He wasn’t a pretty boy, not dashingly handsome. But there was an essence of danger about him, a latent volatility, a raw sexuality to which women inevitably responded, unwisely and ultimately with remorse. He was the type of man who wouldn’t remain romantically attached for longer than twenty minutes at a time. But those twenty minutes— Brynn yanked her thoughts away from him. From that. She couldn’t let anything distract her from getting back to Atlanta with the vial of GX-42 in time.

When she emerged from the bathroom, clean but wearing the same clothes, Rye was still lying on his back on the bed, staring at the ceiling in deep thought. His right arm rested atop the black box. Without prompting, he said, “I told Dash I would try to get to Atlanta later today.”

“How are you going to get there?”

He turned his head on the pillow in order to look at her. “It’s possible that we could persuade Marlene to let us take her car. You could get your juice to your patient. I could fly anywhere in the world from Atlanta.”

“What about the airplane here?”

“It’s still too foggy to take pictures today, and the plane can’t go anywhere until an insurance adjuster sees it. Dash is handling that.”

She sat down on the edge of the bed. “How would we get Marlene’s car back to her?”

He gave a soft laugh. “You’re worried about the logistics of returning a car when you’re smuggling a bootleg drug?”

She gave him an abashed smile, stood up, and reached for her coat. “It’s a good suggestion. We’ll probably find her at Brady’s bedside.”

“We probably will. When we get there.”

The add-on arrested her in motion. She noticed that he didn’t look like he was going anywhere any time soon. His shirt was still buttoned only halfway, his boots lay on the floor, his bomber jacket was draped over the back of the chair where his flight bag occupied the seat.

He said, “I can’t fly until I get some sleep.”

“You can’t go to sleep now.”

“I’m practically there already. I’ve been up for”—he checked his wristwatch—“going on thirty hours.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“It is if you want my help getting back to Atlanta. And forgive me for saying so, but you don’t look all that perky yourself. Lie down. We’ll sleep—”

“I don’t require your help, you know. I can manage this alone.”

“Great. Glad to hear it. Good luck. Shut the door gently on your way out.” He rolled onto his side and tucked the box against him.

“Give me the box.”

“The box stays with me,” he mumbled, adjusting his head more comfortably on the pillow.

“It’s not yours!”

In a sudden move, he left the box where it was, rolled to his opposite side, came up onto his knees on the edge of the bed, and took her by the shoulders where she stood. “It’s not yours, either, is it?”

She refused to answer.

“How do I know? Two things. You haven’t explained the men tracking you.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t know who they are, what they want, and it’s probably a mere coincidence that you saw them parked across from the sheriff’s department.”

“Better odds of winning the Powerball. But, for argument’s sake, let’s say it’s a mere coincidence. Reason number two, why haven’t you called Dr. Lambert to report this latest snag? Why haven’t you asked for his help returning to Atlanta?”

She expelled a huff. “Because I didn’t want to alarm him, much less the critically ill patient, by telling them that I’d been further delayed. Besides that, I haven’t had cell service since you whisked me out of that café.”

He glanced beyond her shoulder. “There’s a telephone on the bedside table.”

“With a lock on it! I’d hate for you to be out more than your forty-five bucks.”

She struggled against his hold. He let go of her, but his incisive gaze didn’t. She stared back, refusing to be the first to look away.

Abruptly he asked, “Who thought of the blood sample ruse?”

“Nate. Just in case the box were opened for any reason. But I wasn’t sure the pharmacologist had done it correctly.”

“I was right, then. You were nervous when Rawlins opened the box.”

“Very. The drug is packed inside the foam lining, as you guessed.”

He thought on that. “What’s the deadline before the stuff goes bad?”

“The vial was capped at nine last night. It will take an hour to infuse. Therefore the drip needs to be started no later than eight o’clock tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow night? Then what’s the rush? You’ve got plenty of time.”

“Eight o’clock tomorrow is the absolute deadline. I, we, want to make sure it makes it there with time to spare. We want everyone to be relaxed, not stressed. Anxiety wouldn’t be good for the patient.”

“Or for you either, I think.”

She didn’t speak to that.

He looked at her for a moment longer, then said, “I never sleep for very long at a stretch. I’ll set an alarm for five hours.” He began setting his watch.