Claimed by Cammie Eicher Page B

embarrassment.
    Creed knew the time to ask about her sexual experience was when she shut the book and shoved it back to him. He would have done so if the server hadn’t shown up with the first tray of food. Chiana dug in, eyes on the plate rather than on him.
    Despite their meals’ difference in size, they finished eating at nearly the same time. Offered more coffee, Creed readily accepted and asked for a full to-go cup as well. The caffeine was a blessed pick-me-up, and he wanted to keep it coming.
    “We need to talk,” he said.
    “No, I need to pee.” Chiana started to slide out of the booth; Creed’s arm stopped her.
    “We’ve had this talk,” he said. “I worry about you, darling, when we’re not together.”
    “Ha, ha.” Chiana shoved against his arm. “Let me out or, I’ll go right here on the seat.”
    “You’ll sit in it, not me.”
    “Seriously, let me out.”
    Creed dropped his arm and released her. He watched as she started toward the other end of the diner, then abruptly stopped and turned. By the time she got back to Creed, he was on his feet and cursing the length of time they’d lingered at the table.
    “What’s he doing here?” Chiana’s question came out as a near whisper.
    “More importantly, how did your partner find us?”
    Grabbing her hand, Creed headed toward a door with a sign marking it as an emergency exit only. Mick might look like just another customer to everyone else, but he saw trouble in the man’s hard steps and harder eyes.
    An alarm buzzed when he slammed the red-striped arm across the door. A shout of “Hey, you can’t go out there!” followed almost instantly.
    Creed started for his car at a dead run, Chiana right on his heels. Scenarios raced through his mind during the block-long dash, from bullets plowing into his back to Mick grabbing Chiana and dragging her away with him. The man might be her partner, but Creed was certain what mattered most to Mick were money and a promotion. If he’d figured out her secret, turning Chiana into the agency to study could easily get him both.
    Blessing the mechanic who’d turned his standard engine into a powerhouse under the hood, Creed fired it up, hit the gas and roared out of the shelter’s parking lot.
    “Mick’s pick-up,” Chiana said as they passed the restaurant. “He’s getting in it.”
    This was definitely a complication they didn’t need. If Mick had his engine improved as well, the slim head start they had wouldn’t be enough. They needed a lucky break. Or an unlucky break for Mick, like a flat tire or his engine blowing.
    Catching lights on yellow and ignoring the speed limit, Creed sped to an interstate entrance and rolled into the double-lane traffic between a semi-truck and a delivery van. Chiana turned in her seat beside him, watching for Mick’s truck to come into sight. As the miles slipped by with no sign of him, Creed slowed slightly and started thinking about a Plan B. The biggest question was Chiana’s in the diner—how had Mick found them?
    “Got any tattoos?” he asked.
    Chiana turned to him and said, “One. On my back.”
    “Bingo.”
    “What does that mean, bingo?”
    “It means we’re going to visit another friend of mine.”
    * * * *
    Curses rolled from Mick’s mouth in a loud, steady flow. The bitch had gotten away. She was supposed to be with him, not that bastard Creed. Harrington expected them on the streets in another twenty-four hours, and he did not want to think about what the consequences might be if that didn’t happen.
    He wiped a hand across his forehead, ridding it of sweat. Something was wrong with him. Probably something he ate. Damn food poisoning, probably. That would be his luck.
    Food poisoning would explain the sweats if not the memory gaps and an odd floating sensation, like his body was acting independently of his brain.
    A wave of nausea roiled over him. He slammed his foot on the brake, pulled to the shoulder, fell out of the truck and dropped to his