The thought sent her nerve endings into a spasm of delight, making her jerk against him. Oh. God. she wanted him to touch her, wanted to feel his long fingers sliding into her, wanted it so intensely she had to bite back a whimper.
He reached back once again, gently patting her butt.
The agony of desire instantly morphed into a choked-back laugh. He couldn't know what she'd been thinking, what she'd been feeling, but that gentle pat had almost seemed to say, "Hold on. We'll get to it."
Then she remembered that telltale jerk, and her cheeks heated. Maybe he knew after all. A little bloom of contentment unfolded inside her, and she was smiling as she drifted back to sleep.
Goss watched the sky to the east slowly begin to lighten. He was tired but not yet sleepy; he figured the sleepiness would hit at some point.
Last night had been pretty damn impressive, and intense. These boys were deadly. To a man, none of them gave a rat's ass whether someone lived or died. He could see it in their eyes, and he recognized the expression because it was the same one he saw whenever he looked in a mirror.
Teague had looked pretty bad last night, but he'd been on his feet, so it must have looked worse than it was. What interested Goss was the shotgun; that had taken Toxtel's interest, too. Teague had been certain this guy Creed was the shooter, but he hadn't seen him, so what it came down to was that Teague was guessing - and Goss's gut said that Teague was guessing wrong.
This Creed was supposedly pretty good, but Teague admittedly knew nothing about the handyman or how good he was. Goss and Toxtel both had had firsthand experience with the bastard, though. Goss knew his limits, knew he was no outdoorsman, but at the same time, he was damn good at what he did and he had excellent hearing. No one - no one-had ever successfully sneaked up behind him before, especially when he was already alert and on watch. Yet that damn handyman had done it. Goss couldn't remember anything, not the slightest sound or warning, no sense of the air moving; it was as if he'd been attacked by a ghost.
Toxtel was just as spooked. Granted, he'd been occupied with the two women, but his instincts were as well developed as Goss's. He hadn't heard the handyman moving up a flight of old creaky stairs, just turned around and found himself looking down the barrel of a shotgun. In a very un-Toxtel-like admission, he'd said, "You're a cold bastard, Goss, but this guy... this guy makes you look like the Easter Bunny."
Shotgun... the shooter being where he wasn't supposed to be... What were the odds that Creed and the handyman would have those things in common? He'd been out there last night, closer than Goss liked to think. He wanted the guy close, because he owed him for that knock on the head, but he wanted to know he was close. Thinking of him sitting out there, somehow invisible to Teague's precious thermal scopes, gave Goss an uneasy feeling. Teague had been fixated on Creed, like Creed was some sort of bogeymen, but this other guy was the wild card in the deck, someone Teague hadn't factored into the equation.
All in all, though, Goss was pleased with the way things had kicked off. Some people over there were dead, enough that a huge furor was going to be raised over this. Sooner or later someone or several someones from the surrounding ranches would need something from the hardware store, and while they might buy the "bridge out" excuse for a little while, eventually they would say something to someone, and word would get. out, and next thing they knew the real state highway department would be stopping by. Then everything would go to hell. The only way that wouldn't happen would be if the Nightingale woman gave up right away and gave them the flash drive.
Regardless of what happened, Yuell Faulkner was going down. The killings last night had guaranteed that. By losing his perspective and letting things go so far, Toxtel had set in motion a chain of events that couldn't be halted or deflected. To give him credit, even though Toxtel's plan was overkill, he had every expectation of winning and getting away clean, since their real names weren't known and they would be long gone before the locals could go on foot to get help. The credit card Faulkner had used for the B and B was a dead end; Goss knew that much. Me also knew that he himself was the reason this would blow up in Faulkner's face; a crucial piece of evidence "accidentally" left behind, an anonymous phone call to the authorities, would guarantee that. He didn't see any way Toxtel wouldn't go down, too, and while he had nothing against Hugh, he wasn't sentimental about him, cither. Toxtel could be sacrificed. And Kennon Goss would disappear forever; it was time for another name, another identity.
The first thing Cal did when he woke was lace on his boots. "It's almost daylight," he said to Cate, who had sat up when he left their makeshift bed. Several other people in the basement were stirring, too.
Maureen moved to turn up the oil lamp so they could have more light.
"I'm going out to look around, see if I can find anyone else," Cal said
Greed was awake, propping himself up on his elbows. Fie had dark circles under his eyes, but they were clear. "I've been thinking," he said to Cal. "We'll work on the plan when you get back."
Cal nodded and slipped out the basement door. Outside he nodded to Perry Richardson, who was sitting in a corner of the retaining wall, a deer rifle cradled in his arms. "Seen anything?" he asked, though he knew damn well there hadn't been any trouble.
Perry shook his head. "I was hoping some of the others would make their way here, but so far it's been quiet." His worried expression said that he was afraid no one had shown up because the rest of the inhabitants were dead.
"It's bad enough," Cal said grimly, "but it isn't that bad. People will have gone to ground wherever they could rather than take the risk of getting out in the open." His task this morning was to find those people, and safely get them here.