Sudden Death

CHAPTER TWENTY

Jack could sleep anywhere, anyplace, anytime-except during take-off and landing.

Megan didn’t have that problem.

She’d fallen asleep as soon as he leveled off after taking off from Joshua Tree. Two hours, fifteen minutes later, he’d landed near Cortez, Colorado, and she was still sleeping.

The quiet flight time had given Jack the opportunity to reflect on more than Scout’s murder and his brother Patrick coming out of his coma. Jack also spent a lot of time, too much time, watching Megan.

There was something about her …

Her curves. She had one of those tall, hourglass bodies. The kind of curves that a man could dip in and out of. The kind of breasts that begged to be touched, kissed, squeezed.

Long, long legs. Legs too long for her torso, long and muscular. Megan wasn’t fat, but she had the shaped body of an athlete. Hard and soft. Hard muscles covered by soft, soft skin. He pictured her legs naked, moving up and down his legs, uncontrollable.

And damn, but was she smart. It was almost sexy that she didn’t realize how good she was, but it bothered him that she second-guessed herself so often. He didn’t even think she noticed it, it was so ingrained in her. Maybe that was part of being an FBI agent. You weren’t allowed to think for yourself. Sort of like being enlisted in the army. You implement orders. That was your job, your vocation. And if you think too much, you’re screwed.

After they’d landed, he couldn’t resist pulling the clips from her hair. He did it slowly, so as not to wake her. Nothing happened, but he suspected when she sat up, her hair would fall in silky cascades down her back. He touched the bun. Soft. So white. His hands looked nearly black against her hair.

Jack had turned forty last month and in all those years he had never been in love. He’d slept with women, had what might pass as a relationship, and for a time he had a fantasy that his brother’s girlfriend would turn to him instead of Dillon. Not that he wanted Kate. She was too much like him.

But Megan was like him, too … and completely different. She was a bulldog, pushing, thinking, probing … but she also played by the rules. She worked within the system. Jack hated the system. The tired old rules that had forced him to leave innocent people to die.

Megan Elliott was one of them. She may not have made the rules, but she sure as hell followed them. And no matter what Jack saw in her, the internal light that told him she would-she could-be her own person, he suspected that when push came to shove Agent Elliott would sacrifice anyone and anything, including herself, to preserve the damn system.

Yet she had come with him to talk to Price. She had left her security blanket-Dr. Hans Vigo-and joined Jack on a trip into the unknown. She’d attempted to ask for permission, but when it wasn’t forthcoming, she’d made her choice. She might follow the rules, but she was willing to forge her own path.

Jack swallowed uneasily and focused on the controls, double-triple-checking the gauges and system.

Twenty-four hours ago Megan had burst into his life, gun drawn and hackles raised, and now Jack never wanted her to leave.

Shit. What was he thinking? He wasn’t, and that was the problem. He wanted to screw her. That’s all it was, he hadn’t had a good lay in months. Years! The last few women had been … nothing to him. He didn’t even seek out companionship anymore. If someone was willing and able, sure, he’d oblige, but he didn’t pursue any woman.

He wanted Megan in the worst way. He wanted to kiss those pink lips. Top and bottom. He wanted to put his mouth on her breasts, suck her nipples until she squirmed and moved beneath him. Jack wanted to hold her hips as he moved in and out of her, bringing out her passion. He saw in her a fireball ready to combust if he touched just the right spot.

He stifled a groan and willed his dick to settle down. He was only horny because he had a smart, sexy woman sleeping in the cockpit next to him, her lips slightly parted, her lacy little camisole peeking out from under her blouse.

Man, he was in deep shit.

“Wake up already.”

Megan groaned and tried to roll over on her side. Her elbow hit something metal and she jumped, sitting straight up.

It was dark. She looked out the window and saw her reflection. Her hair had fallen out of her bun. She must have been in a rush, her hair never fell out when she put it up. She glanced around, feeling out of sorts.

Jack smiled her way, his dark eyes unreadable.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have fallen asleep.”

“We’re here.”

He rose from the pilot’s seat and walked stooped over to his small overnight bag sitting on one of the seats.

She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and glanced at her watch. Seven-thirty. “Wow, you made fantastic time.”

“Scout kept the Caravan in great shape.”

She hadn’t realized they had been using Scout’s plane. She should have put the plane into evidence, or logged it as part of the victim’s estate, but she didn’t say anything.

She turned in her seat. Jack had pulled off his shirt. His back was to her, marked with scars. She sat on her hands when she almost reached for his deltoids. She swallowed, needing water.

