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entrance to the hospital. Give me Jill’s hotel phone. I’ll call while they’re checking Grace in.”
“I could call her and—” Lane began.
“Time contractions!” Faroe and Grace said together.
Steele said Jill’s number in a loud, precise voice.
“How long was that contraction?” Faroe asked, never looking away from the hospital rushing toward him.
“Not—done—yet,” she said in a strained voice.
“Bloody hell,” Steele said. “I’ll talk to Jillian myself.”
“No,” Faroe said, leaning on the SUV’s horn, summoning the emergency staff as he braked gently to a stop by the wide glass doors. “I owe her. This op is on me.”
“It’s on St. Kilda. I have plans for Lane,” Steele shot back. “Now, just for the novelty of the experience, be reasonable. Grace needs you more than—”
“I can talk to Jill and tell Grace to push at the same time,” Faroe cut in.
“You do and you’ll need a surgeon to remove the phone from your ass,” she shot back.
Steele almost laughed out loud.
Faroe did. “That’s the delicate little flower I know and love. And here comes the med team. I’ll call Jill.”
He hung up, looked at Lane and the people hurrying close, and said, “Help your mother and answer their questions while I talk to Jill.”
“Will do.”
Faroe didn’t answer. He was already punching in Jill’s hotel number.
15
EUREKA HOTEL
SEPTEMBER 14
12:17 A.M.
Z ach Balfour knocked smartly on the door of 435, then stepped back so that he was clearly visible in the room door’s peephole. Not that a view of his four-day stubble would be reassuring, but he didn’t give a damn. He was supposed to be on vacation, not catching imaginary bullets for another bimbo.
“Who is it?” asked a woman.
The voice was low, slightly husky without being at all breathless.
At least she doesn’t sound like a squirrel on speed, he told himself. That’s worth something.
“Zach Balfour, St. Kilda Consulting.”
“Slide your card under the door.”
It wasn’t a request.
His dark eyebrows climbed, but Zach dug out a St. Kilda card and pushed it as far as he could under the hotel room door.
A few moments later, the bolt clicked, the chain rattled, and the door opened.
“Come in,” Jill said.
Zach didn’t wait for a second invitation. He stepped into theroom and watched while Jillian Breck closed, bolted, and chained the door again.
The room was pretty much what he expected. Against the far wall there was a double bed sporting a rumpled spread and a belly bag stuffed like a sausage. A small, butt-sprung couch that likely pulled out into another bed faced the TV. Neither clean nor dirty, the room was just a place to stash stuff between casino raids.
Jillian Breck wasn’t what he’d expected. She wore jeans, a Ray Troll T-shirt, and beat-up river sandals. She had unpolished fingernails, minimal if any makeup, hair a casual auburn cap, nice breasts, trim butt, and a body that was both fit and unmistakably female.
Pale green eyes, steady and clear.
Real green, too, not contacts like the unadorable DeeDee.
Slowly Zach began to feel less homicidal toward St. Kilda Consulting. He held out his hand and said, “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Breck.”
“Jill.”
Her handshake was brief, surprisingly strong, with ridges of callus that came from rowing rafts down unruly rivers.
“Call me Zach. Have you had any more trouble since you first called St. Kilda?”
She blinked. “Well, that’s blunt.”
“Saves time.”
She tilted her head and looked up, then down the long, lean man who stood in front of her. She’d worked with enough men on the river not to underestimate the power in his rangy body and wide shoulders, or the penetrating intelligence of his whiskey-colored eyes. A crop of black stubble did nothing to soften the hard planes of his face. He had equally black hair that was too rough to be well groomed, and too clean to be a collar-length gesture of contempt aimed at the
“I could call her and—” Lane began.
“Time contractions!” Faroe and Grace said together.
Steele said Jill’s number in a loud, precise voice.
“How long was that contraction?” Faroe asked, never looking away from the hospital rushing toward him.
“Not—done—yet,” she said in a strained voice.
“Bloody hell,” Steele said. “I’ll talk to Jillian myself.”
“No,” Faroe said, leaning on the SUV’s horn, summoning the emergency staff as he braked gently to a stop by the wide glass doors. “I owe her. This op is on me.”
“It’s on St. Kilda. I have plans for Lane,” Steele shot back. “Now, just for the novelty of the experience, be reasonable. Grace needs you more than—”
“I can talk to Jill and tell Grace to push at the same time,” Faroe cut in.
“You do and you’ll need a surgeon to remove the phone from your ass,” she shot back.
Steele almost laughed out loud.
Faroe did. “That’s the delicate little flower I know and love. And here comes the med team. I’ll call Jill.”
He hung up, looked at Lane and the people hurrying close, and said, “Help your mother and answer their questions while I talk to Jill.”
“Will do.”
Faroe didn’t answer. He was already punching in Jill’s hotel number.
15
EUREKA HOTEL
SEPTEMBER 14
12:17 A.M.
Z ach Balfour knocked smartly on the door of 435, then stepped back so that he was clearly visible in the room door’s peephole. Not that a view of his four-day stubble would be reassuring, but he didn’t give a damn. He was supposed to be on vacation, not catching imaginary bullets for another bimbo.
“Who is it?” asked a woman.
The voice was low, slightly husky without being at all breathless.
At least she doesn’t sound like a squirrel on speed, he told himself. That’s worth something.
“Zach Balfour, St. Kilda Consulting.”
“Slide your card under the door.”
It wasn’t a request.
His dark eyebrows climbed, but Zach dug out a St. Kilda card and pushed it as far as he could under the hotel room door.
A few moments later, the bolt clicked, the chain rattled, and the door opened.
“Come in,” Jill said.
Zach didn’t wait for a second invitation. He stepped into theroom and watched while Jillian Breck closed, bolted, and chained the door again.
The room was pretty much what he expected. Against the far wall there was a double bed sporting a rumpled spread and a belly bag stuffed like a sausage. A small, butt-sprung couch that likely pulled out into another bed faced the TV. Neither clean nor dirty, the room was just a place to stash stuff between casino raids.
Jillian Breck wasn’t what he’d expected. She wore jeans, a Ray Troll T-shirt, and beat-up river sandals. She had unpolished fingernails, minimal if any makeup, hair a casual auburn cap, nice breasts, trim butt, and a body that was both fit and unmistakably female.
Pale green eyes, steady and clear.
Real green, too, not contacts like the unadorable DeeDee.
Slowly Zach began to feel less homicidal toward St. Kilda Consulting. He held out his hand and said, “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Breck.”
“Jill.”
Her handshake was brief, surprisingly strong, with ridges of callus that came from rowing rafts down unruly rivers.
“Call me Zach. Have you had any more trouble since you first called St. Kilda?”
She blinked. “Well, that’s blunt.”
“Saves time.”
She tilted her head and looked up, then down the long, lean man who stood in front of her. She’d worked with enough men on the river not to underestimate the power in his rangy body and wide shoulders, or the penetrating intelligence of his whiskey-colored eyes. A crop of black stubble did nothing to soften the hard planes of his face. He had equally black hair that was too rough to be well groomed, and too clean to be a collar-length gesture of contempt aimed at the
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