“I said I want her,” he repeated in an almost grudging manner. “We’ve been stuck out at that damn shack for over a month, and let me tell you, the women in that pisshole you call a town aren’t exactly up to my standards.”

Jayne panicked all over. “I’d rather die,” she said. She tried to jerk away from the man and attempted to kick him where it was supposed to hurt the most. She ended up falling, landing on her backside in the dirt. The grip on her wrist never let up.

The man who manacled her wrist turned his shadowed face toward her, leaned down and whispered, “Be careful what you wish for, sugar.”

Boone kept his body between the woman and the gun. She thanked him by kicking him in the knee with a pointy-toed shoe. He had a feeling she’d been aiming higher before she’d lost her balance and stumbled. The skirt of her obviously expensive suit rode high on her shapely thighs. Her knees knocked together and her toes pointed in, in a fashion that should have been comical but wasn’t.

Light from Marty’s wavering flashlight raked over the woman’s body. Soft, barely curling hair not much longer than chin-length brushed pale cheeks. That baby-fine hair was blond, he thought, but not golden. A touch of red made it brighter. Different. The pearls she wore around her neck were surely real and expensive, like everything else about her. Her suit was the color of an Easter egg, not pink and not orange, not pale and not bright. She was all creamy white and golden pink, and she was rightfully frightened half out of her mind.

Focusing on her gave him a moment to collect his thoughts, to still his racing heart. No one was supposed to die here. Tonight’s sale was to have been a simple exchange, a little business Darryl had to take care of before his next meeting with the man who ran things around here. Boone had had no choice but to tag along, taking mental notes, knowing that in less than a week this entire operation would be shut down. Just a few more days, and he’d be meeting the infamous Joaquin Gurza face-to-face.

“Watch your step, sugar,” he said as he hauled the woman to her feet.

“Do not call me sugar, you…you goon,” she said indignantly. Her honeyed Southern drawl reminded him of home.

He cast a glance at Darryl, the drug dealer who’d been so quick to pull his gun and fire. Boone cursed himself for not seeing it coming. He likely couldn’t do a damn thing about the man lying in the road, but he’d do his best to save the woman—if she’d let him.

“Well, then, what’s your name, darlin’?”

She hit him, hauling off and landing a pathetic punch on his upper arm. “My name is none of your business,” she snapped.

Darryl laughed. “Come on, Becker,” he said. “Have at her and then let me shoot her. She looks like an awful lot of trouble, and she’s got a big mouth.”

Boone placed his face close to the woman’s. “Sugar, your choices are limited,” he whispered. “You shut your mouth and stick close to me, or you end up like the man in the road.” Even in the dark he could see the new wave of panic that flitted across her pretty face. “Was he your husband?”

She shook her head.

“Boyfriend?”

She shook her head again.

He couldn’t afford to tell her too much, but he sure as hell couldn’t hand her over to Darryl. Marty and Doug, who looked on as if this was the most amusing scene they’d witnessed in a long while, weren’t much better. Nope, the woman was his responsibility—until he figured out how to get rid of her.

“No,” he said, his eyes on the woman, his words for Darryl. “I’m not going to ‘have at her’ and you’re not going to shoot her. It’s not going to be that easy.”

The woman’s lips trembled, and she lowered her eyes. Maybe she didn’t want him to see the fear that had to be there. Oh, God, he hoped she didn’t start to cry. He had no patience with weepy women.

“I’m taking her with me.” With that, he turned and headed back toward the car.

Darryl didn’t like the idea of taking the woman along, but he simply grumbled a curse and stuck his pistol into his waistband.

The buyers were long gone, having collected their purchase and taken off as Boone and the others chased the witness. They’d wisely left the money, neatly bound and stacked in a small suitcase, sitting in the trunk of Darryl’s car.

Boone sped up and headed toward the man on the ground. He moved so fast the woman he dragged behind him had to run to keep up. Every foul word he’d ever used came to mind. He muttered them all.

“You have a vulgar mouth,” the woman said primly, keeping her voice low.

“Yep.”

“A gentleman would never use such language in front of a lady.”

Boone stopped and stared down at the man who was sprawled on the ground by the Mercedes, taking everything in quickly. High-priced suit, gold watch, salon haircut. A perfect match for the woman at his side. He hated people like these. Holier than thou, too rich for their own good, always looking down their noses at the rest of the world. They didn’t deserve to get shot for it, though.

He didn’t have much time. Keeping a firm grip on the woman’s wrist, he dropped to his haunches and quickly rifled through the man’s pockets.

“What are you doin’?” Marty called.

Boone glanced over his shoulder. The kid who combed his hair with a razor was heading right for him.

“Checking the man’s pockets. He looks like he has money, doesn’t he?” With that Boone ripped off the watch and stuck it in his pocket.

The woman made a sound that was a tsk and a sigh and a grunt rolled into one feminine utterance, revealing her utter disgust with him.

Marty grinned. “Can I have the car?”

“No,” Boone said tersely. “It’ll lead the cops right to us.”

Doug came up behind his buddy. As the woman’s frightened eyes landed on him, Doug flipped his long hair like a vain woman trolling in a bar. “And she won’t?” he asked bitterly.

“I’ll take care of her,” Boone promised darkly.

Doug and Marty were not much older than twenty, neither was too bright, and they scared easily. All those facts had made Boone’s time here much easier than it might have been.

Still, no matter how dumb they were, he couldn’t finish what he had to do with them looking on. “Put the girl in Darryl’s car,” he said, offering her imprisoned arm to Marty. Just before Marty grabbed the woman’s wrist, he felt a deep tremble pass through her body. Sorry, sugar, he thought silently. I have no choice. “Touch her anywhere else,” he added darkly, “and I’ll kill you. She’s mine.” Marty’s grin faded rapidly, and Boone said, “I’ll be right there.”

Doug and Marty moved away, Marty with his hand gripping the woman’s arm, Doug quickly checking the front seat of the Mercedes. Darryl was occupied getting his money situated, which gave Boone the opportunity to place his fingers against the neck of the man on the ground.

He closed his eyes in relief. The man wasn’t dead. His heartbeat was strong and steady. What happened next was necessarily fast. Boone found the wound on the man’s side. It was nasty, but not fatal. He prayed the guy didn’t come to and start making noise. Darryl would finish the job if that happened.

Moving quickly, Boone removed the man’s jacket. In the process, he snagged the wallet—in case anyone was watching. The cell phone in the inside pocket dropped into his hand.

The jacket made an easy, quick, inadequate bandage. But it was better than nothing. Keeping his hands out of sight, Boone switched on the cell phone and dialed 911. He positioned the phone on the man’s chest, then concealed the phone with a flapping portion of the fancy jacket that he had fashioned into a bandage.

“Come on!” Darryl shouted, slamming the trunk of his car closed and heading for the driver’s-side door. Marty and Doug were already sitting in the back seat, the terrified hostage pinned between them.

There was no more time. If Darryl decided to come over and see what he was doing, the operation was finished. Done. Three months’ work wasted and someone dead. Either Darryl, or Boone himself and the woman.