“Well, hell, neither did the FBI.”
Taylor didn’t say anything. Will’s dad had been a small town sheriff in Oregon, and Will knew what Taylor thought: that Will was on defense because of that — and maybe Taylor was right.
“Okay. What’s your idea?” he asked grudgingly.
“We could leave the money in one of these bear boxes, contact the feds —”
Will spluttered, “Leave two million dollars in a bear box?”
“Just hear me out.”
Blue eyes met green.
“We could put the money in my pack. I don’t have a dry change of clothes left and you’re carrying half my gear anyway —”
Will had opened his mouth but he shut it at that.
“Whatever else I need — my pistol — I can carry.”
“And what if someone steals your backpack?”
“The kind of people who hike back into these mountains aren’t even the same species as the sewer rats we deal with. Besides, we’ve seen…what? Two hikers and one park ranger since we set out? I don’t think anyone’s going to rip off my pack. But…I’ll leave my ID.”
“What?”
Taylor sighed. “Just listen a minute. It’s only for about forty-eight hours, and we’re basically alone on this mountain. But say some lowlife does go through my gear. My ID acts as a kind of hands-off. You’ve gotta be pretty hard-core to tangle with the federal government — which is what my ID amounts to.”
“That is the dumbest damn idea I’ve ever heard.” But even as Will was saying it, he was thinking that Taylor did have a point. Leaving his ID in his backpack was about as clear a staking of claim, a warning, as there was — and he was also right about the unlikelihood of their running into anyone. Even so…
He said, “And then the feds have to hike up here to retrieve the cash?”
“Come off it, Brandt. They have to anyway. There’s the crash site, the body — this hill is going to be crawling with law enforcement in seventy-two hours. There won’t be any possibility of the money slipping through the cracks.”
“That would have to be a pretty big crack for two million dollars to slip through.”
“Yeah, well, sorry if I don’t feel like taking a chance when it’s your name and mine attached.”
“You are one paranoid sonofabitch.” But Will was grinning, amused, and in a weird way, pleased by these nutty Machiavellian maneuverings. It was so…Taylor.
And Taylor gave him a little sideways grin, acknowledging the compliment like a pretty girl accepting roses.
* * * * *
The bear box was a long and low metal trunk painted a particularly ugly shade of brown. The campground was deserted, and Taylor’s pack was on its own as he stowed it, and locked the lid.
Will was shaking his head, but he had decided it didn’t hurt taking this extra precaution — and, frankly, they could move faster if Taylor didn’t have to lug a fifty-five pound backpack.
“Did you want to camp here tonight?” he asked. The shadows were lengthening, the air growing chillier. They were going to have to call it a day shortly anyway.
“Let’s keep moving.” Taylor was already heading for the trail.
And Will couldn’t help the edge that crept into his voice. “I didn’t realize you were in such a big hurry to get back.”
Taylor just gave him one of those long looks, aloof and wronged at the same time. It aggravated Will — but then Taylor seemed to do that without any effort these days. It didn’t make sense. He and Taylor had always got along well; even in the ways that they were unalike they used to complement each other. It was just since the shooting that everything was different. Will didn’t want it to be different. He wanted things to go back to the way they had been.
His eyes rested a moment on Taylor’s wide shoulders, moved down to his narrow hips and long legs.
Damn Taylor for ever opening this Pandora’s box because while it was true Will had refused to ever consider sleeping with his partner and friend — the best partner and the best friend he’d ever had — it wasn’t like he had failed to notice how…hot…Taylor was. He’d have to have been blind to have missed it. Taylor was sexy as sin. Sexy, funny, smart, capable — all the things Will wanted in a lover. But besides being Will’s partner and best friend, he was commitment-shy and had the mating instincts of a young gazelle. He was a bad relationship risk for anyone, but in particular he was a bad risk for Will.
Will liked stability, reliability, predictability. He needed those things.
All the same, turning Taylor down that night at his house had been one of the hardest things Will had ever done — and if Taylor hadn’t been definitely the worse for alcohol, Will wasn’t totally confident he’d have managed it.
He’d put the thought out of his mind during the long weeks of Taylor’s recuperation, but now that Taylor was looking and acting more like his old self — and continuing to put himself on offer — Will was starting to have trouble.
Like…in his dreams at night.
The visuals were bad enough, but in his dreams it was the smell, the taste, the feel of callused hands sliding over ridged abdominals, cut pectorals, taut nipples — smooth skin and soft hair — the damp tangle of groin, fingers wrapping around a hot, rigid shaft. In the dream he was initiating and experiencing at the same time, as if there were no division, no separation between where he ended and Taylor began.
That wasn’t a dream; that was a nightmare.
And a bigger nightmare was the fact that even in broad daylight it was a struggle keeping his mind off the thought of having Taylor — or, for that matter, Taylor having him. And how weird was that? Will didn’t enjoy bottoming for anyone, but the idea of Taylor…imagining the exquisite shock of that full body contact, of strength equal
