Hush (31 page)

Otherwise, that course of action would do more harm than good.

Picking Margaret up would alarm and alienate Riley. It would also alert her to the fact that she and Margaret were under close surveillance. And increasing suspicion.

Which could be counted on to make Riley far less easy to keep tabs on, as well as far less likely to cooperate with the government (in other words, him).

For now, it was better to go with what was already in the works: while the team that had been deployed to find and rescue Emma did its job, he would take Riley to George and see if she could worm the whereabouts of the money out of him.

If she could do that, they could all go home happy.

If she couldn't—well, then he would work from there.

A vibration on the cell phone in his pocket had him casting a quick glance at Riley before checking it.

She'd fallen asleep. A look reassured him that, no, she wasn't faking it to get out of talking to him. Her body was totally relaxed, with her hands lying limply in her lap. Her head rested against the headrest. Her face was turned toward him, bright hair tucked behind an ear, long dark lashes resting against soft cheeks, rosy lips slightly parted.

She didn't snore—and hadn't last night, he'd been lying about that—but her breathing was deep with an occasional catch in it.

She was wary of him, he knew, but still she trusted him enough to go to sleep in his company.

That touched a chord in him. He acknowledged that it did with reluctance.

Careful,
he thought with wry comprehension of his own susceptibility.
She's beautiful, she's vulnerable—and you're a guy.

It was a combination that had brought down whole kingdoms.

His phone vibrated again, and, glad to have his thoughts interrupted, he scooped it out of his pocket to see the message he was expecting: A1.

An arrangement to hand off the SIM card for analysis at a prearranged spot had just been confirmed.

He didn't have to reply, didn't have to do anything but show up.

The exit he wanted was some fifty miles up the road. He'd let her sleep until then.

His eyes slid over her again. Her posture, in conjunction with the neckline of her dress, allowed him a nice glimpse of some pretty spectacular cleavage. Her breasts curved enticingly toward
him, with just a hint of her nipples pressing against the thin fabric of her dress. Her waist was slim above the loose skirt that hid her killer legs.

The shaft of desire that went through him simply from looking at her caught him by surprise. That was his body reacting spontaneously, and with an intensity that made him grit his teeth and tighten his hands around the steering wheel. A damned glance, and he wanted her so much he ached with it.

Not good
. Even worse: the instantaneous memory of how she felt in his arms, how soft and silky her skin was beneath his hands and lips, how hotly she'd kissed him.

He had no doubt at all that she would be even hotter in bed.

The ache intensified to the point where it was almost unbearable. Faced with the unwanted boner from hell, he found himself in the miserable position where all he could do about it was wish he was wearing looser pants.

That
was the effect she had on him. He cursed himself for being a fool, and a horny one besides.

Then his gaze found the bruises on the side of Riley's throat that her bright hair didn't quite hide. Another small bruise was visible on her shoulder, peeking out from beneath the strap of her dress. And her legs were bruised, too, he knew, although he couldn't see the marks.

At the sight of those ugly discolorations on her smooth skin, Finn felt a flush of cold anger that didn't quell but at least redirected his present bad case of burning lust. He didn't like seeing women get hurt, but that wasn't the source of this sudden urge he felt to commit extreme violence on the perpetrators. The thing
was, the bruises on Riley felt personal. She might be, as he was beginning to fear, up to her neck in George's scheme, but it didn't matter: she had his protection now. The next asshole who tried to hurt her was going to have to go through him.

And he would take the motherfucker apart.

What that said about the state of his relationship with Riley he refused to think about. Instead, he kept his gaze focused on the road, and turned his thoughts to exactly how he was going to find the damned money if Riley's visit to George didn't pan out.

Ten minutes later, they reached the designated exit, and he pulled off the interstate. Not far outside of Dallas, it was one of those freeway pit stops with a Super 8 motel, a Denny's, a McDonald's, a couple of gas stations, and not much else.

He had a date to meet an intelligence operative in the Shell station's men's room.

T
he ladies' room at the Shell station was on the side of the building, accessible from the parking lot. The door was brown metal, the inside was grungy and smelly, there were no windows, and it had two stalls. Finn walked in behind her, totally oblivious to both her protest and the havoc his presence might have caused if anyone else had been in there, and checked both stalls and the rest of the room to make sure it was empty.

Leaning against the sink, arms folded over her chest, Riley watched him with a mixture of speculation and alarm.

Would a man who was thinking about hurting her go to this much trouble to make sure she was safe?

He backtracked to the door, checked to make sure it had a lock that worked. It did.

“What, do you think some kind of bad guy might follow me in here?” Panicky visions of how quickly Emma's kidnapping had gone down flashed in her mind's eye, only to be immediately
dismissed: she wouldn't be able to function at all if she allowed herself to think of that.

He shrugged. “I don't, but why chance it? Lock the door behind me, and don't come out, or open it for anyone, and I mean anyone, until I come back and you're sure it's me. Got it?”

His expression told her how serious he was. She'd been feeling a little drowsy from her nap in the car, a little achy, a little out of it, but now this reminder of present danger snapped her wide awake.

She nodded as a thrill of apprehension raced through her. “Got it.”

“Good.” He exited, pulling the door shut behind him. As it closed the last inch or so he added, “Lock it.”

She did. He tried the knob—the door didn't budge—as a test, then gave a single sharp rap on the door and said, “I'll be back.”

Everything she needed to do, including tidying her hair and refreshing her makeup, could be accomplished in minutes. She did it. After that, she waited.

The knob rattled once, which made her stiffen and stare at the door, but no one spoke and whoever it was went away. Not, she concluded, Finn.

By the time he announced his return with a knock and an unmistakable “It's me,” she was beyond antsy.

