Chapter Twenty-Four

Distraction, thy name is woman, Chance thought as he steadied Suede’s right arm while she took careful aim at the paper zombie fifty yards down range. Last night he’d barely slept with the feel of her warm body snuggled against him. Spooning was torture, pure torture! But this morning she’d awakened bright-eyed and eager to get on with her life. At the moment, she was working with her newly acclaimed favorite weapon, a sweet little 308 Ruger that fit her palm perfectly.

The girl turned out to be a damned good shot. Her fingers had healed enough that she’d discarded the bandages, and she paid attention to everything he’d told her, from how to cup her left hand under her right to steady her aim, to marrying her thumbs like lovers at the left of her piece so they didn’t get in the way. She cleared the chamber of her pistol like a pro, racked it without pinching her fingers or the heel of her palm even once, and already she’d killed more bull’s eyes than Chance had on hand. Hence the zombies. They were Kruze’s idea of a joke and the only targets left.

Suede’s lungs had cleared. She’d taken the last of Chance’s wonder drug and was up on her feet. She still moved a little slow, but if anything, she had cabin fever. The promised delivery drone had come and gone, gifting her with a feminine wardrobe that she promised she’d pay Sullivan back for. He’d even sent all the delicate necessities that went on under those clothes too, along with toiletries, several pairs of athletic shoes, and new hiking boots. Everything a woman could want, he’d sent on the taxpayers’ dime.

The problem was the smile on her pretty face after she’d showered and climbed into those jeans that fit just right. That was all the payment Chance needed. Her new T-shirt could’ve been a size larger, not that he minded how it accentuated her lush curves in all the best ways. The woman had been blessed with a full figure and bounce, plump in all the best places.

But the flowery scent drifting up from those messy tangles? The way his nose twitched to draw her into his soul? This woman was enough to drive a sex-starved man insane. All morning Chance had fought the urge to grab a handful of that gorgeous auburn hair, bend her over the set-up tables behind the gun stations, and go down on her. If she twitched that sweet ass one more time, her tell that she was ready to fire, it might happen.

He forced his thoughts to the mission. By the time the storm had cleared out of Northern Montana, Pagan and Kruze were tucked in a room at the Mount Hood Motel and Lounge on Portland’s waterfront, a dive that catered to clientele who rented rooms by the hour, as well as a few transients. No one slept in that joint, unless a man was dog-tired or deaf to wall banging.

Portland found itself hosting an assassins-from-out-of-town convention. Kruze hadn’t yet crossed paths with his buddy JJ since Kruze was on Vicky Hex’s tail day and night, keeping up and keeping on. The woman was an active runner, so that kept him plenty busy. He had yet to see her without earphones, running shoes, or her sleek and sexy athletic gear. But Chance knew better. Some snakes were beautiful, but they were crafty, and Miss Hex wasn’t in town to compete. She already knew she was the best assassin in the world. No doubt she packed a pistol even when she worked out.

Pagan still dogged the Rio Brothers religiously, but Juan and Jorge had yet to take in any of Portland’s lavish sights. They ate in their room or the hotel restaurant, and no car service attended them because they didn’t go anywhere. Neither did maid service enter their suite to freshen sheets and towels. Odd, but most cold-blooded assassins were odd ducks to begin with. They worked in shadows and misdirection, which kept Pagan on his toes.

The first time they’d eaten breakfast in the hotel’s restaurant, he’d B&Eed their room, planted two bugs, then ducked out before they’d returned. But video surveillance only confirmed what Pagan already knew. The lethal brothers weren’t doing anything but catching up on television. By all appearances, they seemed to be waiting for someone. Had to be Patrone.

So yeah, nothing much going on in Portland. On the East Coast however, Senator Sullivan had cleaned house. He’d replaced most of his staff when it became apparent that several of them had accepted hard-to-resist job offers from an as yet unnamed benefactor whose slimy grasp seemed to be everywhere.

Sullivan hadn’t been able to put a name to the actual person who’d made the deals with his employees. The guy was savvy enough to have enticed non-disclosure statements from them. None would share his identity with Sullivan, but they’d certainly shared what little they knew about the SOBs with the bastard, hadn’t they?

Not that there was much to share. The only one with complete access to confidential information was Sullivan. Didn’t matter. After a long hard week of ‘goodbyes’ and ’good-riddances’, the beleaguered Senator’s much smaller staff had been thoroughly re-investigated and their names cleared. Most had worked with him on previous Senate jobs. His secretary of ten years cried when she’d passed muster. He felt confident in them once again.

