“Not sure, but I’ll do some digging. I figured you’d want to know.”
Drew swung her legs over the edge of the cot. Her breath had slowed, her pulse not so much.
Cross rubbed a hand down his face. “Thanks for the heads up.”
“Always.” Footsteps retreated, soft and sure on the wooden planks outside.
Cross shut the door quietly and turned to face her. The tension between them had shifted again. Still heavy. Still charged. But now? There was a new urgency.
She raised an eyebrow. “So, I take it that’s the Navy guy.”
He nodded. “Rick Boudreaux. Quiet type. Used to be recon. Lives three cabins down.”
“And apparently moves around the bayou in the middle of the night like it’s a suburban sidewalk.” Something she could not imagine doing unless her life depended on it, and even then, it was iffy.
“He’s the reason I’ve made it this long out here.”
Drew ran a hand through her hair. “Did he say someone was asking around?”
Cross’s jaw clenched. “He said someone was offering money in town for my most likely whereabouts?”
“Rodriguez,” Drew sighed.
Cross hesitated. “Probably, but it could be any of the bounty hunters who know about the two hundred and fifty K. Who knows how many of them are out here looking for me?”
Drew met his eyes. “Then I guess we don’t sleep tonight.”
His gaze flicked over her, hot and lingering. “Wouldn’t have anyway.”
The air between them crackled again—desire and danger wound tight. But the moment was gone. At least for now. And Drew knew one thing for certain. No matter how much she wanted him, no matter how badly she still felt everything when he looked at her like that, getting involved with Cross Morgan was a huge mistake. She’d bet her life on it.
The sky had barely startedto lighten, a hazy gray creeping through the moss-hung trees. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth, brackish water, and something vaguely floral that clung to everything. Cross stood on the back deck of the cabin, a battered enamel mug of black coffee in his hand, watching the bayou start to wake up.
Rick Boudreaux leaned against the railing beside him, his long frame still and steady, his own coffee untouched. He’d come back at first light to add more details.
“You get a look at the guy?” Cross asked, keeping his voice low.
Rick shook his head. “He was gone before I got there. The description I got was an average-looking guy; average height and weight, medium brown hair.”
“Shit. Do you think someone will give me up?” Cross hated the idea that one of the folks out here would say something, but on the other hand, he couldn’t blame them. He was a stranger. Most of them had been here forever. He glanced down along the waterway, just barely able to see the next shack. It would kill himto think someone here gave him up. It would hurt him more if any one of them got hurt because someone wanted to kill him.
“Hard to tell. The guy offered twenty K just for information. That’s a lot for people who live out here to pass up. On the other hand, people out here pretty much keep to themselves and don’t like strangers. You’ve blended in and kept your head down, helped out when you could. That means something.”
In Cross’s honest estimation, it wasn’t too hard to tell whether someone would be tempted.
Rick shrugged. “The big worry is if someone has loose lips, and I don’t just mean today. Could’ve happened months ago. Someone casually mentions to someone else that you had a place out here. You know how the bayou is; gossip travels faster than the gators. It would’ve only taken one comment to someone in town.”
“And then when Rodriguez comes asking, that person remembers the comment. The twenty grand could jog a lot of memories.” Cross let out a long breath. “We still don’t know who was asking. Could’ve been Rodriguez and his goons, or it could’ve been the Weasel.”
Somehow, Cross thought, the Weasel would be infinitely worse. Rodriguez was all temper and bravado. Whatever confrontation happened, it would be over quickly. Rodriguez would lose his temper and just shoot Cross in the head if he didn’t tell him what he wanted to know. Probably do it even if he did spill his guts.
The Weasel would be more methodical. He would make it hurt as much as possible. Cross had no doubt that the majority of the Weasel’s victims begged him to kill them. There was no way he wanted to be in that situation, but the scarier thought was that the Weasel would grab Drew and use her against Cross. He pushed that thought from his mind.
“The Weasel?” Rick asked, his tone sharp. “He’s involved in this?”
Cross nodded. “Rumor has it.”
“Shit,” Rick mumbled. “He’s not someone you want on your ass.”
