Regarding her, he couldn’t continue keeping twenty-four/seven vigil. Even if it was feasible, she wouldn’t stand for it. Shecould argue that Malone had dispatched someone to check on her house simply because he’d been concerned for her safe return from the city. Mitch didn’t believe that, but it also wasn’t as though Malone had issued her a death threat. She still didn’t accept what a danger he posed.
She also wasn’t going to abandon her patients. Come Monday, when her office reopened, she would insist on being there to resume her appointment schedule. And her receptionist, Ellie, wasn’t exactly bodyguard material.
Whenever Dylan returned to her normal life, where would that leave them? After two years of celibacy and indifference toward the opposite sex, he was smitten, moonstruck, randy, and ravenous.
As evidenced last night in that ugly chair, he couldn’t get enough of her. Engaging in a liaison that was compromising to them both had been darkly and deliciously erotic.
At least it had been with her. Despite the scene inWhen Harry Met Sally, which had given pause to every man in the human race, Dylan hadn’t faked it. He hadn’t anticipated that a woman who maintained such self-control in every other circumstance would be that uninhibited sexually.
God, it had been a-maz-ing.
But this was the kicker: In the mellow but still simmering aftermath of their armchair consorting, when he’d told her she had been unexpected, he hadn’t been referring to carnality, but to the magnetic pull he felt toward her emotionally.
He hadn’t counted on that. Not at all. And he didn’t know what he was going to do with, or about, it.
Giving up on trying to sleep, he looked over at Andrew and smiled at the air bubble that had formed between his lips. He kissed him on the forehead, then eased out of the bed.After a quick trip to the bathroom, he dressed and left the bedroom.
It wasn’t quite daylight, but he could tell that it was going to be a gloomy day. He went into the kitchen and started a pot of coffee in a Mr. Coffee that should have been junked four decades ago. Except that it turned out damned good brew.
The machine had been in that spot on the counter when John had first brought him out here for a weekend of fishing. They hadn’t known each other for long, but, over those two days, their friendship had been forged.
They’d spent the days in John’s boat, fishing unambitiously while sipping cold ones iced down in an Igloo. In the evenings, they talked. Got maudlin over John’s dissolving first marriage and Mitch’s wartime buddies who’d died bloody. They’d also laughed their asses off.
Now, before nostalgia elbowed its way into his already troubled and overcrowded brain, he carried his mug out onto the front porch. As expected, the air was thick with moisture. Every leaf on every tree was weighed down by the humidity. The Spanish moss looked even droopier than usual.
He lowered himself into the least rusty ’50s-era metal lawn chair, blew on his hot coffee, took a few sips, then swiped on his most recent burner phone.
Jim Tucker’s cell number rang several times before he answered, but he didn’t speak a word. Mitch said, “It’s me.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“Too early for you?”
“No, it’s not the hour that bothers me.”
Tucker wasn’t obligated to communicate with him. In fact, it would be his ass if he was caught doing so. Nevertheless, Mitchcouldn’t help but be a tad resentful. “You were gonna keep me updated on El Paso.”
“You changed phones.”
“Felt I needed to.”
“Doesn’t matter. I didn’t call you.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not supposed to be talking to you, Homeless. Is the Dish still with you?”
“You want to swap intel? You go first. Tell me what you’ve learned about El Paso.”
“I don’t have anything.”
“Bull. Shit. If you didn’t have anything, you would have said so immediately and told me that you would call when you did. Instead, you said that you weren’t supposed to be talking to me. Which makes me think that youdohave something, but you’re reluctant to share it.”
Silence.
Mitch said, “Thought so.” He glanced over his shoulder to make sure that neither Andrew nor Dylan had woken up. In a softer but even more imperative tone, he said, “Don’t you want to nail these fuckers?”
“Stupid question. It doesn’t deserve a response.”
