Undercover with the Mob. Elizabeth Bevarly

      “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said almost desperately.

      “Oh, I know. I know better than anyone what you’re willing to do for a story.” When she tried to jerk free of his hold, his grip on her tightened. “These men are killers, and I’m not just talking about back there. They’re brutal and ruthless, and they think nothing of destroying lives. Do you remember the mass graves that were uncovered in Juarez last year? The college students who were mutilated in Matamoros ten years ago because they saw something they shouldn’t have? Men like Kane and Rialto did that, Grace, and they have to be stopped. You have the power to put them away, but you won’t because it would compromise your precious exclusive.”

      He let her go in disgust, but the moment she was set free, she reached for the door handle again. Brady’s hand shot out and closed around her wrist, pulling her toward him, and for an instant, their gazes clashed—blue against gray. Her lips trembled, drawing Brady’s attention, and a memory whipped through him. He knew the feel of those lips, the taste of them. What they could do to him.

      They’d once been so good together, he and Grace, but that had been a long time ago. Too much had gone wrong between them.

      But as if to test his resolve, Grace lifted her hand to stroke his cheek, and her lips parted ever so slightly. She moved toward him, slowly, and then her eyes widened in shock as she felt cold metal replace Brady’s hand on her right wrist. In one swift movement, he clipped the other cuff to the arm rest.

      Grace sat frozen in rage. “You son of a bitch,” she finally sputtered. “This is kidnapping.”

      “You think?”

      “You can’t do this.”

      “I just did.” He glanced in the rearview mirror, then put the truck in gear and pulled back onto the street. Beside him, Grace yanked at the cuffs, her movements frenzied. “Give it a rest,” he said gruffly. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

      “Like you care.”

      Her face had gone pale with anger, making the blue of her eyes stand out starkly in the dash lights. Physically, she hadn’t changed much, Brady thought. She still wore her brown hair long, letting it curl naturally over her shoulders. The wind had whipped it about, and the tangled strands reminded him of how she used to look waking up in the morning. All that hair spilling down her naked back.

      Her legs, still slender and shapely beneath her jeans, stirred even more memories. Grace’s legs had always been his downfall.

      He tore his gaze away from her and tried to concentrate on the road as he entered the on-ramp of the freeway. Grace didn’t utter another word until they were heading west on I–30, toward Fort Worth. She stared sullenly out her window. “Where are you taking me?”

      “I told you. Someplace safe.”

      “Would you care to be a little more specific?”

      “Does it matter?”

      “Yes, it matters!” She turned in the seat to face him, her expression earnest and desperate, her blue eyes dark with fear. “I can’t leave Dallas, Brady. Please. Just take me back. I’ll be okay. I know how to take care of myself.”

      “You still don’t get it, do you?” He scowled at the road. “This isn’t about you anymore. It’s way beyond that. I was sent here to protect you until you can testify against Kane and possibly Rialto, and that’s exactly what I intend to do. With or without your cooperation.”

      She sat back against the seat, looking drained. “Who sent you? You’re not a cop anymore. What are you? FBI? DEA?”

      “Something like that.”

      “That’s what you’ve been doing for the last five years? And here I was thinking you’d turned into some kind of cowboy.”

      He spared her a brief glance. “I have.”

      She gave a short laugh. “Brady Morgan, a cowboy? I find that hard to imagine.”

      “A lot of things are hard to imagine,” he said bluntly. “For instance, after what happened five years ago, I find it hard to believe that you wouldn’t be as eager as I am to put Kane away for good. But then, justice was never particularly a concern of yours, was it, Grace?” He sensed her tension, and almost immediately regretted his harsh words. But sometimes the truth hurt.

      “You don’t know anything about me,” she said quietly. “Not anymore. People change in five years.”

      “Don’t kid yourself.”

      She gave a defeated shrug. “If you could turn yourself into a cowboy—you, a tough-guy cop who grew up on the streets—why can’t you believe I could be redeemed?”

      THEY’D LEFT Fort Worth sometime ago, heading in a southwesterly direction on I–30. Traffic thinned once they got out of the city, but a light rain began to fall, and the way the temperature was dropping, Brady was afraid the highway would soon become a mess.

      He glanced at Grace. She’d fallen asleep a few minutes earlier, overcome with exhaustion, he suspected. She probably hadn’t slept for two days.

      He’d been pondering her question for the last several miles, and he thought he knew the answer. Why didn’t he believe that she could be redeemed? Simple. Because actions spoke louder than words.

      If she truly had changed, she wouldn’t think twice about turning over that tape to the police, about giving testimony that would put a ruthless drug dealer behind bars. But she wasn’t willing to do that, and so Brady’s conclusion was the obvious one. She was still the same conniving reporter she’d been five years ago. She was still willing to sell her soul for the sake of a story.

      He’d been well rid of her for the last five years, he thought grimly. Now, if he could just survive the next five days with her.…

      GRACE HAD no idea how long she’d been dozing, but she would awaken sporadically, shivering with cold. She was finally warm now, almost cozy, and she snuggled deeper into the folds of the blanket.

      Not a blanket, she realized groggily. Brady’s coat. He’d taken it off and placed it over her, and she wanted to savor that act of kindness. Wanted to believe that he was coming around, but she knew it was wishful thinking. He thought she was refusing to testify because she was holding out for a story. She might have done that once, but not now. She did remember Juarez. She did remember Matamoros. But most of all, she remembered Dallas, five years ago. She wanted to do the right thing, but her mother’s life was at stake. Grace could do nothing to jeopardize her mother’s safety, not even confide in Brady.

      Maybe he could help her, and maybe he couldn’t, but what he would most likely do was notify the authorities, whoever he worked for. And then Kane would know she’d talked, and Angeline would be killed. Maybe that would happen, and maybe it wouldn’t. But Grace wasn’t willing to take any chances, especially since she had no idea who Brady worked for. What she had to do now was get back to Dallas. Anyway possible.

      She studied Brady’s profile through slitted eyes as she pretended to sleep. A cowboy. Who would have thought it?

      His coat smelled of mountain air and wood smoke, and Grace, city-born and raised, was surprised to find that the scent stirred something primal and feminine inside her. She pulled the coat more tightly around her.

      He’d removed his hat, too, and she saw that he still wore his hair short, just long enough for a woman’s fingers. His jeans were the kind that rode low on his lean waist and fit deceptively snug over long, muscular legs.

      When Grace had known Brady five years ago, he’d driven a sports car, in keeping with his undercover image, but he looked at home behind the wheel of the truck. She could suddenly picture him on horseback, looking rugged and sexy. Fiercely masculine.

      A cowboy, she thought in wonder. Who would have thought it?