Take Me Deeper (6 page)

Voices drifted from the doorway Zane had vanished through, Zane's and another man's, deep and gravelly. Then Zane reappeared, a tall, broad-shouldered man in battered jeans and a faded black T-shirt following behind him. The man was only a bit taller than Zane, his dark hair longer, and he had the greenest eyes she'd ever seen. They were quite mesmerizing. In fact,
he
was quite mesmerizing. His features were rougher and less sharply defined than Zane's, but there was a raw, very masculine beauty to him that had Iris staring.

“She's being chased by the cartel so of course you brought her here,” the green-eyed man said sarcastically, staring down at her. “Jesus, Zane. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that she'll be safer here than at that goddamn motel.” Zane was frowning at the other man, his arms folded across his chest.

The guy gave Zane a ferocious look. “We can't keep her here. She needs to go back to Dallas.” He said it like it was a done deal already, no argument.

“No,” Zane said flatly. “She's not going back to Dallas.”

Mr. Green Eyes went still, staring back at Zane, and an electric tension filled the air between the two men.

Iris tensed. Who the hell was this? One of the brothers Zane had mentioned? He'd also said that he wasn't a part of the family business, so where did this guy fit in? Or, more to the point, where did Zane fit in?

“Who's calling the shots here?” Green Eyes demanded. “And just in case you need a hint, it's not you.”

“She's not going back to Dallas, Quinn.” Zane's features had hardened. “Jail isn't safe for her.”

“That's not your call.”

“I don't give a shit whether it's my call or not. She's not going. End of story.”

Quinn, or whoever he was, lifted his chin, his shoulders squaring as if preparing for a fight. He was built a touch broader than Zane, his shoulders heavily muscled, the cotton of his T-shirt stretched around biceps that looked like they bench-pressed houses every day.

Jesus. It looked like they were going to go for each other's throats.

Iris got awkwardly to her feet. “No,” she said into the tense silence. “I'm not going to Dallas. But take the cuffs off me now and I'll walk through that door and you'll never have to—”

“Sit down, Iris,” Zane ordered coldly, not taking his gaze from the other man. “You're not going anywhere. My brother here is being a dickhead. Of course you'll be staying here until we decide what to do about the people after you.”

There was another tense, biting silence.

We,
he'd said. Not
you
. Not
I.

Why did she like that so very much? Why did she want to sit right back down on that couch like he'd told her to?

It sounded like bliss in fact. To have someone else figure out what to do. To not have to do it all by herself the way she'd been doing for so long.

You did that with Dylan, don't forget. And look how that turned out.

Yeah, she wasn't likely to forget that. But this was an entirely different situation. This time the person who was at risk was her. In fact, the
only
person at risk was her. Which meant if Zane turned out to be a bastard just like Dylan, at least no one but her would get hurt. Not that she'd let herself get hurt, not this time. So why not let Zane figure it out? Why not trust him with this?

Yes, she didn't know him from a bar of soap, but he'd told her he'd protect her, that he'd keep her safe. Hell, and he was some kind of super-soldier thing too, right? Perhaps it was stupid to trust a gut feeling, but she had a gut feeling about him. He was a man of his word, that was clear. He'd gotten her away from the bar in one piece and had even cleaned up the scratch on her stomach.

Really, if she was going to trust someone, she could do worse.

And hey, if he ended up being another Dylan-clone, she'd be out of here so fast his head would spin.

Giving him an irritated look to show him she didn't appreciate his bossy tone, she nevertheless sat down on the couch again.

Zane gave a small nod, as if this satisfied him. Then he glanced at his brother and said, “Quinn, this is Iris Callahan. The woman you'll be saving from certain death.”

His brother didn't look at her, his hard green gaze fixed on Zane instead. “It's not happening. This business is in enough trouble as it is, and the last thing we need is a whole bunch of cartel assholes coming along and making it worse.”

“She's not a drug dealer,” Zane said, as if his brother hadn't spoken. “She needed the money to get her sister out of a bad situation.”