Pulling open the door and walking through it into the wall of heat and car exhaust smells and sounds of traffic that were typical service-station-during-a-Texas-summer stuff, she frowned up at him.

“I was getting worried.”

Unexpectedly, that uptick of a smile of his teased her. “About me?”

She was stepping off the curb, heading for the car, and his hand slid around her upper arm right above her elbow. It was an automatic masculine courtesy that she'd experienced many times from many different men, but this time was different. She was acutely aware of the warmth and strength of that hand, and how good it felt against her bare skin. She was acutely aware of
him
, and how good it felt to have him beside her, her shoulder brushing his arm, her steps matched with his. A big, bad federal agent who was acting as her own personal bodyguard.
Remember the picture,
she warned herself, and she did, but even that didn't keep her from being glad he was with her.

How she would have gotten through this without him she couldn't imagine.

She also couldn't imagine him hurting her. But then again, she reminded herself severely, maybe that was just because she lacked imagination.

“About me,” she clarified tartly, irritable because she was feeling totally conflicted. “I was starting to worry that I'd be stuck in that bathroom forever. What took you so long?”

“Angel, you don't want to know.”

Angel?
She cast another swift look up at him, not irritable at all now, but he appeared unaware that he'd said anything out of the ordinary as he walked her to the car and opened the passenger door for her.

When he closed it behind her and walked around the front of the car to get in, she watched him with a little bit of trouble in her expression, even as she pulled on her seat belt.

That
angel
uttered in his dark, gravelly voice had done funny things to her insides. Looking at him as he walked around the
car did funny things to her insides. She'd never particularly liked big, muscular men. She'd certainly never liked bossy, aggressive, overtly masculine ones. Her taste had run toward lean, debonair, smooth-talking types.

Tastes change
.

It was a scary thought.

As he got in beside her, started the car, and began pulling out of the lot, she was way too aware of him. Aware of the amount of space he took up, and of how, at, she discovered with a glance at the dashboard clock, not quite 1 p.m. his jaw was already starting to darken with the first faint signs of stubble. She was aware of the springy thickness of his short, coffee-colored hair, and the less than delicate contours of his hard cheekbones and straight nose, and the stern lines of his mouth.

He must have felt her gaze on him, because he glanced her way. The Ray-Bans were tucked into the breast pocket of his jacket, and what she was suddenly aware of most of all was the cool blue-gray of his eyes.

To her bemusement, her heart started beating just a little bit faster as she met them.

“You hungry?” he asked. The prosaic question smacked her right back down to earth, thank God.

Riley started to shake her head—the mention of food gave her an instant flash-thought of Emma, who at best was certain to be so upset and frightened that she wouldn't be able to eat even if whoever had her provided her with food—but then she reminded herself that she had to keep herself strong in order to do what she needed to do.

“Sure.” They were on the road that led to the freeway ramp,
and she cast a look around. The pickings were slim. “Denny's or McDonald's?”

“Your call.”

“McDonald's.” She wasn't enthused, but she'd eaten plenty of McDonald's over the course of her life and she could do it again.

He pulled in to the McDonald's and got in line at the drive-thru. When he ordered a large coffee for himself in addition to the food, she frowned at him and realized that he was looking tired. Of course, he'd gotten approximately the same amount of sleep she had—not much—and hadn't had the advantage of being able to nap in the car.

“I can drive for a while, if you want to rest,” she offered, when he settled her Diet Coke into a cup holder in the console between the seats, handed the rest of the bagged food to her, then took a long, appreciative swallow of coffee as he pulled away from the window.

She took the snort with which he answered that as a big
no
.

“Macho much?” she asked with a disdainful lift of her eyebrows as he stopped at the edge of the parking lot to let a semi rattle on by.

“You want to drive?” Settling the coffee into the empty cup holder, he pulled out onto the road and headed toward the on-ramp. “I'd be glad to let you—if you think you can evade a carful of armed goons trying to force us off the road, or keep the car on the pavement in case someone should shoot out a tire, or—”

“Seriously? Are you expecting something like that to happen?” Riley had been lifting the food out of the sack and unwrapping
it, and the smell of burgers and fries now filled the car. She paused in the act to look at him with widening eyes. Then, unable to help herself, she cast a nervous look at the vehicles around them as they merged into the traffic on the expressway.

“Probably not.” He plucked the Big Mac she'd been holding suspended out of its wrapper and her hand, and bit into it with obvious relish. “But just in case, we're both better off if I'm behind the wheel.”

“Fine. I only offered because I thought you looked tired.” While he was devouring the first of his two Big Macs like he was starving, she was looking at her plain hamburger with near distaste. The knot in her stomach that had been there since the previous night made her almost afraid to try it.

“If I do, it's because your snoring kept me awake.” He was busy chewing, but the faint deepening of the lines around his eyes told her that he was teasing her. They were barreling down the expressway by this time, tucked in among pickup trucks and semis and passenger cars zooming in and out of the four lanes of traffic. Ordinarily, she might have been nervous to find herself traveling at such speed with a man at the wheel who was busily engaged in devouring his lunch, but, she discovered, she had every confidence in Finn. Or in his driving, at least.

She would have argued again that she didn't snore, but that seemed like a waste of breath. Instead, she took a small bite of her burger and forced herself to chew. Swallowing required an act of real willpower, and she followed up with a quick drink of Diet Coke to wash it down. Her inability to eat had nothing to do with the food, and everything to do with Emma: she was so afraid that—

“Stop worrying.” His tone made it an order. “If it makes you feel any better, the team searching for your sister-in-law has a promising lead on that van. The route they took away from the scene went right past an ATM, and the vehicle was caught on video.”

Riley stared at him, transfixed, as hope bloomed inside her. Then her eyes narrowed suspiciously. He was telling her that because, once again, he'd clearly been able to read her like a book.