Crazy Hot Read Online Free PDF Page B

same dark green gaze holding hers now.
    “Kid, get some ice,” he said, walking toward her. The younger man immediately turned toward the refrigerator against the back wall.
    Regan didn't move. She wasn't sure she could without falling over. It was so hot. And so hard to breathe.
    Don't panic,
she told herself. She didn't have anything to prove to either one of them. But she would have their cooperation, by God—or she would have them in jail.
    Unless they dumped her car and she never got out of Cisco alive.
    Unless they killed her. They both had guns. Kid Chaos had two and apparently no qualms about “taking someone out.”
    Oh, great,
she thought, feeling a breathless, dizzying panic flutter back to life in her veins despite herself.
Just . . . great . . .
    A ND
there she goes.
Quinn caught her as her knees buckled and she swooned in a dead faint. He swung her up into his arms.
    “Now, isn't this just the
exact
complication we need,” Kid said, returning with a bag of ice from the freezer, clearly disgusted with the new turn of events.
    “I'll take care of her. Just help me with the car. We've got to get out of here.”
    “No shit.” Kid rounded the Camaro and swung open the passenger door just in time for Quinn to lift Regan inside.
    “Branson probably has a tracker on her Ford,” Quinn said, buckling her in and setting the bag of ice next to her. “Find it, then dump her car at Wild Bill's. I'll see you back here in five minutes.” He fished her car keys out of her pocket and tossed them to Kid.
    “And if they move before then?”
    “Then make sure they wish they hadn't.”
    Kid nodded and took off. No one could figure lines of sight better than a sniper, and given the angle of Burt's on the highway and where Regan had parked, Quinn figured Kid had a small but significant no-fire zone within which to maneuver. It would be skill, not luck, that eased Regan's car down the road without Branson and his buddy being able to see that it was gone or where it was going.
    Quinn touched his fingers to the side of her neck and checked her pulse. She turned toward him with a soft moan, her eyes fluttering open and meeting his—and for a moment, he was lost.
    Geezus,
she was pretty.
And married,
he reminded himself, if his memory served—and it damn well did. The circumstances of Regan McKinney's wedding weren't something he was likely to forget. It wasn't something he'd bothered to think about for years, but it wasn't something he would forget.
    Still, he couldn't help but look. She
was
pretty, really pretty. The video camera hadn't done her justice. Besides a golden, silky ponytail, she had the kind of bangs that fell across her eyebrows and down the sides of her face, accentuating her cheekbones.
    And that mouth. How long had it been since he'd kissed a woman? Months, at least, but when he looked at Regan McKinney, it seemed like forever.
    “You . . . you shouldn't have stared at me like that,” she said, her voice breathless, her eyes darkly glazed.
    He knew what she was talking about, and the memory came back in vivid detail: her standing in a pool of lantern light inside the canvas tent, a flowered shirt and a bra in her hands, clutched to her chest, but not covering her breasts. Her nipples had been pink, soft pink like her panties. Her mouth had been in an “O” of surprise, for the first few seconds anyway, and he'd gotten hard so fast it had hurt. God, he'd thought he was going to die right there on the spot.
    It had been one of the most intensely sexual moments of his life, and he hadn't even touched her.
    The only other thing she'd been wearing was a pair of white socks, and to this day he had a sincere appreciation for the whole bobby-socks sex fantasy. Yeah, he could dig it—especially if his fantasy lover was wearing pink panties and had blond hair and was completely stacked and had a mouth that was begging to be kissed—which of course they always were.
    “I couldn't not stare,” he admitted,