trigger. Relief rushed through him when he sa w Thea.
“I heard shots,” she said, looking worried.
“That was me ,” he said, licking his lips. “Just making sure.”
“So, they’re dead?”
“They are.”
“Did you find my grandfather?”
He shook his head and motioned toward the front door. “Lapdog said he had some kind of proof. And judging from the state of the place, I’d say they were looking for whatever it is.”
She looked shaken and a little bewildered. “What could it be?”
He shrugged. “Why don’t you have a look around while I search the bodies?”
“How will I know what I’m looking for?”
He shrugged again, having no bloody idea. He waited until the screen door slammed behind her before walking over to the corpses. Squatting beside them, he sparked his lighter to get a better look. Their complexions were swarthy; their coal-black eyes stared at nothing. They definitely looked Arabic, which, although noteworthy, didn’t help much.
He shut their eyelids and went through their pockets, finding nothing but their cell phones and a couple of spare clips. He examined their guns—a pair of semi-automatic Rugers affixed with silencers—using the tail of his shirt to avoid leaving fingerprints.
He checked both phones for pre-programmed numbers and missed calls, hoping to find a clue, any clue, to their identities or who might have sent them. There was nothing helpful. Shaking his head, he got to his feet and stuffed the phones in his pockets, thinking that maybe, at some point, a call might come in from whoever had hired them.
Next, he went looking for the Mustang, finding it parked behind the barn, unlocked. He opened the driver’s door, got in, and hunted around for the registration, which told him it belonged to one of his neighbors back in New York. From the glove box, he pulled out the owner’s manual. The Mustang was a 2003, which was good, since it would be easier to jack—provided he could locate a pair of wire strippers in a house without electricity.
* * * *
“Find anything?” Thea asked as Buchanan pushed through the door. She was sitting on the sofa, looking as if she’d been chewing on something bitter.
“Afraid not,” he replied, righting an overturned chair.
He set it down across from her and sat. He studied her for several moments with a swelling feeling that might have been awe. She had lit some candles and the soft light on her face was extremely becoming. Desire sparked, surprising him again.
“I think we should stay here tonight, ” she said, lifting her gaze to his, “in case my grandfather comes back.”
“Fine,” he said, too tired to think about going anywhere else. There was only one bed, he’d noticed when he checked the house. A double.
“You want a cup of tea or something?” she asked.
“I’d rather have something stronger,” he returned, “if it’s all the same to you.”
“My grandfather doesn’t drink , so I doubt there’s any alcohol around.”
He wasn’t bothered, having brought his own. Getting up, he walked stiffly to the couch, and sat beside her, reaching into the pocket of his tweed sports coat, which she still wore. As his hand brushed her hip, something deep in his abdomen fluttered. She leaned in, bringing her face close. And then, without warning, she pressed her lips against his. When he didn’t pull away, she put her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. The kiss was close-mouthed, but intense enough to heat his blood. He thought about putting a stop to it, unsure he should do this when he didn’t know what he could give her. Or wanted for himself.
His fingers closed around the flask. He pulled it out and let it fall. She pressed her body against his chest, pushing him back against the couch. The kiss deepened. It felt good. Unbelievably good. He had been starving for this without knowing it. It had been months since he’d felt anything like passion. His hands found her back and began
“I heard shots,” she said, looking worried.
“That was me ,” he said, licking his lips. “Just making sure.”
“So, they’re dead?”
“They are.”
“Did you find my grandfather?”
He shook his head and motioned toward the front door. “Lapdog said he had some kind of proof. And judging from the state of the place, I’d say they were looking for whatever it is.”
She looked shaken and a little bewildered. “What could it be?”
He shrugged. “Why don’t you have a look around while I search the bodies?”
“How will I know what I’m looking for?”
He shrugged again, having no bloody idea. He waited until the screen door slammed behind her before walking over to the corpses. Squatting beside them, he sparked his lighter to get a better look. Their complexions were swarthy; their coal-black eyes stared at nothing. They definitely looked Arabic, which, although noteworthy, didn’t help much.
He shut their eyelids and went through their pockets, finding nothing but their cell phones and a couple of spare clips. He examined their guns—a pair of semi-automatic Rugers affixed with silencers—using the tail of his shirt to avoid leaving fingerprints.
He checked both phones for pre-programmed numbers and missed calls, hoping to find a clue, any clue, to their identities or who might have sent them. There was nothing helpful. Shaking his head, he got to his feet and stuffed the phones in his pockets, thinking that maybe, at some point, a call might come in from whoever had hired them.
Next, he went looking for the Mustang, finding it parked behind the barn, unlocked. He opened the driver’s door, got in, and hunted around for the registration, which told him it belonged to one of his neighbors back in New York. From the glove box, he pulled out the owner’s manual. The Mustang was a 2003, which was good, since it would be easier to jack—provided he could locate a pair of wire strippers in a house without electricity.
* * * *
“Find anything?” Thea asked as Buchanan pushed through the door. She was sitting on the sofa, looking as if she’d been chewing on something bitter.
“Afraid not,” he replied, righting an overturned chair.
He set it down across from her and sat. He studied her for several moments with a swelling feeling that might have been awe. She had lit some candles and the soft light on her face was extremely becoming. Desire sparked, surprising him again.
“I think we should stay here tonight, ” she said, lifting her gaze to his, “in case my grandfather comes back.”
“Fine,” he said, too tired to think about going anywhere else. There was only one bed, he’d noticed when he checked the house. A double.
“You want a cup of tea or something?” she asked.
“I’d rather have something stronger,” he returned, “if it’s all the same to you.”
“My grandfather doesn’t drink , so I doubt there’s any alcohol around.”
He wasn’t bothered, having brought his own. Getting up, he walked stiffly to the couch, and sat beside her, reaching into the pocket of his tweed sports coat, which she still wore. As his hand brushed her hip, something deep in his abdomen fluttered. She leaned in, bringing her face close. And then, without warning, she pressed her lips against his. When he didn’t pull away, she put her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. The kiss was close-mouthed, but intense enough to heat his blood. He thought about putting a stop to it, unsure he should do this when he didn’t know what he could give her. Or wanted for himself.
His fingers closed around the flask. He pulled it out and let it fall. She pressed her body against his chest, pushing him back against the couch. The kiss deepened. It felt good. Unbelievably good. He had been starving for this without knowing it. It had been months since he’d felt anything like passion. His hands found her back and began
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