All Jacked Up (2 page)

He turned slowly, took one look at her face, and said, “Oh, hell.”

So where were the tears and hysteria? Why wasn’t she begging him not to hurt her? Not that he wanted hysteria and begging, and just about anything was preferable to a woman in tears. Except a woman too crazy to cry.

That was it, Jack decided. She was a whack job, and wasn’t that just the way his luck was running?

It wasn’t bad enough that the bureau thought he was a mole. Instead of working within the system, he’d decided to go Rambo in the hope he could get to the only person who might help him clear his name before whoever was framing him put the truth six feet under. And it wasn’t bad enough that the person whose help he needed was a woman, she had to be the kind of woman who made him wonder if he wouldn’t be better off just eating his gun. And on top of everything else, she was a librarian.

Not that books didn’t have their place; hell, he’d gone to college like everyone else. The problem was, eggheads and computer geeks were taking over the world, including the bureau. Jack always worked best when he went with his gut. His gut had never let him down, which was why he steered clear of the opposite sex. Sure, there were the occasional digressions; a man had his needs after all. But he never let a woman so much as leave her panties in his apartment. That’s how it started. They left something behind and had to come back for it, and before you knew it, you were watching
Oprah
and trying to get in touch with your emotions.

Jack liked his emotions right where they were, which was buried so deep it took them days to claw their way to the surface, and by then he’d forgotten exactly what they were for. As far as he was concerned the heart was just a lump of muscle that pumped blood; the only thing love did was mess with a man’s head—and screw up his gut.

Now here he was, saddled with a woman who was not only too dumb to cooperate when someone shoved a gun in her face, she also got off on car chases and people shooting at her. Her eyes were shining and she was smiling. At him.

Jack gave her the kind of look that had stopped hardened criminals in their tracks. She made a little startled chirp, as if she’d just remembered where she was and why, and dove for the door handle.

He did the same, wrenching the door shut and keeping his arm pinned across her chest while he reached for his cuffs with the other hand. “Don’t,” he growled when she opened her mouth. He had no idea what might have come out, but he wasn’t in the mood for any type of noise from her. “Cross your legs.”

She gave him a look that said he was a nutcase, but she did as he asked.

“Not like that. Indian style.”

“I’m wearing a dress.”

“I’m holding a gun.”

She snorted in disgust, but she folded her legs, careful to arrange her skirt for maximum modesty.

Jack could have told her not to bother. He didn’t even notice how shapely her legs were, or how pretty her skin looked with the sun shining on it through the screen of trees. He just handcuffed her right wrist to her slim, soft, warm—to her bony left ankle and never thought twice about it.

It helped that when he pulled his arm back he found something else to concentrate on, namely the pain burning across his right shoulder. “Damn,” he muttered, flexing his shoulders and twisting slowly.

“You swear a lot.”

“No shit.”

She gave him a look that could have had real potential without that prim librarian purse to her lips. “It’s the sign of an ignorant mind.”

“It’s the sign of a man who’s been shot.”

“Really?”

He might have known she’d perk up at that. He shook his head, reaching under the seat and pulling out a battered black duffel. He flipped the safety on the gun and dropped it in, took out the first-aid kit and tossed it into her lap.

She looked at the beat-up white box with its traditional red cross, then at him, huffing out a little breath. “You expect me to play nursemaid after you kidnapped me?”

“I figured it might not be too much to ask after I
saved your life
.” He grabbed the kit and peeled out of his jacket and T-shirt. It stung like hell, but he swore more to irritate her than to get through the pain.

“The atlas saved my life,” Aubrey reminded him. “And how do I know they were shooting at me anyway? Maybe they were shooting at you and you just wanted a hostage.”

“If all you were was a hostage, you’re a damn poor one, since they kept shooting. Hell, if all you were was a hostage, I’d have shot you by now, just to shut you up.” He cranked the rearview mirror down and twisted around until he could look at the wound. Just a graze, but it still burned like somebody had lit him on fire. He poured some antiseptic on a wad of gauze and swiped at his shoulder, hissing in a breath as the burning notched up to something that made his eyes cross and his toes curl. It took a minute, a lot of breathing through his mouth, and some swearing that had nothing to do with Aubrey Sullivan for a change, but eventually the pain subsided.

“Oh, for pete’s sake, you only made it worse.” She took the first-aid kit and the wad of gauze and shoved him none too gently forward.

“It’s not in the most convenient place,” he pointed out.

“I’d be shocked if it was. So far you haven’t done anything convenient for either of us.” Then she surprised him by dabbing so gently at his wound that it barely hurt.

He relaxed enough to rest his forehead against the cool leather covering the steering wheel. He might have known she’d ruin that moment of peace by shooting her mouth off.

“There’s a furrow about three inches long in the upper left quadrant of your right trapezius. The scapula is not involved and the tendons appear uninjured. The muscle has suffered some damage, but you appear to have enough bulk so that you should heal with no loss of mobility.”

“You sound like a damn medical textbook,” he grumbled. “What does all that mean?”

“You’ll live,” she said in a voice dripping with sarcasm. “You could use some stitches, although as scars go this will be a nice addition to your collection.” Soft, cool fingers gently touched the two other scars on his back, but if she thought he would be prompted to explain, it didn’t take her long to give up. “You were lucky—me, too, for that matter. An inch higher and to the left and you’d have a nice hole in your carotid artery and we’d be wrapped around a pole somewhere.”

She pressed the gauze pad against the oozing trough in his meaty shoulder and applied pressure. “You know, this would be easier if you unlocked these handcuffs.”