As far as the integrity of his other teams? Sullivan had played the same type of Russian roulette with them as he’d played with Chance, feigning that he had a job so urgent that SOB protocol no longer mattered. Funny thing. Every single one of those team leaders told him to go to hell, that they weren’t paid assassins and if he couldn’t play by the rules he’d set up, they wanted out of the SOBs. Enough said.

Twitch, twitch went Miss Tennyson’s backside as she shifted her weight from her right to her left foot. Either she knew what she was doing to Chance, or holding a loaded weapon made her nervous. This time, her luscious, plump derriere brushed against his zipper just enough to incite the steel rod crammed beneath it. Weapons practice with Suede had taken on a whole new dimension. Chance had never been so turned on by a woman holding a gun, and why, oh why did that thing in his pants spring to life every time she touched him?

God, help me now, he thought, his body stiffening from the wayward surge of red, hot American blood. She touched him in places he’d denied for so long they’d turned into fortresses with locked dungeon doors and battened hatches. Damned if she didn’t seem to be the one holding all the keys.

“Practice is over after you make this shot,” he said, his throat as tight as his jeans.

“Who says I’ll make it?” she asked out of the corner of her mouth, her eyes still on target like a good girl.

“Oh, you’ll make it all right.” Because you’re already making me. This woman drove him stark raving crazy with that streak of innocence wrapped up in her sexy body. She knew damned well she was taunting him, yet to her it was play. To him? Deliciously unbearable.

Suede Tennyson was a sight to behold, well endowed from the flare of her sexy hips to the T-shirt stretched over her plush breasts. He couldn’t take his eyes off the way they pushed together when she trapped them between her biceps while taking aim. His jaw cracked from the tension radiating up his spine from his tailbone. If the lust between them didn’t ease off, he’d soon be upstairs under another cold shower.

She aimed. Twitch. Twitch.

Chance crossed his arms over his chest and took a full step back from the danger zone. Just kill the damned zombie.

Twitch. Twitch. Then—BLAM! Another paper zombie blown to smithereens. Even they couldn’t survive twenty closely ranked headshots.

He wiped his brow before she pivoted with that sweet smile of accomplishment on her lips. “I did it!” she squealed, jiggling her girls. “Did you see that?”

He forced his eyes off her bouncing cleavage to the joy on her pretty face. “I’m not telling you what you already know.”

“Are you just saying that?” Her lack of confidence overwhelmed him. Why didn’t she believe him when he said she’d done good? Had no one praised her before? Not even a teacher or a close confidant?

“We’re done here,” he said as firmly as he knew how. She didn’t need a fat head and he didn’t need to repeat himself. “You already know you’re good, now stop looking for ‘attaboys’. The only one you need to impress is yourself, Suede. Do better tomorrow. Beat your best time. Be so damned good with that weapon that it becomes an extension of your hand instead of a tool. It’s called muscle training. Learn it. Rely on it. You’re in this fight to win, not just to look good while you practice. Now” —he smacked that sweet ass to get her moving— “back upstairs for drills.”

Her nose wrinkled, but she didn’t fuss as she holstered her piece. Drills meant push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups, and lunges followed by simple weightlifting and toning in his gym. He’d explained the need for her to get back in shape as quickly as possible. She started today. Her thigh wasn’t ready for the heavy weights, and she didn’t need to look like a muscular male. He liked her curves where they were, but she needed the workout.

“You like me,” she purred, her head canted as she peeked out of the corners of her sparkling eyes. Damn, the girl had mischief written all over her face.

Once coiled with enough hyper vigilance to power a freight train, now she’d relaxed enough to tease him. Being safe and protected will do that to a woman, but she wasn’t out of danger yet. Chance wanted her prepared for any and all things.

“You’re a fast learner, I’ll give you that,” he answered, dropping his eyes to the brass shell casings strewn at his feet. “Now sweep up. Let’s take a break, then we’ll reconvene in the exercise room upstairs.” After I take a cold shower.

Her shoulders lifted and he couldn’t resist looking. Damned if the brat wasn’t smiling to herself, her eyes on the floor. “It’s okay, you don’t have to say it. I know you do.”

Chance swallowed hard, but didn’t join in the playful banter. Suede was fast becoming the temptation he couldn’t resist, and that set-up table would work just fine. He tossed her the broom and ran for his life.