Hell on Wheels by Julie Ann Walker Page A

on some pretty hard-to-come-by, high-tech gadgetry.”
    She shot him a look.
    “What?” he asked.
    “Where’s my journal? I want to jot this down for posterity.”
    Huh?
    He lifted a confused brow and she smirked, ornery light glinting in her amber eyes.
    “You just spoke, like, what? A whole four sentences? Not to mention there were a few adjectives thrown in there. That must be some sort of record. It should be memorialized accordingly, don’t you think?” She batted her lashes.
    Jesus, the woman was too much.
    She rolled her eyes at his fierce frown. That is until he tightened his hold on the damned cat.
    “Oh, aahhhh!” She shrieked as he swiftly lifted Peanut from her head and unceremoniously dropped the hairy ton of fun to the ground.
    Wow, somebody needed to talk to Becky about what she was feeding the beast. Nate was pretty sure the floor actually shook.
    “Here,” he reached into his back pocket and handed her the bandana he always kept there. “You’ve got a drop of blood,” he pointed to his own cheek.
    “Thanks,” she said as she pressed the cloth to her temple.
    “We, uh, need you to give us the underwear you’re wearing,” he muttered and tried not to glance at the multi-colored mountain of lingerie heaped on the conference table. It only made him imagine just what she’d look like in each and every piece and that certainly didn’t do a thing for the semi-wood he was sporting—semi-wood which threatened to turn into a Louisville Slugger with the slightest encouragement.
    Was there a particular name for the kind of reaction this woman engendered in him? Compulsive fixation might begin to cover it. Unreasonable horniness certainly did.
    Just the thought of her handing him a pair of panties still warm from the heat of her body—and the recollection it invoked—had a shaft of red-hot lust zinging down his spine.
    That was immediately followed by a harsh flash of memory…his hand shaking on the handle of the bloody KA-BAR and Grigg’s mutilated, lifeless body going cold in his arms.
    He was hit by a crashing wave of guilt.
    Uh-huh, yeah, and that pretty much summed it up when it came to his relationship—or non -relationship—with Ali Morgan. Lust and guilt. The two were so intertwined it was a wonder he’d ever felt one without the other.
    What a goatfuck.
    And now here she was, standing not a foot from him, probably wearing silky pink underwear, looking half-frightened, half-amused, with almond shaped eyes that titled up at the corners and sparkled like gold bullion.
    Shit. Eyes that sparkle like gold bullion? She turned him into a friggin’ poet—and not a very good one at that.
    “Right. I’ll uh, just go take care of that underwear issue.” She gathered herself, squaring her thin shoulders, trying somewhat successfully to throw off the weight of her fatigue. She’d been without sleep for over twenty-four hours. He knew as soon as her adrenaline dropped—which, by the slightly glazed look in her eyes was gonna happen pretty soon—she’d hit the proverbial wall and then he’d have to wait for answers until she’d gotten twenty winks.
    He didn’t want to do that.
    The sooner he figured out just what the hell was going on, the sooner he could fix whatever it was, and the sooner Ali would be on her way back home.
    Halfway across the country.
    Which sometimes still felt too close. Particularly when he remembered that day at the beach when they—
    “Point me to the bathroom,” she said.
    He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Down the hall. Second door on the right.” When she headed in that direction, he added, “Hey, Ali?”
    She glanced back at him.
    “You’re a kindergarten teacher.” It came out of his mouth before he had a chance to think about it.
    “Yes,” she tilted her head and frowned. “So?”
    He simply looked at her. Yeah, so? So what? Geez, he was a complete moron. “So what’d’ya need that stuff for?” In for a penny, in for a pound.
    Despite the