A small flash of anger went through her at his casual mention of her closely guarded secret. “Hey,” she couldn't help snapping. “That wasn't for public consumption, asshole.”

A flash of icy sapphire caught her. “Quinn isn't public.”

“I don't care. That's not something I like to give out to people. Especially not to people who look like they're as much of an asshole as you are.”

This time, Quinn finally deigned to look at her. The expression in his eyes wasn't as cold or impassive as Zane's, but it was definitely hostile, anger and frustration plain on his rough, handsome face. “I'm sorry about your sister,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “But you're going back to Dallas and that's final. The police will be able to protect you much better than we can.”

There was a bristling silence.

“Iris?” Zane's voice was as sharp and cold as shards of ice. “Go upstairs. At the end of the hallway there's a door on your right. It should be unlocked. Go in and wait for me there. I need a few private words with my brother.”

She very much wanted to tell him to go to hell, that this was
her
future they were arguing about. Her very existence, in fact. And she wasn't going to let them decide what happened to her without her being there. Then again, they could argue about it all they liked because the final decision would be hers, no matter what they thought. And if they were going to force her back to Dallas, then she'd simply escape out the window. Of course then she'd be at risk from the cartel, but at least she'd be out there trying to improve her situation so she could get Jamie back, not sitting on her ass and waiting to be shanked in jail.

Making like a good little girl, she got to her feet. “Okay, but uncuff me first.”

“Oh, hell no,” Quinn growled. “A skip stays in cuffs. Especially one who isn't going to be here long.”

Iris shrugged like she didn't care. “Fine. You want to wipe my ass after I pee? Be my guest.”

His eyes became thin emerald strips. “You got a smart mouth, skip. I don't like it.”

“Leave her alone.” Zane's voice was flat as he stepped over to her, dragging the key from his pocket and unlocking the cuffs. “She's not going to go anywhere.”

“Thanks,” she muttered as the metal fell away, rubbing at her wrists and then picking up her bag. Ignoring Quinn completely, she headed toward the grand set of stairs that led to the upper story.

No, she wouldn't be going anywhere.

At least not yet.

Zane waited until Iris had disappeared up the stairs, struggling to lock down the anger that seemed to boil up from nowhere at Quinn's stubborn insistence that she be shipped back to Dallas.

It wasn't happening. Just wasn't. Couldn't he see how dangerous it was going to be for her? That jail wasn't any guarantee of safety? He wasn't going to be responsible for another woman's death, not on his watch, and he didn't give a shit what Quinn thought of that. In fact, Quinn should be supporting him, given what had happened all those years ago.

“You stupid bastard,” Quinn said, the look in his eyes anything but supportive. “This
is
a Charlie situation, isn't it?”

Zane felt his jaw tightening, his shoulders beginning to crawl with tension. By unspoken agreement, they'd never talked about Charlie's death, but that didn't mean Zane didn't think about it. Didn't have it sitting inside him like a splinter he could never completely get rid of.

“So what if it is?” He kept his arms folded tight across his chest, meeting Quinn's hostile gaze. “What's wrong with wanting to keep a woman safe?”

Quinn's expression was like granite. “We can't save them all, Zane. I know Mom's death hit you hard as well, but—”

Something sharp twisted in his gut. “This hasn't got anything to do with Mom, so how about you shut the fuck up about that?”

His brother's expression was unreadable. “Okay, but apart from any of that, she's a fucking drug mule. You did the crime, you do the time.”

“She was doing it to get money to give her kid sister a better life. I told you that.”

“I don't give a shit why she did it. She's a skip and we need the bond money.”

“Fuck the money,” Zane said coldly. “She's in danger. I'm not delivering her back to jail only for her to get killed.”

“No, not ‘fuck the money,' asshole. We need it.” Quinn's eyes glittered with anger. “This business is struggling enough as it is since Dad was so shit at the money side of it. And that means we can't afford not to take on jobs. Rescuing fucking criminals isn't part of our job descriptions anyway.”

