could breathe slightly easier now, but his hands were like steel bands at her wrists. "My accountant's name is Holly Bergman, and we haven't had a hot affair. I haven't shot anyone, and I haven't skipped bond because I haven't posted bond. I want to see your ID, ace."
He thought it took a lot of nerve to make demands in her current position. "My name's Dakota, Jack Dakota. I'm a skip tracer."
Her eyes narrowed as they skimmed over his face. She thought he looked like something out of the gritty side of a western. A cold-eyed gunslinger, a tough-talking gambler. Or…
"A bounty hunter. Well, there's no bounty here, jerk." It wasn't rape, and it wasn't a mugging. The fear that had iced her heart thawed into fresh temper.
"You son of a bitch. You break in here, tear up my things, ruin twenty bucks'
worth of produce, and all because you can't follow the right trail? Your butt's in a sling, I promise you. When I'm done, you won't be able to trace your own name with a stencil. You won't—" She broke off when he stuck a photo in her face.
It was her face, and the photograph might have been taken yesterday.
"Got a twin, O'Leary? One who drives a '68 MG, license plate SLAINTE, and is currently shacked up with some guy named Bailey James."
"Bailey's a woman," she murmured, staring at her own face while new worries raced in her head. Was this about Bailey, about what Bailey had sent her? What kind of trouble could her friend be in? "And this isn't her apartment, it's mine. I don't have a twin." She looked up into his eyes again. "What's going on?
Is Bailey all right? Where's Bailey?"
Under his clamped hands, her pulse had spiked. She was struggling again, with a fresh and vicious energy he knew was brought on by fear. And he was dead certain it wasn't fear for herself.
"I don't know anything about this Bailey except this address is listed under her name on the paperwork."
But he was beginning to smell something, and he didn't like it. He was no longer thinking M. J. O'Leary was dumb as a post. A woman with any brains wouldn't have left herself with so many avenues to be tracked if she was on the run.
Ralph, Jack mused, frowning down into M.J.'s face. Why were you so jumpy this morning?
"If you're being straight with me, we can confirm it quick enough. Maybe it was a clerical mixup." But he didn't think so. No indeed. And there was an itching at the base of his spine. "Listen," he began, just as the door broke open and the giant roared in.
"You were supposed to bring her out," the giant said, and waved an impressive
.357 Magnum. "You're talking too much. He's waiting."
Jack didn't have much time to decide how to play it. The big man was a stranger to him, but he recognized the type. It looked like all bulk and no brains, with the huge bullet head, small eyes and massive shoulders. The gun was big as a cannon and looked like a toy in the ham-size hands.
"Sorry." He gave M.J.'s wrist a quick squeeze, hoping she'd understand it as a sign of reassurance and remain still and quiet. "I was having a little trouble here."
"Just a woman. You were supposed to just bring the woman out."
"Yeah, I was working on it." Jack tried a friendly smile. "Ralph send you to back me up?"
"Come on, up. Up now. We're going."
"Sure. No problem. You won't need the gun now. I've got her under control." But the gun continued to point, its barrel as wide as Montana, at his head.
"Just her." And the giant smiled, floppy lips peeling back over huge teeth. "We don't need you now."
"Fine. I guess you want the paperwork." For lack of anything better, Jack snagged a can of tomato sauce on his way up and winged it. It made a satisfactory crunching sound on the big man's nose. Ducking, Jack rushed forward like a battering ram. It felt a great deal like beating his head against a brick wall, but the force took them both tumbling backward and over a ladder-back chair.
The gun went off, putting a fist-size hole in the ceiling before it flew across the
He thought it took a lot of nerve to make demands in her current position. "My name's Dakota, Jack Dakota. I'm a skip tracer."
Her eyes narrowed as they skimmed over his face. She thought he looked like something out of the gritty side of a western. A cold-eyed gunslinger, a tough-talking gambler. Or…
"A bounty hunter. Well, there's no bounty here, jerk." It wasn't rape, and it wasn't a mugging. The fear that had iced her heart thawed into fresh temper.
"You son of a bitch. You break in here, tear up my things, ruin twenty bucks'
worth of produce, and all because you can't follow the right trail? Your butt's in a sling, I promise you. When I'm done, you won't be able to trace your own name with a stencil. You won't—" She broke off when he stuck a photo in her face.
It was her face, and the photograph might have been taken yesterday.
"Got a twin, O'Leary? One who drives a '68 MG, license plate SLAINTE, and is currently shacked up with some guy named Bailey James."
"Bailey's a woman," she murmured, staring at her own face while new worries raced in her head. Was this about Bailey, about what Bailey had sent her? What kind of trouble could her friend be in? "And this isn't her apartment, it's mine. I don't have a twin." She looked up into his eyes again. "What's going on?
Is Bailey all right? Where's Bailey?"
Under his clamped hands, her pulse had spiked. She was struggling again, with a fresh and vicious energy he knew was brought on by fear. And he was dead certain it wasn't fear for herself.
"I don't know anything about this Bailey except this address is listed under her name on the paperwork."
But he was beginning to smell something, and he didn't like it. He was no longer thinking M. J. O'Leary was dumb as a post. A woman with any brains wouldn't have left herself with so many avenues to be tracked if she was on the run.
Ralph, Jack mused, frowning down into M.J.'s face. Why were you so jumpy this morning?
"If you're being straight with me, we can confirm it quick enough. Maybe it was a clerical mixup." But he didn't think so. No indeed. And there was an itching at the base of his spine. "Listen," he began, just as the door broke open and the giant roared in.
"You were supposed to bring her out," the giant said, and waved an impressive
.357 Magnum. "You're talking too much. He's waiting."
Jack didn't have much time to decide how to play it. The big man was a stranger to him, but he recognized the type. It looked like all bulk and no brains, with the huge bullet head, small eyes and massive shoulders. The gun was big as a cannon and looked like a toy in the ham-size hands.
"Sorry." He gave M.J.'s wrist a quick squeeze, hoping she'd understand it as a sign of reassurance and remain still and quiet. "I was having a little trouble here."
"Just a woman. You were supposed to just bring the woman out."
"Yeah, I was working on it." Jack tried a friendly smile. "Ralph send you to back me up?"
"Come on, up. Up now. We're going."
"Sure. No problem. You won't need the gun now. I've got her under control." But the gun continued to point, its barrel as wide as Montana, at his head.
"Just her." And the giant smiled, floppy lips peeling back over huge teeth. "We don't need you now."
"Fine. I guess you want the paperwork." For lack of anything better, Jack snagged a can of tomato sauce on his way up and winged it. It made a satisfactory crunching sound on the big man's nose. Ducking, Jack rushed forward like a battering ram. It felt a great deal like beating his head against a brick wall, but the force took them both tumbling backward and over a ladder-back chair.
The gun went off, putting a fist-size hole in the ceiling before it flew across the
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