Low on manpower, Deuce signed him up with one condition. That he kept his hands off Natasha. No problem there—like she wanted his hands on her anyway. The safety inspector released the building and renovations got the green light. Skip watched with a wary eye as he helped shore up the ceiling with steel supports. Until he was satisfied the roof wouldn’t collapse, he’d keep his gaze heavenward, thank you very much. Paranoid much? More like a healthy aversion to being buried alive. Mining coal as a teenager had done that to him—the ghosts of dead miners convincing him to switch his college major to police sciences. Yeah, his dream of being a mining engineer was buried deep, along with his father and some other good men. Nowadays he focused on catching badasses. And Kingman had his full attention. Natasha hefted a crate of glasses and carried it out the door. She still wasn’t talking to him. Too damned bad. He didn’t care whether she was in a snit or not. Going off half cocked, not requesting backup while searching for her brother was a rookie mistake.
