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a beating, hid evidence, dodged bullets—”
She sat up straight. “Bullets? He dodged bullets?”
“Did you think you were dealing with jaywalkers?”
“I don’t know who I’m dealing with,” she admitted, feeling sick. “Or why I’m dealing with them.”
“You’re a smart woman. Hazard a guess.” Quinn hung up before she could respond.
She hung up the phone and turned to look at Danny sleeping soundly in the hospital bed beside her. She’d thought things were bad enough when all she was dealing with was alcohol. At least alcohol was legal.
But drugs, too?
There was a light knock on the door. She looked up, expecting the night nurse. Instead, it was Anson who entered the room, carrying Danny’s gym bag.
“What are you doing back here?” she asked. “You should be home in bed.”
“Couldn’t sleep.” He picked up the extra chair and set it down next to the recliner. Dropping into the seat, he turned to look at her. “Brought y’all a change of clothes. And I figured while I was here, I’d spell you so you could get some rest.”
“Like I could sleep.”
“You should try. The next three days are going to be long.”
She knew he was right, but Quinn’s call had reignited her adrenaline flow. “Quinn said the intruders shot at you.”
“They missed me,” he said lightly, but he couldn’t hide the tense set of his broad shoulders or the knotting muscles in his jaw.
“You should never have been a target. Not for Danny and me.” She shook her head, guilt swamping her. “Go home. This isn’t your problem.”
“They beat me up and shot at me. It’s my problem now.”
“Not if you go home and forget about it. You have enough to worry about, with the suspension and trying to clear your name.”
Anson’s facial expression shifted a little, though she couldn’t quite make out what emotion passed across his features before he lifted his calm gaze to meet hers. His dark eyes were mirrors, reflecting back only her own taut expression of worry. “I’ve just about exhausted all the ideas I had for proving I’m not leaking agency secrets. I could use the distraction.”
“Dodging bullets isn’t a distraction.”
“Dodging is overstating things. The guy was a lousy shot.”
“Don’t joke about it! Do you know how horrible I would feel if something happened to you because you were trying to help me?”
He covered her hand with his, his fingers warm and strong. “It didn’t. I’m fine.”
She couldn’t stop herself from turning her palm up to clasp his hand. “Quinn knows you were trying to destroy the drugs.”
“Yeah. I didn’t get a chance to flush before he and the others got to the house.” He looked down at their clasped hands, his expression softening. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t apologize. I should never have put you in that position.”
“It got flushed, in the end. And Quinn took the bag with him. I think he’s planning to have the lab at The Gates test it so you’ll know what you’re dealing with.”
She let go of his hand, wrapping her arms around her aching stomach. “There’s no way he’s going to want me to come back to The Gates after this.”
“Of course he will.”
He sounded awfully confident for someone who was on administrative leave himself, she thought. “I don’t even know how to deal with Danny’s drinking. If he’s doing drugs now, too—”
“Yeah, about that.” Anson leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He looked down at the hospital room’s drab tile floor, his jaw muscles working for a few seconds before he spoke again. “I talked to our drug-interdiction expert at The Gates, Caleb Cooper.”
She tried to match the name to a face. Cooper was a relatively new hire, wasn’t he? Rusty-haired, freckled, laughed a lot. “I didn’t realize we had a drug-interdiction expert.”
“Quinn thought it would be prudent to have someone on staff who had some experience with the drug trade. Cooper worked at the Birmingham Police Department on their drug-interdiction task force before he hired on with The Gates. Anyway, he said that the amount of drugs I flushed wasn’t likely to be someone’s personal stash. There was too much.”
“How much was there?”
“Over a hundred grams. Probably more.”
She closed her eyes. She certainly wasn’t an expert on illegal drugs, but that many grams sounded like something a whole lot worse than a drug problem. “Cooper thinks Danny is dealing?”
“Maybe dealing. Maybe transporting. Someone could be using him as their mule.”
“He doesn’t even have a car. How’s he supposed to be any sort of drug transporter?”
“I think that’s a question we need to ask Danny when he’s sober and awake enough to answer.” Anson turned his head to look at her. “Do you think he’ll tell you the truth?”
She honestly didn’t know. She and Danny had always been close, had built a relationship of mutual support thanks to an absent father—or fathers—and an irresponsible, undependable mother. But their mother’s death had hit them both hard, and in some ways, Danny had grown away from her afterward. He’d hid his drinking habit for months. And she hadn’t had any inkling that he was mixed up in drugs.
“We can worry about that tomorrow.” Anson’s tone was so gentle it brought tears to her eyes. She blinked them away, angry at herself for the sign of weakness. She couldn’t afford to be soft anymore. She couldn’t afford vulnerability, not if she was going to have to fight for Danny’s life.
“You should go home,” she said, lifting her chin and making herself meet the concern in his dark eyes. “I’m fine.”
“I know you’re fine. And I’m not going home, but if you want me to make myself scarce, I can go down the hall to wait.” He started to get up.
She caught his hand. “Stay.”
He sat again, holding on to her hand. “It’s okay to need a little help.”
She tugged her hand away, softening the retreat with a smile. “Well, if you’re sticking around, don’t suppose you have a deck of cards on you?”
“As a matter of fact—” He reached into the duffel bag and pulled out a familiar-looking box. “I found it in your bedroom when I finished packing clothes for you. It looked well-worn, so I figured you might like to have something to pass the time.” He grinned at her as he handed over the cards. The expression carved deep, sexy lines into his lean face and she had to drag her gaze away before she started swooning like a groupie at a rock concert.
She closed her hands around the box of cards. “Thank you.”
“We could play strip poker.”
She slanted a look at him. The wicked gleam in his eyes sent a little earthquake through her insides. “I sent you to bring me more clothes, not strip me of the ones I’m wearing.”
“As exciting as that sounds, I’m a terrible cardplayer. I’d be down to my skivvies in no time.”
“As exciting as that sounds,” she countered with a reluctant grin, “my game is Solitaire.”
He made a face, clapping his hand to his heart. “Ouch.”
“Although—ever played Slapjack?”
He