In Bed with Boone. Linda Winstead Jones
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but she wasn’t a violent person. As Boone carried her through the doorway into the main room, where Darryl sat before the television, she fought as best she could, feet and hands flailing. “You…you un-civilized brute!”
“Last night you seemed to like that about me, sugar.”
“Don’t call me sugar.” She glanced up to see that the two dim-witted criminals grinned, while a disgusted Darryl shook his head in wonder or dismay. Maybe both.
“I’ll call you whatever I want to call you.” Boone put Jayne on her feet between Darryl and the TV, raising his voice. “Don’t forget who you are, or how you got here, or that I might get tired of you at any moment and then you’ll be in a world of trouble.”
Jayne placed her hands on her hips. “You wouldn’t dare! Not after…not after…” She stopped and gave Boone an exasperated huff. Darryl leaned to one side as the newsbreak came on. With an outraged cry, Jayne turned and gave the television a shove. It wobbled backward, finally falling from the unsteady stand and crashing to the floor with a spark and a puff of smoke. The screen went black.
“I can’t believe you’d say that to me, not after last night. You said…you said…”
The three other men gathered around the remains of the television as Boone grabbed Jayne and pulled her against his chest. “Now, sugar,” he said in a soothing voice, “don’t get all upset.”
Jayne hid her face against Boone’s chest. Oh, Darryl would be furious, but what else could she have done? Pushing the TV off its stand had seemed like a good idea at the time. Now she wondered.
“Becker,” Darryl said slowly, “your woman just broke my TV.”
“I’ll buy you a new TV. That one was a piece of crap, anyway.” Boone’s arms protected her as he brushed off Darryl’s complaint.
“How am I supposed to watch my soaps?” Marty asked, not quite as outraged as Darryl, but definitely unhappy.
“Soaps are for old women,” Boone growled. “You’ll survive a few days with no TV.”
Jayne chanced a quick glance at the three men. None of them were happy with her at the moment. She’d made a lousy breakfast and broken their television. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I just got so upset…” The tremble in her voice was not manufactured; it was very real. She returned her gaze to Boone. “You can be so mean.”
He lifted her off her feet and spun her around. “I know how to make you feel better.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
“But, Boo…”
He shut her up by laying his mouth over hers. Immediately she knew why, and even though she had insisted on knowing, for a split second she wished Boone had never told her his real name. Would she always remember to call him Becker when the others were around? If she forgot in a moment of anger or forgetfulness, it could mean death for both of them.
It wasn’t a real kiss, but a necessary caution. Still, his mouth was nice and firm, sweet and gentle. She had a feeling that when Boone really kissed a woman, he did it right.
He took his mouth from hers, a warning gleam in his eyes.
“But, BooBoo,” she said when she could speak again, hopefully covering her mistake. “I still haven’t done the dishes.”
“Marty!” Boone yelled. “Do the damned dishes.”
BooBoo! Oh, this was bad. “BooBoo?” he asked, hands on hips as he glared down at Jayne, who sat on the side of the bed looking composed, calm, perfectly in control. One foot rocked, drawing his eye to her shapely ankle.
“It’s no worse than sugar.”
“Yes,” he insisted with a nod of his head, “it is.”
He didn’t let on that his heart was still hammering. He had thought about shooting the television and then trying to pass it off as a rash moment of rage, but Jayne’s seemingly impulsive shove had worked much better. But for how long? They would meet with Gurza in four days. Four days, after three months of undercover work! And one wrong word could blow it in a heartbeat.
“I shouldn’t have told you my name,” he said in a low voice.
Her face softened. “I know but…I’m glad you did,” she whispered. “It makes me feel so much safer.”
She wasn’t safe, not at all, but he didn’t bother to tell her so.
Boone moved to the head of the bed and grasped the post in his hand.
Jayne sighed. “Not again. This is so embarrassing.”
Boone ignored her and began to shake the bed. The springs squeaked. Jayne covered her face in her hands.
“Come on, sugar,” Boone said softly. “Help me out here.”
For a moment she did nothing. Then she dropped her hands from her face, looked him in the eye and gave a little hop that made the bed squeak even more. “Why Becker?” she asked as she gave another little bounce. “Is that like a middle name? A family name?”
Boone leaned down, placing his face close to hers. “Rhymes with my favorite body part,” he whispered.
She screwed up her nose. “Becker? Becker doesn’t rhyme with…” Suddenly her face turned red. “That’s disgusting!” she said, her voice rising slightly.
He grinned. “Say that a little bit louder.”
“I will not,” she said primly.
He began to bang the headboard against the wall, faster and faster, harder and harder. “Moan,” he whispered.
“I do not moan,” she said, her Southern accent deepening as she protested.
“You poor thing. I guess I’ll just have to pinch you again to make you squeal.”
“That won’t be necessary.” She looked away from him, squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. And then she made some kind of noise. It wasn’t a moan or a squeal. He wasn’t sure exactly what it was.
“If I can barely hear it, they can’t hear it at all.”
She snapped her head around and glared at him. “You know, I’m sure there are women out there who make love silently.”
“I’ve never met one.”
“You’re vile.”
“You’re a prude.”
It was the wrong, or perhaps the right thing to say. Prude was an insult Jayne took personally, and her response was apparently going to be to prove him wrong. She closed her eyes, tossed back her head and moaned. The sound was low, long and real enough to make Boone’s insides tighten. Her soft voice was the kind that might creep under a man’s skin if he went for her type. Which he didn’t.
Jayne took a deep breath and moaned again, louder this time. Boone tried to convince himself that Jayne Barrington was not his type at all. He liked his women with long dark hair, long legs and plenty up top. Not gentle, delicate curves, but prodigious breasts that made a man’s eyes pop out of his head when the woman walked into a room. He shook the bed harder, faster, his eyes on Jayne.
Head back, throat bared, mouth slightly parted, she was a fascinating sight, with her creamy skin and reddish-gold hair and soft lips. Her throat was nice and long, he noticed. Shapely and delicate, like the rest of her. His body began to respond. Enough was enough.
“Scream,” he whispered.
She laid those green eyes on him and glared. “Maybe I’m not ready,” she mouthed.
He grinned and reached for her with his free hand.
“Okay,” she said softly, scooting away from him. She closed her eyes again,