He knew where Quinn was coming from. His brother had always been more invested in the business than Zane, mainly because Quinn had been Joe's favorite, the one groomed to take over the helm when the time came. Even when Quinn had started taking off in the bad years after their mother's death, leaving for days, going God knew where, but always coming home angry and silent, Joe never held it against him. He was too busy sitting in the Lone Star's old bar and drinking until he passed out anyway.

Certainly too busy to notice his youngest son still grieving the death of his mother.

When he was around, Quinn had been the one to take care of old Joe, clean him up, and put him to bed, for reasons Zane had never been able to understand. But then Quinn was a goddamn martyr, so maybe that was it.

He was also a stubborn prick.

“It's one woman, Quinn.” Zane tried to keep the temper out of his voice. “We can afford not to collect her bond money.”

Quinn's dark brows had drawn down in a furious scowl. He was used to getting his own way and hated being argued with. “No, we fucking can't. And anyway, what do you suggest exactly that we do with her? Keep her here until the cartel arrives with a private army and takes us all down?”

“Oh bullshit,” Zane snapped, losing patience. “Stop being such a fucking drama queen. They're not going to risk taking us on in broad daylight.”

The scowl on Quinn's face abruptly smoothed—always a very bad sign. “Fine,” he said. “I'll call the company in Dallas that has her bond and get them to come down here and get her.”

Jesus Christ. The bastard wasn't going to listen to him, was he?

Why are you making such a big deal out of this? Quinn's not wrong, you know that.

No, he wasn't wrong. Yet something inside Zane simply wouldn't let him leave this alone. He kept thinking of the fear in Iris's gaze as the guy in the bar had pointed his gun at them. Of the sooty shadows beneath her eyes as she'd fallen asleep in his truck. Of the sheer vulnerability of her as she'd lain on the bed in the motel. There was something about her that made him think she'd been dealing with a lot of shit for a long time, not just with the cartel right now. And he couldn't deny that made him feel protective. Christ, he was a soldier. Protecting people was what he'd been trained for.

So has Quinn, remember?

Well, and wasn't that a good fucking point?

Zane took a step toward his brother, holding the other man's gaze. “We fought for this country, remember? We fought for people, to protect them. Are you really telling me that just because you're not a soldier anymore, you're willing to let one of them die? For the sake of a company? For the sake of money?”

Something flared deep in his brother's eyes, something Zane didn't recognize. “Don't put that shit on me, you asshole.” Quinn's voice had turned quiet, menacing. “And if you mention Charlie, I'll punch your face in.”

Zane didn't make the mistake of thinking Quinn wouldn't do it. He would, no doubt about it, and he had a mean right hook, too. But using Charlie to make a point was a low blow and Zane had never been one for the cheap shot. He usually left that to Rush, who'd never met a cheap shot he didn't want to take.

“You make that call,” he said coldly, “hell, you make
any
kind of move that gets Iris picked up, and it won't be my face you'll be worrying about.”

Once, he'd trusted that Quinn would have his back, that he'd at least listen to what Zane had to say. But that had been a long time ago, before their mother had died, and a lot of things had changed since then, Quinn himself the least of all.

Quinn said nothing for a long moment, and Zane held his gaze, refusing to look away. His muscles tightened, a tense readiness coiling inside him. If his brother made that call, Zane would stop him and he'd have no qualms about it. A woman's life was at risk and regardless of what she'd done and who she'd been, that was important.

“Fuck,” Quinn breathed abruptly, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. “Why you gotta make this so damn difficult?”

The tightness in Zane's muscles eased, though he knew Quinn's sudden change of mood wasn't agreement, not in the slightest. “Is that a rhetorical question, or are you asking Dad? Because if so, you're looking in the wrong direction.”

Quinn sighed, looking at him again. “What is it with you and this chick? Why the hell does she matter to you so much? Christ, you only just met her.”

It was a good question and he only had one answer—at least only one answer that would make any sense to his brother. “She's alone. She's afraid. And she doesn't have anyone else. That's enough reason for me.”