything quite so personal.”

  “Thank the Lord,” Daryl muttered, then glared at Quinn. “Why don’t you go buy the stuff and I’ll stay here with her?”

  “Because…if anyone did see my truck and put two and two together, they’ll be looking for me. And if they see me, then follow me back to Kelly, we’re both dead. Right?”

  Daryl’s shoulders slumped. “Right. I’ll just sit right here and wait for the list.”

  He flopped down on the side of the bed as Kelly began writing. A few moments later, she handed him the piece of paper.

  “I really appreciate this, and I’ll pay you back as soon as I can get my hands on some money.”

  Daryl stood, read the list slowly to himself, then shook his head.

  “No need paying me back. I’m happy to help you, honey. Really I am. I’ll be back in a while with your things.”

  “Take your time, Daryl. We’ve got some plans of our own to make,” Quinn said.

  Kelly refrained from arguing until the old man was gone. Then she turned on Quinn.

  “You have no jurisdiction in this,” she said.

  “I’m not going with you as a cop.”

  She frowned. “You just lost your partner, remember? You’re supposed to be getting some R and R.”

  “I’m not likely to forget Frank is dead,” Quinn said. “As for R and R, I don’t believe in it. All it is, is more time to dwell on things you can’t change. I’d rather be doing something productive, like keeping your hard little head in one piece. Okay?”

  Kelly hesitated. She hated to admit it, but having someone at her back was becoming more of a necessity than she would have preferred.

  “Okay. But I’m still the one in charge.”

  “Honey, I’ve never met a woman who wasn’t.”

  She glared. “If we’re going to do this without coming to blows, you’re going to have to stop calling me honey.”

  Quinn’s eyebrows rose. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Well, all right, then, but I didn’t think we’d known each other quite long enough for darlin’. However, I’m man enough to admit I was wrong.”

  “Damn it, McCord. I’m serious.”

  Quinn flipped a loose strand of hair away from her face and then winked.

  “I know, darlin’. So am I.”

  Chapter 3

  After giving up the only bed in the room to Kelly, Quinn was sleeping on the floor. Or, it would be fairer to say, he was lying on the floor. He had yet to fall asleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he kept seeing that boat in his rearview mirror and the trio of men with binoculars standing at the rail. They had probably gotten the tag number and make of his truck, but it still didn’t link her to him. They could have been tourists. Galveston was a place for tourists, and tourists came seaward as well as landward, but his first impression had been that they were searching for something—or someone. And given Kelly’s story, it was most likely her.

  It had also occurred to him that if Ortega was dead, his men would most likely have headed back to Mexico to regroup. A new leader would have to be named within the organization, and new plans would have to be made. But if they were searching for her, someone had given the order to do so, which could mean that Ortega wasn’t dead. Muscle didn’t make decisions or seek retribution. The men behind the brawn took orders and meted them out. It took brains and organization for that to happen, which meant someone was still in charge.

  The fact that they’d seen his truck made him nervous. But he was almost positive they hadn’t seen her with him, which was the only way they could link him to the missing DEA agent. He wanted to believe he’d been seen as nothing but a fisherman, but, in law enforcement, assuming could get you killed.

  But Quinn was a careful man, so he lay near the door, listening to the comings and goings of vehicles out in the parking lot and making sure that the footsteps he heard on the walkway outside the door did not linger too long in his vicinity.

  Kelly went to sleep, unaware of Quinn’s concerns. Knowing he was an officer of the law might have given her a false sense of security, but for tonight she didn’t care. Tomorrow she would begin to make plans to get to D.C. Tonight, she was willing to let Quinn McCord be her eyes and ears to the world.

  * * *

  It was just after midnight when Quinn heard her moan. He remembered closing his eyes just to give them a rest, but he must have drifted off to sleep. The terror in her voice was enough to bring him to a rude awakening. He came to in a heartbeat, with his pistol in his hand, only to realize that they were still alone and she was having a bad dream.

  With his heart still thumping from the adrenaline rush, he laid the gun on the floor and hurried to the bed where she was sleeping. She was moaning and shaking, muttering words he couldn’t understand. He thought of her head wound. Although it hadn’t seemed all that serious, he worried that she had suffered a concussion after all. Regretting his decision not to take her to a doctor, he gently laid the back of his hand against her cheek to test for fever, then smoothed back the hair from her face. Instead of comfort, his touch set off her panic.

  She moaned. “Not the knife… God, please…not the knife.” Then she began pushing at his hands.

  Quinn cursed beneath his breath. Sorry that he’d frightened her, he had no option now but to awaken her and let her know she was safe. He cupped her shoulders and gave her a slight shake.

  “Kelly… Kelly…wake up. You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re just having a bad dream.”

  She gasped long and loud, as if surfacing from watery depths for a l
ife-giving gulp of air, then sat up in bed.

  “Where…?”

  “It’s me. Quinn. You’re safe, remember?”

  Kelly stared, as if memorizing every facet of his features, then covered her face.

  “Crap,” she said.

  He chuckled as he slipped a finger beneath a stray lock of hair and lifted it from her eyes.

  “Know something, Sloan?”

  Kelly looked up, defiance back in her voice. “I know a lot of somethings.”

  His smile widened. “You are my kind of woman.”

  “What kind of woman is that?”

  “A woman of few words.”

  Kelly resisted the urge to snort. “You are so full of it,” she muttered, then swung her legs off the bed as she stood.

  Quinn got a better than average look at her shapely little butt before she strode past him and into the bathroom, shutting the door firmly between them. He would have asked her to explain herself, but he was pretty sure he wouldn’t like her answer. A few seconds later he heard the shower come on and then the hard spray of water hitting the back of the stall.

  He frowned. She’d already had two baths. He was at the point of thinking she had some kind of cleanliness phobia. He sat for a few moments, wondering how long this would take. Then the softness of the mattress enticed him. He would lie down only until she came back. After that, it would be back to the floor.

  He didn’t know it, but it had been the dream that had sent Kelly back to the shower. Just the memory of Jose Garza’s leer and Dominic Ortega’s hands on her body had been enough to make her want to puke—never mind what they’d done to her in the name of revenge. As she stood beneath the spray, letting the water cool her heated flesh, she wondered if she would ever feel clean again.

  A short while later she emerged to find the Ranger sprawled across two-thirds of the bed.

  “Great,” she muttered, then winced as the motion of her body sent pain rocketing through her bones.

  Obviously sleeping on the floor was impossible. Not until whatever Ortega had broken in her could heal. She walked to the side of the bed, staring down in the darkness. Quinn McCord was good-looking, if you liked the dark-haired, dark-eyed, smart-ass type, which she told herself she did not. And he was trim and leggy, with strong bones and well-defined muscles. Then she rolled her eyes and resisted the urge to snort.

  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.