He was about to answer when he paused to reconsider. In any transaction, whoever held out the longest gained the upper hand. Up till now Kinnard had had it. This time, let him grow anxious.

He only had to wait for three minutes before the phone vibrated again. Leering with self-satisfaction, he took the electrolarynx from his pocket and pressed it against his voice box. “You had better be calling to tell me she’s dead.”

“’Fraid not, Billy.”

It wasn’t the hired gun’s voice.

“This is Special Agent Joe Wiley, FBI, New Orleans office.”

“Fuck!” The expletive was out before he could control his reaction. While he was at it, he filled the feeb’s ear with a few more.

Seemingly unimpressed with the profane litany, the agent talked over him in a conversational tone. “The media hasn’t broken the story yet, so you’re getting an exclusive. Shaw Kinnard has been arrested. Jordie Bennett is alive and well and in our protective custody. So your reprisal scheme is kaput. And it only gets better, Mr. Panella.

“Josh Bennett is still at large, but he’s been in touch with me personally, and—you probably won’t find this surprising—once again he’s ratting you out. You know that he’s a chicken liver at heart. He’ll sell you—”

Seeing red, he didn’t wait to hear the rest of whatever the federal agent had to say, but immediately disconnected, then flipped the phone over and removed the battery. He walked toward the bayou until he got close enough to make a good overhand pitch that plopped both the phone and the battery into the water.

Every blood vessel expanding with fury, he returned to his car where he could sit and mull over the call and its dire implications. He couldn’t dismiss or underestimate them. The news of Jordie’s rescue might not have been broadcast yet, but the fed had sounded too smug not to be believed.

This was definitely a kick in the teeth. Clearly, retaining Mickey Bolden and his onetime partner had been a mistake. But that was water under the bridge. He must think forward, not backward.

He stewed and reviewed and ultimately determined that there was an upside. Shaw Kinnard was a write-off. The authorities had him for a capital crime. The nature of the beast was to lie, so nothing he said would be believed. And, anyway, he was a Johnny-come-lately on the scene. He didn’t know anything of substance about the Panella-Bennett partnership.

The downside was that Jordie did. And Jordie was alive and well and in the FBI’s protective custody.

She still had to die, but he wasn’t going to rely on anyone else to do it. Enough with the hired help. He couldn’t trust either their competency or their loyalty. Besides, taking on the chore himself was an exciting prospect. Death throes had a way of shattering cool reserve like hers. It stirred his blood to think of instilling mortal fear in the condescending bitch and then watching the life fade from her big blue eyes. He would enjoy that very much.

Naturally there was some risk to coming out from hiding, but the reward outweighed it. From now on, whenever he wanted something done properly and in a timely fashion, he would do it himself.

Starting now.

Beside him Jordie lay naked and soft.

Well, soft except for the tips of her breasts that tightened as she rubbed them against his chest. He took one between his fingers and worried it gently. She made a purring sound. He pressed his tongue into her mouth to catch that sweet vibration.

Someone almost ruined their kiss by bumping into the bed, and Shaw wanted to snarl at the offender for the interruption, because Jordie’s kiss was delicious. She wasn’t a passive kisser, either, but an active and ardent participant. Her mouth compressed around his tongue, and he knew then how amazing it would feel once she took his penis. When they got to that. For now, however—

“How’s he doing?”

“Oh, hello, Doctor. I thought you’d left for the night.”

“I was about to, but decided to check on him once more before I go.”

“He’s been stirring, but hasn’t woken up. His vitals are good.”

“Temperature?”

“Normal.”

Somewhere far in the back of his mind, Shaw acknowledged that kissing Jordie was a bad idea, but now that he was doing it, not for the life of him could he stop. Although, classifying this as a mere kiss was like comparing a candle flame to a wildfire. This kiss was the stuff of wet dreams. He had unrestricted access to her. Mouth, the sexiest. Breasts, so easily aroused. The more of herself she allowed him, the more he wanted.

If word of his obsession got around, he’d become a laughingstock. His reputation was that of a hard-ass, a badass. Ruthless. Merciless. An unfeeling and unshakable son of a bitch. No one would expect bad Shaw Kinnard to go soft over a woman.

Oh, Jesus. Was he soft? No. He was hard. Wasn’t he?

He wasn’t sure. Things down there didn’t feel quite right. There was a persistent, throbbing heaviness in the lower part of his body, which was somewhat reassuring. But it didn’t feel like a normal erection. Strangely, he was reluctant to explore the source of that odd pressure. All he actually wanted to explore was Jordie, every enticing curve and hollow of her.

“I’m sorry, sir, you can’t come in here.”

“I’m Deputy Sheriff Clint Morrow.”

“And I’m the surgeon who just repaired this guy’s gut. He’s still in recovery ICU. You have to leave.”

“He’s my prisoner.”

“He’s my patient.”

Indifferent to their squabble, Shaw ignored them. He wanted to touch Jordie where it counted, and, judging by the way she was shifting against him, with restlessness and urgency, she was wanting him to.

He slid his hand down her smooth belly and cupped her sex. Yes, Shaw, yes.

Music to his ears. Because after what he’d put her through, she should hate him. She should be afraid of him, but she wasn’t. She was arching against him with what could only be desire and whispering naughty encouragement against his lips.

“Kinnard? Kinnard? Can you hear me?”

“Deputy Morrow! What are you doing back in here?”

“Just checking to see if he’s come around.”

“He hasn’t. And I heard the doctor ordering you out.”

“Can Kinnard hear me?”

“He’s unconscious.”

“He could be faking it.”

“He’s still under anesthesia. In any case, you must wait until after the doctor has checked him in the morning, and only then will he determine if the patient is up to being interrogated. It’s not like he’s going anywhere. Are these restraints really necessary?”

Somebody tugged on Shaw’s hand. It didn’t move. Not that one. The other one was stroking Jordie in that softest of soft places on a woman’s body. She was pressing herself up into his palm with want and invitation. He extended his middle finger down into the cleft, collected her moisture on the pad of his finger, and tantalized that most sensitive spot. Dipping his head, he did the same to her nipple with his tongue.

Teasing strokes in perfect concert. Pleasuring by painting small circles.

She clutched handfuls of his hair, chanted his name in gasps and sighs, implored him not to stop.

“The restraints stay on. Both hands. Be sure the rest of the nursing staff understands that. Don’t be taken in. He’s dangerous. Two nights ago, he shot a man in the back of the head.”