You just woke up. You’re dehydrated.

Right. More excuses. Admit it, Megan, what warmblooded woman wouldn’t want that hard body next to her in bed?

He pulled on a body-hugging black T-shirt, strapped on a shoulder holster, then donned his bomber jacket. Covering up the goods didn’t slow her racing heart. He looked as dangerously sexy clothed as bare-chested. “Do you have a jacket?” he asked.

“What you see is what you get,” she said lightly.

He turned and frowned. “We’re at sixty-two hundred feet. While this area is nice and warm during the day, it gets cold when the sun sets. It’s fifty degrees now, with an expected low of forty-four.”

“You should have told me before we left,” she snapped. “I asked the deputy to take my bag to the motel back in California.”

“I assumed you’d have known that the Colorado mountains weren’t south Texas in April.”

She bit back a response. “I’m fine,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Take my jacket.”

“I’m fine.“ She whipped out her cell phone to dial Hans. She couldn’t get a signal.

“Try later. We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

“Where is nowhere?” she asked as they left the plane.

“A small unmanned airstrip outside Mesa Verde.”

“How’d you land?” There were only two landing lights on the runway she could see.

“I’m good.”

“Where are we going? Should I call the local field office and have someone pick us up?”

Jack laughed. Meg stopped walking and crossed her arms. Damn, he was right. She was freezing.

“Give me your jacket,” she said.

He did. She almost felt bad, except that he was still laughing as he handed it over.

She wished she hadn’t taken his leather jacket. Sure, it was warm, but it smelled like Jack Kincaid. All male. She wanted to sink into his jacket and close her eyes, feeling as if Jack himself was wrapped around her.

“I have it all taken care of.” He walked across the dark airstrip. Megan wanted to protest and demand information; instead she followed.

They’d walked in silence half a mile and came upon a four-wheel-drive pickup. Jack stopped just out of sight of the pickup, then nodded. “It’s Princeton.”

“Who?”

“George Price. Princeton is what Padre called him.”

Megan stopped walking. “He could be a killer. You should have warned me.”

“The killers were in Riverside County this morning. In a vehicle. They couldn’t have driven here in ten hours.”

“Maybe they had a plane!” She didn’t like being brushed off, and she really hated not knowing the game plan. “You should have told me the plan.”

“Padre talked to a mutual friend of Price’s who said he hasn’t left the mountain in years.”

Megan said, “I’m not taking any chances, Jack.”

“Trust me on this one.”

She didn’t want to trust Jack. He wasn’t a cop, he wasn’t a federal agent, and she was the one responsible for stopping these killers before they hurt anyone else.

“I have your back, Blondie.”

“Be careful,” she said.

The corner of his mouth tilted up. The half-smile on Jack’s hard-lined face almost made her heart melt. Almost. She could withstand his overwhelming sex appeal.

That’s what she told herself as she quickly looked away, flushed, and approached the man who might be the real George Price.

Jack reached the truck first, opened the door, and used it as a shield. “Princeton?”

Price looked more or less like the photo the army sent this morning but bald instead of a standard military cut. He sported a gray mustache and trimmed goatee and wore a diamond stud in his left ear, which had certainly not been there five years before.

“You’re not Frank.”

Price had a gun in his hand fast; so did Megan. She aimed it at Price’s head. He had his gun aimed at Jack through the window.

“Don’t even think about it, bitch.”

Jack said, “Jack Kincaid.”

“Kincaid,” Price murmured. “I know of you. And the cop?”

How did he know she was a cop?

“Megan Elliott,” Jack said. “I give you my word no one will know you’re here.”

“I’ve already packed up,” he said, gesturing toward the back of the pickup. “I’m on my way to Timbuktu. You have five minutes. That is, if the cop puts her gun away.”

“You first,” Megan said.

Price didn’t move.

Jack hit Megan’s wrist and disarmed her. She wasn’t expecting it-her entire focus was on Price. She felt betrayed and hurt.

And genuinely pissed off.

Jack had her gun and held it butt out to Price. The AWOL soldier nodded with a half grin, and Jack returned the gun to her. “Put it away, Megan.”

“Ten minutes,” Price said. “Only because I like her.”

Jack and Megan got into the pickup. She found herself sandwiched between two Neanderthals.

“Sorry about the war games,” Price said as he started up the vehicle. “I can’t be too careful.”

“I understand,” Jack said, then added, “but next time you pull a gun on me or mine, I’ll break every fucking bone in your hand.”