himself. He wasn't a kid anymore, and she certainly deserved better than him continually imagining her without her clothes on, but there it was anyway.
Her skin was amazingly soft, though. Any guy who had touched her would notice—which made him wonder what had happened to her husband, a story he probably wasn't going to get any time soon.
“I asked you a question.”
“Yeah, you did,” he said, stalling until he could get his mind back on what she wanted to talk about. “Why shouldn't you go to the police? Because the police don't have a clue where your grandfather is, and I do.”
The answer to her question was as simple as that. He hadn't known before—not about the doc and not about the contents of those crates—but Betty had clinched it for him. Old Doc McKinney was working for SDF. There had been dinosaur bones in those crates, and Dylan had gone to the dinosaur man for help.
“So where is he, damn it?” she demanded. “Is he okay, or what?” The faint tremor in her voice stole some of the force out of her question and made him feel guilty as hell.
“If he's where I think he is, he's fine.”
She was quiet for a long minute on her side of the Camaro, but he could feel her looking at him.
Turning his head, he slid his gaze over her. Her hair was falling down all over the place, her lips were pale, and her skin was flushed with heat. Most women would look like train wrecks under those circumstances. He'd never seen anything more sexy in his life.
“And if he's not where you think he is?” she asked.
“Then I'll find him.”
And that was a promise.
W ELL,
that settles it,
Christian Hawkins thought, slipping his cell phone into the back pocket of his jeans and pulling out a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. His whole day had just gone to hell. His boss at SDF, Dylan Hart, had just confirmed it.
Leaning back against the old warehouse where he was working with Doc McKinney, Hawkins, sometimes known as “Superman,” knocked a cigarette out of the pack.
Uncle Sam was pulling the plug on them. Dylan's trip to Washington, D.C., to plead SDF's case on a bunch of dinosaur bones had come to nothing. Not even General Grant had been able to save the mission. Hell, Quinn had almost died stealing the damn things, and now the government didn't want them—not that Hawkins blamed them. Who the hell would want a bunch of old dinosaur bones, except old man McKinney?
Guns. That's what they had been looking for in the Burlington Northern and Santa Fe rail yards two weeks ago. They had been looking for a stolen shipment of cutting-edge military assault rifles commissioned by the Pentagon.
Hawkins bent his head low over the flame of his lighter and inhaled until his cigarette was lit. Then he snapped the lighter shut and shoved it and the pack back in his pocket with his phone. He took a long drag and looked over the warehouse's parking lot. The place made him uneasy, and not because of the rusting piles of gutted cars, abandoned shipping crates, and junkyard trash.
The warehouse was too isolated. They were sitting on the interstate with Denver twenty-five miles to the south, Boulder fifteen miles west, and nothing but endless prairie to the east. A single FBI agent was inside the building, watching Doc McKinney sort his way through all those tons of bones. Two weeks ago they'd had three agents working in shifts around the clock, and in about five more minutes, they weren't even going to have the one.
Hell.
Dinosaur bones. They were a logistical pain in the ass and the most unlikely method of smuggling any of them had ever seen. They'd had to cut each plaster jacket to see what was inside, and McKinney was refusing to have the fossils moved until they'd finished replastering all of them.
They'd traced the wooden crates back to Seattle, but where the bones inside had come from was a mystery. Old man McKinney predicted it could take months, years, or maybe forever to figure out where the fossils had originated.
Her skin was amazingly soft, though. Any guy who had touched her would notice—which made him wonder what had happened to her husband, a story he probably wasn't going to get any time soon.
“I asked you a question.”
“Yeah, you did,” he said, stalling until he could get his mind back on what she wanted to talk about. “Why shouldn't you go to the police? Because the police don't have a clue where your grandfather is, and I do.”
The answer to her question was as simple as that. He hadn't known before—not about the doc and not about the contents of those crates—but Betty had clinched it for him. Old Doc McKinney was working for SDF. There had been dinosaur bones in those crates, and Dylan had gone to the dinosaur man for help.
“So where is he, damn it?” she demanded. “Is he okay, or what?” The faint tremor in her voice stole some of the force out of her question and made him feel guilty as hell.
“If he's where I think he is, he's fine.”
She was quiet for a long minute on her side of the Camaro, but he could feel her looking at him.
Turning his head, he slid his gaze over her. Her hair was falling down all over the place, her lips were pale, and her skin was flushed with heat. Most women would look like train wrecks under those circumstances. He'd never seen anything more sexy in his life.
“And if he's not where you think he is?” she asked.
“Then I'll find him.”
And that was a promise.
W ELL,
that settles it,
Christian Hawkins thought, slipping his cell phone into the back pocket of his jeans and pulling out a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. His whole day had just gone to hell. His boss at SDF, Dylan Hart, had just confirmed it.
Leaning back against the old warehouse where he was working with Doc McKinney, Hawkins, sometimes known as “Superman,” knocked a cigarette out of the pack.
Uncle Sam was pulling the plug on them. Dylan's trip to Washington, D.C., to plead SDF's case on a bunch of dinosaur bones had come to nothing. Not even General Grant had been able to save the mission. Hell, Quinn had almost died stealing the damn things, and now the government didn't want them—not that Hawkins blamed them. Who the hell would want a bunch of old dinosaur bones, except old man McKinney?
Guns. That's what they had been looking for in the Burlington Northern and Santa Fe rail yards two weeks ago. They had been looking for a stolen shipment of cutting-edge military assault rifles commissioned by the Pentagon.
Hawkins bent his head low over the flame of his lighter and inhaled until his cigarette was lit. Then he snapped the lighter shut and shoved it and the pack back in his pocket with his phone. He took a long drag and looked over the warehouse's parking lot. The place made him uneasy, and not because of the rusting piles of gutted cars, abandoned shipping crates, and junkyard trash.
The warehouse was too isolated. They were sitting on the interstate with Denver twenty-five miles to the south, Boulder fifteen miles west, and nothing but endless prairie to the east. A single FBI agent was inside the building, watching Doc McKinney sort his way through all those tons of bones. Two weeks ago they'd had three agents working in shifts around the clock, and in about five more minutes, they weren't even going to have the one.
Hell.
Dinosaur bones. They were a logistical pain in the ass and the most unlikely method of smuggling any of them had ever seen. They'd had to cut each plaster jacket to see what was inside, and McKinney was refusing to have the fossils moved until they'd finished replastering all of them.
They'd traced the wooden crates back to Seattle, but where the bones inside had come from was a mystery. Old man McKinney predicted it could take months, years, or maybe forever to figure out where the fossils had originated.
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