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Yeah, even when he was like this. Perhaps especially like this, with his stance like a gladiator, his glare like a lion, and his voice—dear God, how his voice sizzled through her, even now—like an avenging angel from the wrong side of the celestial tracks.
“Tell you what, man,” he sneered into the burner. “Why don’t you tell me how it happened? You’re determined to do it the right fucking way, after all. Come on; I’m interested to hear this. Tell me where I’ve genked up. Nothing I’m not used to hearing—but you know that too, don’t you? Lend me thy great and powerful wisdom, Mr. Wrightman. I’m all fucking ears.”
Tracy could tell he wanted to pace. She didn’t dare let him go. He kept up his side of the grip, but maybe that was because he was so preoccupied. Damn. He berated Sol to the point of composing a full masters’ thesis on the subject.
Wait.
What?
He really was berating Sol. A lot.
Taking the time to do it. Right now.
With his gaze glued to…
Max?
Who returned the scrutiny by rolling a finger in the air. Then added a new motion, as if pulling a zipper sideways—the universal television production symbol for drawing a conversation out.
What. The. Hell?
“Done there, sparky?” he gritted into the phone. “Don’t let me harsh your groove, hot stuff. I mean, the great and powerful Sol Wrightman knows exactly how to do all this subterfuge shit, doesn’t he?”
He finished that part by throwing his gaze down at her—though the incensed fire she expected to find in his gaze was nonexistent. She felt her lips fall open as he stared harder.
Looking as if Sol had just told him someone had died.
What the hell? Tracy repeated it by mouthing it now, but once more came up against the Great Wall of Franzen. The flint in his jaw now defined his whole stature. The bizarre sheen continued in his eyes.
On the other side of the car, Max kept up the TV production hand signals. Suddenly, that changed. He nodded sharply then jabbed both thumbs into the air.
The second he did, John switched up the dialogue with Sol as well. “Hey. Hey. I don’t have time for any of this, asshole.”
Asshole?
Before she could funnel the shock into so much as a glance, he barreled on. “I’m taking her someplace safe—clearly safer than this. Don’t expect to hear from me until it’s publicly reported that you’ve caught the Vegas bomber.”
Why she was dumbfounded that he ended the exchange there, using his thigh to help him break the burner in two before hurling it into a trashcan, was a mystery for unraveling another time. There were bigger issues here to tackle—namely, what the hell was going on upstairs, what the hell had just happened here, and where the hell was her son—than to worry about Franz’s lack of social graces.
At the moment, she wasn’t feeling fond of the bullshit herself—especially when the man let go of her hand, pushing at the small of her back toward Max’s Jag. Hell. He chose now to roll out one of the best moves in the alpha male playbook? She wanted to enjoy it, dammit—not be struggling to accept this might be the last time she’d ever feel it. The last time he’d be touching her, period. She wanted him to be escorting her to this piece of automotive porn for a glamorous date involving booze and chocolate and sex, not as a getaway car to—
Where?
She stopped in the space between the open passenger door and the car itself. Looked at Max, his thunderous expression still the same, then at Rayna, who’d already climbed in and buckled up in the Jag’s backseat, worry glistening in her huge emerald eyes. Finally, she swung a new gaze back, at the other waiting car.
And came to a sudden, distinct recognition.
None of this had happened randomly.
This was a coordinated effort—as in, someone had worked out a plan, gone over it with the guys, and ensured it would all happen.
As in, someone had practically expected their hideout to get blown.
As in, the hulk now standing in front of her, due to the furious spin she executed on his hulking, scowling form. “Franzen.”
His hand, now at her hip because of her whiplash move, dug into her flesh like his fingers had turned to I-beams. “Tracy.”
“Uh-uh,” she fired at his equally iron tone. “No way are you going dragon on me right now.”
