Rarities Unlimited 02 - Running Scared

way.”
    “No.”
    Ian sighed. It had been worth a try. “Niall said you would jump salty. So here’s the fallback position. You work with me. That way Risa will be twice as safe.”
    Shane nodded. “The first thing you and I need to do is rattle William Covington’s cage. According to the written provenance, he’s the one who supposedly bought the gold pieces from a descendant of the original finder.”
    “What about me?” Risa asked with false calm.
    “You stay here,” Shane said.
    “Because it’s safe?”
    “Yes.”
    “Bullshit. I was attacked here, remember? I’d be better off somewhere else. With two charming and manly bodyguards by my side, for instance. Lacking that, I’ll settle for you and Ian Lapstrake.”
    Ian snickered.
    Shane started to argue.
    “Get over it,” Ian advised, turning toward the door.
    “That sounds like Dana,” Shane retorted.
    “Straight from her mouth to your ear.” Ian smiled and winked at Risa. “Damn, but I love seeing Shane tangled up like a mere mortal. Does my peon’s heart good.”
    “I don’t want you to go,” Shane said to Risa.
    “Get over it.” She smiled. “Besides, I’m the one who just remembered the name of the motel Cherelle was staying in.”
    “What is it?” Shane and Ian said together.
    “I’ll drive you there” was her only answer.
    Shane started to object, saw both the determination and the shadows in Risa’s beautiful eyes, and shut up.
    “It gets easier with practice,” Ian said quietly as they followed Risa out of the room.
    “Says who?” Shane muttered.
    “Niall. And if he can learn, anyone can.”

Chapter 39
    Las Vegas
    November 4
    Morning
    T he nurse poked his head around one of the wide hospital-style doors that were about the only sign that Timothy Seton wasn’t staying at a small, expensive hotel. The Bateman-Molonari Clinic of Cosmetic Surgery was nothing if not exclusive. Discreet, too. Especially when their normal fee was tripled.
    Miranda Seton would have preferred a real hospital, but as Tim’s father had curtly explained, real hospitals had to report real bullet wounds to real cops.
    “Your son just woke up,” the nurse said in a hushed voice to Miranda. “You can talk to him as soon as the doctor leaves, but only for a few moments.”
    Miranda whispered a prayer of thanksgiving to a God she had stopped believing in when she found herself pregnant by a man she hadn’t known was married. A man who not only could kill, but did. Her thin, almost frail hands clutched each other, pale but for the bleeding cuticles she picked at absently, constantly.
    As soon as the nurse left, she opened her handbag, took a stiff drink from what was left of a pint bottle of vodka, and stuffed an industrial-strength mint into her mouth. Fortified, she pushed herself to her feet and hurried down the lime green carpet to Tim’s room. Perfectly framed pictures of perfectly sculpted faces smiled perfectly down at her from the cream-colored walls.
    The door was numbered in brass, like that of a hotel room. And like a hotel room, its décor was both inviting and subdued, with framed Impressionist prints, soft colors, and lots of cushions on the furniture. The only jarring note was the patient laid out on pale rose sheets with monitors, machines, and tubes attached to parts of his body that Miranda didn’t want to think about.
    He looked worse than he had when covered in blood.
    She wanted to rush to the bed and cuddle him, but she didn’t. Her orders were quite specific: find out who had shot Tim. As soon as she did, there would be suitable vengeance.
    “Oh, Timmy,” she said in a strangled voice.
    He grunted and kept his eyes shut. The last thing he needed right now was his mother fluttering around him like a wounded moth.
    “Who did this to you? Cherelle?”
    His eyelids flickered open, then settled at half-mast. Even the room’s filtered, soothing light was more than he wanted right now. Speaking was an effort, but he managed. If he could send any trouble his old buddy’s way, he would be happy to do it.
    “Socks,” Tim said painfully.
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t bring any with me. Are your feet cold? Maybe one of the nurses will have a heating pad or something.”
    Slowly, wearily, Tim moved his head from side to side. “Shot me.”
    She hesitated. “Socks? Your friend shot you?”
    “. . . yeah.”
    “Why?”
    Tim let out a thready breath, then another one. He wasn’t real sure of the answer. “Dunno.” He