Crazy Hot by Tara Janzen Page A

even with the scar on his cheek and his too-long, mussed-up, windblown hair. Any normal woman would have outgrown her infatuation years ago. But, no, desperate Regan McKinney had clung to hers. What she should have done, she admitted, was take his picture off her closet door a long time ago, instead of letting it become a permanent fixture. Better yet, she should never have put it up in the first place.
    Regardless, she'd tracked him down because of Wilson, not out of some timeworn crush. Memories or no memories, she had a responsibility in her current situation, a responsibility she had no intention of forgetting.
    Forcing herself to lift her chin, she met his gaze.
    “How did my grandfather get involved in this mess? Did you call him?”
    He shook his head. “I've been out of action for a couple of weeks. One of my partners must have contacted him.”
    “Kid?”
    “No. Kid's been with me.”
    “Hiding out in Cisco.” Like the outlaw she was sure he still was.
    “Laying low,” he corrected, flashing her a grin straight off her closet door—all mischief, pure promise, and too damned familiar for comfort.
    “Are you still with the Air Force, then?” If he was looking for stolen government goods, it seemed a distinct possibility.
    “Not directly, but we're on the same side, and we will find what we're looking for.”
    Okay,
she thought, not precisely appeased by his too careful explanations, but reassured enough to let go of one layer of panic and half a layer of doubt.
    “So are you with the CIA or something?”
    “No.” He reached for his coffee cup.
    “FBI?”
    He held her gaze and took a drink, but said nothing.
    “Secret Service? U.S. Marshals?” She was running out of ideas.
    When he still said nothing, she felt herself floundering. “Police? Sheriff's office?” Silence. “The Boy Scouts?”
    His grin flashed again. “Nothing that official, but we're behind the motto one hundred percent,” he said, putting his cup back on the table.
    Okay. So they liked to be prepared. Which meant exactly what? she wondered.
    “But you're still one of the good guys?”
    “I've always considered ‘good' a relative term.” When she glared, he laughed and leaned forward over the table. “Yeah,” he assured her. “I'm still one of the good guys. Kid's one of the good guys, too, Regan, and I really need you to call Nikki and tell her to let him in and to stick with him.”
    “Can't you tell me who you
do
work for?” It wasn't too late to warn her sister off—but the thought of Nikki being watched or followed by someone like Vince Branson made Regan very much want to believe in Kid Chaos.
    To his credit, Quinn's hesitation was so brief as to be almost imperceptible. “Sure,” he said. “It's a company called Steele Street. We deal in cars, mostly rare iron, Mopar muscle, pony cars, street machines. Porsches when we get a line on a good one. Every now and then we put a car on the track.”
    “So you're a used-car salesman who races the merchandise and tracks down stolen government goods on the side?” She couldn't help it, every ounce of her disbelief ended up in the question.
    He laughed, a surprised sound. “Pretty much,” he agreed, his grin returning.
    Right,
she thought.
    “So why do I get the feeling you're not telling me much, let alone everything?”
    His smile broadened even more. “Because you're a smart lady,” he said. “It's one of the first things I noticed about you.”
    “Before or after I fainted in the barn?” she asked dryly, well aware of a whole day's worth of shortcomings on her part. There was a reason she stayed tucked away safely in her lab. It was safe, quiet, and eminently controllable, just her and some old bones locked in stone. This past year, her grandfather had joined her to coordinate the senior brigade, as they called their older volunteers. Their young and dynamic director, Dr. Houska, was too busy trying to find a
Tyrannosaurus rex
nest in the badlands of Wyoming to