The chain rattled and he looked over, and felt an immediate and unwelcome shift in his blood pressure. She’d turned sideways, with the result that her skirt had twisted around her slim hips and ridden up her thighs to the point where his fantasies kicked in and his brain cells checked out. It didn’t help when she dragged at the hem of her skirt with her handcuffed hand, bumping her hips up in an attempt to ease it back down. She only succeeded in making the lightweight material float and flutter without revealing anything of interest, but keeping his attention glued there on the off chance it would.

That pissed him off. He had no business wanting to see anything but the back of Aubrey Sullivan as she walked out of his life—after he got his life back, of course. She did have nice skin, all soft and golden. But if he was interested in skin, he knew where to find the kind smoothed over really mouthwatering curves, and if he was interested in more than looking, he’d never had a problem finding a willing, no-strings-attached partner.

She gave up, finally, slamming her thighs closed and folding her feet under her, with the result that her right hand ended up behind her back. “I hate to spoil your fun,” she snapped, “but I can’t bandage you with one hand.”

His gaze climbed to her face, slowly since the filter of testosterone had him finding new points of interest between her skirt and eyes. “You’ll bolt.”

Clearly she was considering the possibility. She looked out the windows at the thick forest all around them, then at her very un-librarian-like heels and came to the conclusion he’d already reached.

“You’ll only chase me down.”

“True, but frankly I’m not in the mood for a footrace right about now.”

“I promise I’ll be a good girl and bandage your wound.” She took the antiseptic out of his hand and dropped it into the first-aid kit. When he didn’t respond, she looked up, giving an impatient sigh. “Well?”

She was planning something; he could all but see the wheels spinning behind those wide eyes and innocent expression. She did a little shimmy in her seat and tipped her head, smiling hopefully at him.

“What if we make a deal?” she said. “I’ll take care of you and you can answer some questions for me.”

He really had no choice, but he wasn’t about to trust her. He dug the key out of his jeans pocket and unlocked the cuff around her ankle, leaving the other one dangling from her wrist. To his surprise, she didn’t push him to unlock it, just nudged him forward until he was leaning on the steering wheel again. He was vaguely aware of her setting the first-aid kit on his back, but she leaned over him right about then. Some soft, warm part of her pressed against his upper arm and he forgot that he couldn’t sit back, just lost himself in her subtle scent and the feel of her cool, gentle hands moving over his skin.

“This is quite the extensive first-aid kit,” she said. “Not the first time you’ve been in this situation, huh?”

This was definitely a first, he thought, although he grunted his assent for her benefit. Here he was, sitting in a stolen car while a woman he’d kidnapped treated a bullet wound and he tried not to appreciate it. And her. It made no sense when he could come up with any number of things about her that annoyed the hell out of him. Like she talked too much. And she was bossy, and crazy, and an egghead. And she wasn’t even beautiful, which would have made up for some of her shortcomings.

Her mouth just naturally turned up at the corners, which made her look cheerful. He hated cheerful. Other than that she was kind of mousy-looking. Pleasant, nondescript features, soft brown hair, eye color that fell somewhere between hazel and brown, also known as mud. She was kind of scrawny, too, medium height and very slim, although there were some surprising curves on that skinny frame. Nicely rounded hips, not too much breast to speak of but what was there was firm and well shaped—okay, so he’d copped a feel when he had the chance. He’d been saving her life at the time; she owed him.

“So, what’s your name?”

“Jack Mitchell,” he said after a slight hesitation. Since he wasn’t letting her out of his sight anytime soon there was no harm in her knowing his name, although he figured she’d have had no trouble coming up with things to call him. She probably wouldn’t even have to think very hard.

“Why me?”

“Why you what?”

“You said I’m not a hostage, which makes sense now that I think about it. Hostages are usually people who get snatched up at random. You know, wrong place, wrong time.” She stopped touching him, and he could all but see her ticking points off on her fingers. “You knew my name, where I work, what I look like, and God knows what else about me. I’m just a librarian. What could you possibly want with me?”

He shrugged, regretting it when pain ripped through his shoulder again. “You know something,” he said.

“I know a lot of things.”

“Not modest, are you?”

“So far you’ve called me stupid and egotistical, and those are just the things you’ve said out loud. Considering that I could cause you a lot of needless pain, you might want to say something nice right about now.”

“You’re not fat.”

“Stop, you’re making my knees weak.”

He twisted around far enough to see her face, nearly grinning at the deadpan look she shot him before she went back to building a bandage out of gauze and tape. Okay, maybe she wasn’t all bad. She might look like a strong breeze would blow her over, but there was a good, stiff backbone in there somewhere, and at least she wasn’t boring.

“Earth to Jack.”

He started, realizing he’d completely let his guard down. Again. He scowled to make up for it.

“So what do I know that people are willing to kill me over?”

“Something that doesn’t come out of books.”

“Not fond of books, are you?”

He could hear the disapproval in her voice. Or maybe it was his own experience coloring her words. Either way it irritated the hell out of him. “I’ve got nothing against them; they just don’t stack up against practical experience.”

“Really? Well, I’d stack my book learning up against your practical experience any day.”

“If I’m taken out before we figure out what you know, it might come to that.”

A little line appeared between her brows. He’d noticed she got that look from time to time, usually right before she did something he didn’t like. He braced himself, but she only pressed the bandage onto his back, closed the first-aid kit, and set it on the seat behind her. “Maybe if you tell me who was shooting at us, I can tell you what I know and then I can go home and you can go . . . wherever it is men like you go to unwind after abducting perfectly innocent women.”