Linda Jones - In Bed with Boone

Boone turned around to see that Jayne stood at the window, tugging frantically at the lower frame. He closed the door and leaned against it, watching her with a shake of his head.

“It’s painted shut,” he informed her.

She gave one last tug and spun to face him, her eyes red and her cheeks flushed. It hit him, for the first time, how very small she was. Not thin, but short—no more than five foot two—and delicately shaped. Beneath the hem of her straight skirt was a pair of nice legs. Up the length of her body she sported easy curves.

“We need to talk,” he said softly. “Sit down.”

She shook her head.

“Please,” he said, calling on every little bit of patience he had left. “Please sit down. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I imagine you think I should be flattered,” she said, trying to sound strong and falling far short. “Am I supposed to be grateful?”

“Well, you would be dead right now if not for me. A little gratitude can’t be too much to ask,” he said in a low voice. His response did nothing to soothe her. She brought a hand to the pearls at her throat, and her breathing changed, became more rapid. He did not need her passing out on him! Calming himself, he raised both hands, palms out. “I swear, I’m not going to touch you. You’re safe with me. Now sit on the bed.”

She moved warily away from the window, and he stepped into her place, making certain the curtains were tightly closed. He didn’t need anyone peeking in, and warning or no warning, he wouldn’t put anything past Doug and Marty. When he turned around, he saw that Jayne had done as he asked and was perching prettily on the edge of the bed.

“We need to talk,” he said, “but first…”

Her eyes grew wide as he stepped around her to the head of the bed, gripping one corner of the headboard in his hand. He sighed tiredly. How to explain? Best just to do what he had to do.

While Jayne sat warily on the side of the mattress, Boone banged the headboard against the wall. Once. Twice. A third time. He waited a moment, then began again, in a steady rhythm this time. Eyes pinned on the woman, he banged the cheap headboard against the wall over and over.

“You could help,” he whispered.

She shook her head. “Help with what?”

“Make a little noise. Pretend to be enjoying yourself.”

“I will not,” she said indignantly.

With his free hand, Boone reached out and grabbed Jayne’s wrist. As he’d suspected she would, she squealed. He smiled. “That’ll do.”

Jayne clamped her mouth shut and pursed her lips. Oh, she was cute when she got mad. Of course, she’d been mad since he’d met her. Mad and scared.

He sped up the rhythm of the headboard banging against the wall. “Do it again,” he ordered in a whisper.

“No, I wo—” At an insistent tug that dragged an unwilling Jayne closer to the head of the bed, she squealed once more.

Oh, this was not good. The way he was holding her made her creamy blouse hug her breasts. She was breathing hard, the way she might if this was not pretend. Her fiery green eyes were latched onto his. And the banging of the headboard reminded him of what he was pretending to do. The rhythm, the shaking of the bed… “One more time, sugar.”

“Don’t call me—”

He hauled her off the bed so that she came to her feet and ran smack-dab into his bare chest. This time she screamed. Boone whacked the headboard against the wall three more times for good measure, and then he quit.

Jayne glanced up at him, suspicious and still frightened. But then, they hadn’t had their little talk yet, so she was less than fully informed.

“Was it good for you?” he whispered.

In answer she slapped him across the cheek, hard and solid.

Jayne realized, as the sound of the slap reverberated in the air, that she should not have hit him. Still, she wasn’t sorry.

He laid a big hand over the red mark she’d made on his face. “Sit,” he said.

She did, and again he paced in front of her. She wasn’t as afraid as she had been. He had only pretended to…well, he’d pretended, and he said they needed to talk. About what? Ah, likely he was interested in her offer of money from her father.

“My daddy will pay you anything…”

“Let’s leave your daddy out of this, shall we?” Becker said testily. “I’m trying to figure things out.”

“Figure what out?”

“What to do with you, sugar.”

Jayne bit her lower lip. There were worse things to be called than sugar, she supposed.

Finally Becker stopped pacing and stood before her, bare-chested, bigger than most men, all muscle and hair and tight jeans and penetrating eyes. There was something intimidating about him. Something intense. Of course he was intimidating!

“Can I trust you?” he asked, the question seeming to be more for himself than for her. “God, what a mess.” He then began to mumble a string of profanity that had Jayne blushing.

“Do you mind?” she finally asked.

“Do I mind what?”

“Don’t curse.”

He actually grinned. “We are in so much trouble I can’t see a way out, and you’re worried about my language?”

“There’s no reason to be crude.”

“Sugar, crude is my middle name.”

Jayne wrinkled her nose. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

Becker sat beside her, and Jayne scooted away. But she didn’t jump up, which had been her first instinct. If he had planned to hurt her, he would have done so by now. Still, she felt too small sitting next to him, and a little distance wouldn’t hurt.

Voice lowered, Becker leaned close. “I’m here undercover.”

