on illegal drugs, but that many grams sounded like something a whole lot worse than a drug problem. “Cooper thinks Danny is dealing?”
“Maybe dealing. Maybe transporting. Someone could be using him as their mule.”
“He doesn’t even have a car. How’s he supposed to be any sort of drug transporter?”
“I think that’s a question we need to ask Danny when he’s sober and awake enough to answer.” Anson turned his head to look at her. “Do you think he’ll tell you the truth?”
She honestly didn’t know. She and Danny had always been close, had built a relationship of mutual support thanks to an absent father—or fathers—and an irresponsible, undependable mother. But their mother’s death had hit them both hard, and in some ways, Danny had grown away from her afterward. He’d hid his drinking habit for months. And she hadn’t had any inkling that he was mixed up in drugs.
“We can worry about that tomorrow.” Anson’s tone was so gentle it brought tears to her eyes. She blinked them away, angry at herself for the sign of weakness. She couldn’t afford to be soft anymore. She couldn’t afford vulnerability, not if she was going to have to fight for Danny’s life.
“You should go home,” she said, lifting her chin and making herself meet the concern in his dark eyes. “I’m fine.”
“I know you’re fine. And I’m not going home, but if you want me to make myself scarce, I can go down the hall to wait.” He started to get up.
She caught his hand. “Stay.”
He sat again, holding on to her hand. “It’s okay to need a little help.”
She tugged her hand away, softening the retreat with a smile. “Well, if you’re sticking around, don’t suppose you have a deck of cards on you?”
“As a matter of fact—” He reached into the duffel bag and pulled out a familiar-looking box. “I found it in your bedroom when I finished packing clothes for you. It looked well-worn, so I figured you might like to have something to pass the time.” He grinned at her as he handed over the cards. The expression carved deep, sexy lines into his lean face and she had to drag her gaze away before she started swooning like a groupie at a rock concert.
She closed her hands around the box of cards. “Thank you.”
“We could play strip poker.”
She slanted a look at him. The wicked gleam in his eyes sent a little earthquake through her insides. “I sent you to bring me more clothes, not strip me of the ones I’m wearing.”
“As exciting as that sounds, I’m a terrible cardplayer. I’d be down to my skivvies in no time.”
“As exciting as that sounds,” she countered with a reluctant grin, “my game is Solitaire.”
He made a face, clapping his hand to his heart. “Ouch.”
“Although—ever played Slapjack?”
He arched an eyebrow at her. “You have a violent streak, do you?”
“Purgatory Elementary School Slapjack champion, five years running.” She opened the box of cards and pulled out the deck. Shuffling the cards with the ease that came from years of practice, she watched Anson’s face for his reaction.
He watched her fingers fly, a hint of surprised admiration in his expression. “You sure you’re not a cardsharp? ’Cause I’m not ashamed of my body if you want to rethink the strip poker—”
Before she could come up with a suitably smart-ass reply, her cell phone rang. She pulled it from her jeans pocket and looked at the display. The caller’s identity was blocked, just as it had been when Quinn had called her earlier.
“Quinn?” Anson asked.
“Probably.” She answered. “Hello?”
The voice on the other line was unfamiliar and as hard as mountain granite. “When your brother sobers up, give him a message for me.”
“Who is this?” Her voice came out low and strangled. Anson’s eyes snapped up to meet hers, his expression instantly alert.
“Tell your brother he’s a dead man.”
“Wait—”
But the line had gone dead.
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