Chapter 2

There was no way Gracie could stay trapped inside this sweaty can of a space for one more fudgin’ minute.

Justice’s voice came through her headset again. “Gracie. They’re in. They’re—”

An alarm sounded. Her heart sped up—way up. She needed out of this hidey-hole now.

Her sweaty, numb fingers flip-flapped against the metal escape lever like a fish on the deck of a ship.

The pop, pop, pop of Justice’s gun came through her headset before it clicked off. Why was Justice shooting?

Crud.

This never would’ve happened if she’d still been with John. She’d probably be a soccer mom, have a garden and soft moments.

Okay, stop, Gracie. Focus on squeezing that metal between your fingers. Not regret. Not the man you lost thanks to Momma and the League.

Easier said—thought, and repeated again and again—than done.

Stay calm. Her fingers cramped, her wrist angled back, she grasped at the latch, pulled. The spring gave with a dull click.

Breathing heavily, she pushed against the padding. The seat cracked open then stopped dead. Fudge buckets.

More shots. Close. Someone fired from behind the car. Someone used the car for cover. Someone fired at her sister. At Justice. Whoever was shooting at her sister was so dead.

She angled her knee to aid her pushing hand. The seat began to give way.

Let’s hope whoever was firing was too interested in shooting Justice to peer through the heavily tinted windows at the car’s interior.

The car door opened. “Let me help you there, Gracie.”

She flinched, banged her head. Ouch. Southern accent? Southern accent knew her name? What the hell was going on?

She felt the car shift. Guy must be big. There was a creak, and the seat was yanked open.

Air. She sucked it in, turned and pulled her shoulders loose. Freed. She sat up and blinked at fresh air and man.

Uhm. Oh. She stared straight into the startled face of way-too-handsome. Sunset-brown hair topped by a USA ball cap, a big, easy grin defined by the persistent crease of overused dimples, labor-tan skin, and the sexiest nose she’d ever seen. A roughly carved block, his nose added challenge and strength to a sun-rugged portrait.

Her heartbeat skittered between the dread of tense alarm and the uncertainty of unexpected arousal. Her skin heated to a temperature rarely seen outside a volcano. Of course.

The sensitivity in her body painted every emotion upon her skin in hues of red. From pleased pink to rust-colored anger to chili-red lust. Didn’t matter if it was an insult, compliment, or an unexpected sexual attraction that hit her like a bomb, the result was clear on her face.

Topmost embarrassing moment, please take a step down.

His eyes bounced along her body. The red-velvet bra. The matching thong. The ruby piercing snuggled in her belly button. The tattoo along her right side—a woman’s long, elegant hand curved with vicious scarlet nails, clutching an enchanted apple, holding it out, as if implicitly offering it to the person now consuming her body.

Consuming her body with eyes of thickest amber, eyes drunk on sun, sex, sand, and champagne.

The heat from his eyes reached out and licked her. Every inch of her grew hotter. Her face. Her hands. Between her breasts. Lower.

The man reached down blindly, groped, and found his two-way. He lifted it to his mouth but spoke to her before he spoke into it. “Darlin’, don’t be upset by this. I’m on your side. Trust me.”

He clicked the radio on. In Spanish, he gave instructions for his men to go out and hunt Justice. He clicked off.

Don’t be upset? Did the man have no experience with sisters? Teeth clenched, she reached down and extracted her gun from the hidden compartment. She aimed at him.

A muscle along his thumb twitched, but he kept his Glock 19 down, smiled.

He smiled? Was he trying not to laugh? Oh, buddy, let’s see how quickly I can wipe that smile off your face.

“No. No,” he said, clearly reading her intent from her furious face. “Don’t shoot. I’m working with Tony. I had to send those men so Walid wouldn’t suspect us.”

Tony? “My brother never mentioned you. And you just sacrificed my sister so Walid, a sex-trafficking supervillain, won’t suspect you?”

Her finger tensed around the trigger.

He shook his head. Smile gone. His gun hand remained down. Smart. “I did that so Tony still has a chance. And your sister is good. Honest. Those guys can’t shoot. No fooling. One of them shot himself in the foot trying to take his gun out two months ago.”