A surge of relief washed through her. “Oh, thank God. DEA? FBI? You must have some way to call in backup or something, right? There are probably a bunch of agents out there in the dark, waiting for your signal so they can storm the house. Right?”

He laid dark eyes on her and sighed. “No backup. I’m a private investigator, and I’m here on my own.”

Her relief was short-lived. “No backup?”

He shook his head.

Jayne was determined to make the best of the situation. “But you’re not one of them, not a…a bad guy, and you can get me out of here, right?”

“Eventually.”

“What do you mean, eventually? Those men killed Jim, and they almost killed me—”

“Your friend’s not dead,” Becker interrupted. “He’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. But I need a few more days.”

She shook her head. “But—”

“I’m not going to blow three months of work just to get your pretty little ass out of here.”

“But—”

“Don’t ask me to throw away everything I’ve done to this point because you were foolish or unlucky enough to stumble onto Darryl’s drug deal.”

“Can’t you sneak me out of here and make it look like I escaped?”

Becker shook his head. “I don’t think so. Darryl would come after you for sure. If I keep you close, if we…make them think you don’t mind being close, I think I can keep you alive until I’m done here.”

“You think? How comforting.”

“It’s the best I’ve got right now.”

She studied his face for a moment, the lines and the tense set of his jaw. Should she tell him who her father was? Maybe not. Wouldn’t make any difference, and he might think she was trying to use the family name to get him to change his plan and get her out of here tonight, his three months’ work unimportant in the light of her father’s public and political stature.

“Is Becker your real name?”

He shook his head.

“Are you going to tell me your real name?”

He sighed. “Boone, but don’t use it outside this room. For the duration, I’m Richard Becker.”

“Is Boone your first name or your last?”

“Does it matter?”

Jayne sighed. She could feel her body relaxing, unwinding, ratcheting down. She’d survived. With this man’s help she’d continue to survive. “I’d like to know.”

“Boone Sinclair, private investigator, ma’am.” He offered his hand.

Jayne cautiously took it. “Jayne Barrington.”

The threat momentarily gone, Jayne saw Boone in a whole new light. The strength that had been menacing became consoling. His dark good looks were suddenly interesting, rather than intimidating. They shook hands briefly, Boone’s big hand gentle around hers, the contact unexpectedly comforting.

“Jim’s really not dead?”

Boone shook his head. “Darryl winged him. He’s lost some blood.” A smile flitted across a hard face. “I think your friend fainted.”

A shiver worked down Jayne’s spine. “I thought he was dead.”

“Don’t worry,” Boone growled. “You’ll be out of here and comforting him in no time.”

She shook her head. “No. In truth, I barely know Jim.” She settled her eyes on his, dark and deep and unreadable. “Blind date.”

“How did you end up on Springer Road?”

“We were on our way to a party and got lost.” She couldn’t believe her luck. If Boone Sinclair hadn’t been there, if he hadn’t rescued her, she’d be dead now. Her grandmother would say that Boone was an angel sent to save her. That it had been no accident that he’d been there, working undercover. She smiled.

“What are you grinning about?” He dipped his head and looked into her eyes. “You’re not going to lose it on me, are you?”

Jayne shook her head. “No. It’s just that…you don’t look at all like an angel.”

“Trust me,” he said in a low voice. “I’m not.”

She tried not to stare at his bare chest. He didn’t seem to mind at all sitting here, half-naked, broader and more muscled than an ordinary man. “What are you doing here? I didn’t know private investigators could do undercover work.”

That got a half grin out of him. “I didn’t say it was legal.”

Jayne pursed her lips slightly. As a politician’s daughter, she’d lived all her life under a microscope. Every detail, every decision, every move properly scrutinized. She couldn’t even leave the house without carefully checking her clothes, makeup and hair. To disregard the law with a smile…she couldn’t even imagine.

Boone frowned. “I see you don’t approve.”

“It’s just…I’m sure you have your reasons.” In truth, she didn’t care why he was here. Just that he was.

“I do.”

Jayne sighed. Boone had been honest with her. It was the least she could do for him.

“My father—”

“Can’t we leave Daddy out of this?” Boone said again.

Jayne looked him in the eye. “I don’t think so.” He waited for her to continue. Eyes steady, chest bare, dark hair hanging over his shoulders. “My father is a United States senator. From Mississippi,” she added. “Augustus Barrington.”

He remained silent.

“Jim and I were on our way to a party given by a potential supporter who might go a long way in aiding my father financially should he decide to run for…a higher office.”

Boone didn’t so much as move. Did he even breathe?

“My disappearance is going to cause an uproar,” she went on. “A big one. My father will do his best to get every government agency available on the job. So we have until morning. Maybe.”

Boone ran one hand through his hair and let loose with an even viler string of profanity than before. He didn’t look at her, but stared at the floor and the wall and the window as he cursed.

“Mr. Sinclair,” she chided softly, censure in her soft voice, “do you mind?”

He fixed his gaze on her again and responded succinctly with the most foul of forbidden words.