“Do I mind what?”

“Don’t curse.”

He actually grinned. “We are in so much trouble I can’t see a way out, and you’re worried about my language?”

“There’s no reason to be crude.”

“Sugar, crude is my middle name.”

Jayne wrinkled her nose. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

Becker sat beside her, and Jayne scooted away. But she didn’t jump up, which had been her first instinct. If he had planned to hurt her, he would have done so by now. Still, she felt too small sitting next to him, and a little distance wouldn’t hurt.

Voice lowered, Becker leaned close. “I’m here undercover.”

A surge of relief washed through her. “Oh, thank God. DEA? FBI? You must have some way to call in backup or something, right? There are probably a bunch of agents out there in the dark, waiting for your signal so they can storm the house. Right?”

He laid dark eyes on her and sighed. “No backup. I’m a private investigator, and I’m here on my own.”

Her relief was short-lived. “No backup?”

He shook his head.

Jayne was determined to make the best of the situation. “But you’re not one of them, not a…a bad guy, and you can get me out of here, right?”

“Eventually.”

“What do you mean, eventually? Those men killed Jim, and they almost killed me—”

“Your friend’s not dead,” Becker interrupted. “He’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. But I need a few more days.”

She shook her head. “But—”

“I’m not going to blow three months of work just to get your pretty little ass out of here.”

“But—”

“Don’t ask me to throw away everything I’ve done to this point because you were foolish or unlucky enough to stumble onto Darryl’s drug deal.”

“Can’t you sneak me out of here and make it look like I escaped?”

Becker shook his head. “I don’t think so. Darryl would come after you for sure. If I keep you close, if we…make them think you don’t mind being close, I think I can keep you alive until I’m done here.”

“You think? How comforting.”

“It’s the best I’ve got right now.”

She studied his face for a moment, the lines and the tense set of his jaw. Should she tell him who her father was? Maybe not. Wouldn’t make any difference, and he might think she was trying to use the family name to get him to change his plan and get her out of here tonight, his three months’ work unimportant in the light of her father’s public and political stature.

“Is Becker your real name?”

He shook his head.

“Are you going to tell me your real name?”

He sighed. “Boone, but don’t use it outside this room. For the duration, I’m Richard Becker.”

“Is Boone your first name or your last?”

“Does it matter?”

Jayne sighed. She could feel her body relaxing, unwinding, ratcheting down. She’d survived. With this man’s help she’d continue to survive. “I’d like to know.”

“Boone Sinclair, private investigator, ma’am.” He offered his hand.

Jayne cautiously took it. “Jayne Barrington.”

The threat momentarily gone, Jayne saw Boone in a whole new light. The strength that had been menacing became consoling. His dark good looks were suddenly interesting, rather than intimidating. They shook hands briefly, Boone’s big hand gentle around hers, the contact unexpectedly comforting.

“Jim’s really not dead?”

Boone shook his head. “Darryl winged him. He’s lost some blood.” A smile flitted across a hard face. “I think your friend fainted.”

A shiver worked down Jayne’s spine. “I thought he was dead.”

“Don’t worry,” Boone growled. “You’ll be out of here and comforting him in no time.”

She shook her head. “No. In truth, I barely know Jim.” She settled her eyes on his, dark and deep and unreadable. “Blind date.”

“How did you end up on Springer Road?”

“We were on our way to a party and got lost.” She couldn’t believe her luck. If Boone Sinclair hadn’t been there, if he hadn’t rescued her, she’d be dead now. Her grandmother would say that Boone was an angel sent to save her. That it had been no accident that he’d been there, working undercover. She smiled.

“What are you grinning about?” He dipped his head and looked into her eyes. “You’re not going to lose it on me, are you?”

Jayne shook her head. “No. It’s just that…you don’t look at all like an angel.”

“Trust me,” he said in a low voice. “I’m not.”

She tried not to stare at his bare chest. He didn’t seem to mind at all sitting here, half-naked, broader and more muscled than an ordinary man. “What are you doing here? I didn’t know private investigators could do undercover work.”

That got a half grin out of him. “I didn’t say it was legal.”

Jayne pursed her lips slightly. As a politician’s daughter, she’d lived all her life under a microscope. Every detail, every decision, every move properly scrutinized. She couldn’t even leave the house without carefully checking her clothes, makeup and hair. To disregard the law with a smile…she couldn’t even imagine.

Boone frowned. “I see you don’t approve.”

“It’s just…I’m sure you have your reasons.” In truth, she didn’t care why he was here. Just that he was.

“I do.”

Jayne sighed. Boone had been honest with her. It was the least she could do for him.

“My father—”

“Can’t we leave Daddy out of this?” Boone said again.

Jayne looked him in the eye. “I don’t think so.” He waited for her to continue. Eyes steady, chest bare, dark hair hanging over his shoulders. “My father is a United States senator. From Mississippi,” she added. “Augustus Barrington.”

He remained silent.

“Jim and I were on our way to a party given by a potential supporter who might go a long way in aiding my father financially should he decide to run for…a higher office.”

Boone didn’t so much as move. Did he even breathe?

“My disappearance is going to cause an uproar,” she went on. “A big one. My father will do his best to get every government agency available on the job. So we have until morning. Maybe.”

Boone ran one hand through his hair and let loose with an even viler string of profanity than before. He didn’t look at her, but stared at the floor and the wall and the window as he cursed.

“Mr. Sinclair,” she chided softly, censure in her soft voice, “do you mind?”

He fixed his gaze on her again and responded succinctly with the most foul of forbidden words.

Jayne tightened her lips. “You know, there are other words you can call upon when you’re upset.”

“Really,” he drawled.

“Darn or drat or a good doggone work just as well.”

He grinned at her, insolent and amused. And again muttered what seemed to be his favorite word.

“Or fudge,” she said lightly. “I have, on frustrating occasions when no one is about, muttered an ‘oh, fudge’ myself.”

“Oh, fudge,” he growled.

“See?” She smiled. If nothing else, she did know how to get men to do as she wished. It was a gift. “That works just fine, doesn’t it?”

Boone left the bed quickly, his back to her as he retrieved his T-shirt. Good! He was going to get dressed. As fine a specimen as he was, his bare chest had become quite distracting.

“Here,” he said, turning and tossing the garment to her. “Put this on.”

Jayne caught the shirt, then held it cautiously between two fingers. “I’m perfectly comfortable in my own clothes, thank you. Besides—” she sniffed “—you’ve worn this, and it hasn’t been washed.”

Boone pressed the bridge of his nose between two fingers, as if he had a headache coming on. “In less than a week I should be done here. Three months of work, down to a matter of days, and now this. I can keep you alive, but you have to listen to me. You have to let me do what I do best.”

“What’s that?” Jayne whispered.

“Lie.” He dropped his hand and glared at her. “As far as Darryl and those two idiots of his are concerned, you and I are hot and heavy.”

“Hot and heavy?” She took an unsteady breath. “You just…you dragged me away from the car back there…and you kidnapped me. What kind of woman would willingly become intimately involved with a man who literally dragged her to his…his cave as if she were nothing more than…”