“Gracie?” Justice’s strained voice came through her headset.

Gracie clicked her mic on with a flick of her jaw. “Go. I’ve got American Ninja Warrior.”

He did smile at that. “I’m Agent Leif McAllister. FBI.”

FBI? Nuts and bolts. The email. The email she’d sent via a secure site to the FBI. The stupid email that proved her a traitor to the family. She swallowed a wave of panic. “FBI? In Mexico?”

“Yeah, well, I’m sort of off duty right now. No need for the agent part, actually. Just thought that would make you more comfortable. My friends call me Dusty.”

“Dusty?”

“I’ve been told I could talk a stone to dust.” He reached out with his free hand. “I’m going to help you out of here. Okay?”

“You touch me and I will shoot.”

His hand dropped. Good. Nothing like getting the boundaries set from the get-go.

* * *

Dusty was pretty sure Tony would have an issue or two with what he wanted to do with his sister. Give him the ruby. Give him the nails. Give him the apple. Yep. He wanted to lick his way down the whole damn tattoo and across that too-pink skin.

But first things first. Getting her not to shoot him. Which meant being honest with her.

Well, no. Not honest.

Telling her that the FBI had gotten an anonymous tip about Parish vigilante activities and he was investigating her family and using her brother Tony as a means to an end would make this whole thing messy. Would cost him his job. And the person he wanted to bust most, Mukta Parish.

He’d give her his cover.

“Your brother recruited me to help take out Walid. I’ve been working here for months, replacing every decent shot with a lousy one, and learning this place and its quirks like the back of my hand.”

She squinted, obviously weighing whether or not to shoot him. She blinked. “Give me your gun.”

“That’s a no-go.” And a hell no. She opened her mouth. Probably to argue. Because after only two minutes of knowing her, Dusty also knew this was Gracie’s strong suit. “If my men or Walid see you with a gun on me, things are going to get real complicated.”

Her brows drew together, considering. “Give me your gun. I’ll give it back when I’m safely out of the car.”

“Look”—he glanced around to make sure no one had started to pay attention—“if I wanted you dead, I’d have shot you by now. There’s no time. The longer we argue, the more suspicious this looks. You need me, so risk trusting me.”

She narrowed her eyes, sizing him up.

Damn. She was going to get them both killed.

He swallowed a big helping of yes ma’am that nearly choked him, and placed his gun on the seat.

He straightened, stepping back from the car. The SUV full of men he’d sent after Justice had pulled to a stop high on the ridge and the men had gotten out.

At the other end of the compound, past the barn, main house, and old mine shaft, another vehicle tore out the back gate. Road grit flew into the air as the car screamed away.

Some of his men were already abandoning ship. He took out his two-way and yelled that he had it under control and for them to stop. They went faster.

Perfect.

With his Glock in one of her hands, her small Beretta Tomcat in the other, red-velvet bra, colorful tattoo, belly piercing…Gracie was hot as bourbon whiskey. With a stone-serious expression, she motioned him to the rear of the car. He took two steps back. “We don’t have—”

She turned to survey the area, revealing a thong splitting an ass as round and juicy as the apple tattooed across her abs.

“Tiiii…” His voice went up like a hay bale doused in gasoline and torched with a flamethrower. His blood turned to liquid lava, steamed his body, and ironed out the wrinkles in the front of his cargo pants.

He should look away.

She turned, caught him looking. He grinned. Like an idiot.

A bullet thunked into the steel of the car. He dropped a hairbreadth slower than her.

Crouched by the car, adrenaline slapping him upside the head for his stupidity, he raised his two-way and told his men not to shoot.

He returned his attention to her, crouched beside him, and tried to get things under control. “You need to give me my gun. I can get them—”

Gracie ignored him, raised her Tomcat, and shot over his head. Someone cried out. He leaned in. “Don’t shoot. Honestly, these guys—”

She jumped to her feet and ran up the dirt road and through the now unmanned gate. What the hell? He was tempted to let the idiot get herself killed.

Aw, hell. Anxiety putting spurs to his legs, he sprinted after her. A woman with a gun in each hand. He must be the idiot.

Coming September 2018