Chapter 4
Her lips met his like a pile-driver. Her fingers were in his hair, and damned if he had any choice at all in the matter. Hormones were slewing up like loosed geysers and suddenly he was driving her backward. Her spine smacked the wall, but she was too busy squeezing his ass to notice.
Need, too long ignored, torpedoed through him. They stumbled into the women’s restroom. No one there. Just a mop. A bucket. Three empty stalls. The nearest banged open as they crammed inside. He struggled to lock the door, but her fingers were on his chest, distracting him. How many hands did she have? She was already peeling his buttons open, making such mundane matters as privacy seem asinine. He groaned as she kissed his nipple, rasped something inarticulate as she struggled with his belt buckle. But there was no time for nonsensical noises. Her breasts were calling to him. Teasing, begging.
He reached for her buttons, but they were traitorously small. He was sweating like a turret gunner by the time he got the second one open, and then her breasts were there, mounded above the frothy lace of her bra. He groaned as he cupped them in his hands, growled as he reached around to yank her close, but in that moment, he felt something hard and smooth brush his fingertips.
A pistol was tucked into her waistband.
Sanity sluiced in on a cold tide of memories and betrayals.
Yanking out the gun, he shoved it against her jaw before she could draw another breath.
“Who the hell are you?” he snarled, because suddenly he knew the truth. He’d been a moron. Again. She was, in fact, too good to be true. The perfect woman sent to tempt him. But it hardly mattered, because he was sane once more.
She tilted her head back another notch. Her sugar-won’t-melt expression was gone, replaced by narrowed eyes and pursed lips as she held her breath and eased her hands cautiously away from his half-bared chest.
“What’s going on?” she whispered.
He gritted his teeth against his own idiocy. “Where’d you get the weapon?”
“Colonel Edwards.”
“He your commander?”
“My father.”
“Who sent you?”
“Sent me?” She shifted her gaze toward the stall door, but he moved the pistol a quarter of an inch and shook his head.
“What were you supposed to do?” he asked. “Drug me? Shoot me? Why? Is this about Tehran?”
“Listen. I’m sorry. I don’t know…” She shook her head. “I can get you some help. Just put down the gun.”
He scowled. “Help?”
“The agency has a good therapist.”
He snorted, not failing to see the humor of the situation. “Tempting offer, but I’m in kind of a hurry. Shep…” He stopped, thoughts jamming tight in his brain. “That’s why you’re here,” he said and croaked a laugh. “You plan to stop me. Well, fuck that! I’m going after Shepherd. I don’t give a shit what—”
“I think you should.”
He cocked his head. “What’s that?”
“Shepherd.” She nodded agreeably. “I think you should…” she began then slammed the stall door against his injured hand. His fingers went instantly numb. The gun sailed through the air, arced upward then splashed into the toilet. The solid sound of lexon meeting porcelain jerked them into simultaneous action.
He reached for her a fraction of a second before she struck, ramming the heel of her hand into his eye. He staggered backward, cursing as agony exploded in his head. Her knee came up like a piston. He blocked it with his thigh. New pain screamed up his wounded leg, but even through the red haze, he realized she was already dipping into the bowl.
Yanking himself beyond the misery, he grabbed her about the waist, but she slammed against him, driving him backward. They flew through the door together, him dragging her with him as he crashed onto the linoleum. Air whistled from his lungs, but she was already on her feet, already scrambling back toward the nearest stall.
He rose with a growl, lurching toward her, and in that instant, she jerked about, positioned on one knee and gripping the pistol with both hands.
“Stay right there!” she snapped and rose, feet spread, arms extended.
Water dripped from the muzzle of the pistol. It was an ASP. Miller the Moron’s weapon of choice. Gabe did as he was told. Right thigh grousing like a bitch, he raised his hands and nodded at her unexpected success. “Who sent you?” he asked again.
“One inch closer and I’ll shoot you dead. I swear to God I will.” Her voice trembled. The ASP did not.
He forced himself to think. It was about damned time. “Not quite as affectionate as you were a minute ago,” he said, and when her cheeks flushed with color, he laughed.
Her brows dipped, drawing together. “Is this some kind of training drill?”
“Sure,” he said, mind circling hazily through the mire of whiskey and pain. “In fact…” he began, but a thought struck him like a frag grenade. “Shit!” He felt dizzy with the realization. “Miller set this up, didn’t he?”
She eased over to the wall, motioned him toward the sink.
“He doesn’t want anyone to know he fucked up,” he said and stepped toward her.
“Don’t come any closer!” Her voice was shaking in earnest now. He took another step, driven by rage, by guilt, by a wild wash of emotions he had no time to assess or regret. “I’ll shoot! I will,” she rasped.
He stopped, inadvertently remembering a dozen times Shepherd had saved his ass. “Well, if you’re going to do it, lady, now’s the time,” he said, but she hesitated, and in that moment, he lunged.
Maybe she would have pulled the trigger if given another moment, but despite everything, he was still damn quick. He smacked the grip of the ASP. It soared into the air. He caught it in his left hand, then took a step back and watched her.
She was pale now. Pale and shaken. But her chin was up, her full lips pursed.
“Didn’t your mother ever tell you to shoot first and make nice later?” he asked.
“You won’t get anything out of me,” she said.
“You sure?” He took a step forward, and in that instant, she bolted.
Grabbing the mop that leaned against the nearby wall, she swung it like a baton. It whistled through the air, catching the ASP’s muzzle, but he jerked back and steadied his aim before she could swing again.
They were faced off like badgers.
“I’ve never shot a woman before. But I’m open to new experiences,” he said.
“Tell me what this is about,” she ordered and raised the mop like a bamboo shinai.
How damned drunk was she? “You know I’ve got the gun, right?”
“My gun,” she snarled, and goddamned if murder didn’t gleam in her eyes.
“Why are you—” he began, but suddenly the restroom door swung open. A woman stumbled in, already unbuttoning her jeans. She staggered to a halt when she saw him, jerked her gaze to the gun then scuttled back into the hall, high-heels clicking like castanets.
“You’re not getting any more than my name,” rasped the mop wielder.
“Jenny, I believe you said. With a y. The obviously deranged daughter of Colonel Edwards. The question is, how you know Miller,” he said, but a disturbing worm of a thought was niggling his saturated mind. It was slippery, just out of reach, but it was there.
“That woman’s going to call 911,” she said, jerking her head toward the restroom door. “This place will be crawling with cops. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll put down the weapon and give yourself up.”
The irritating thought was beginning to hum insistently. He tried to drown it with a question. “What do they call you?” He was buying time, but a snide little voice suggested he was out of cash, and maybe, just maybe, out of his mind. “What do you go by, at your desk job?”
“I told you, I’m not giving you any more—” she began, but someone called from the far side of the door, loud and abrasive.
“Hey, Eddy! Eddy, are you in there?” And suddenly, the puzzle pieces clicked shakily into place.
Reality seemed to set the world in slow motion, making everything as clear as vodka: her face, the dingy restroom, Gabe’s own glaring stupidity.
He’d made a big-ass mistake. Had propositioned and subsequently threatened Eddy, the one agent Reynolds had recommended. The agent now pissed enough to split his head open with a mop handle. Which meant that Shepherd was shit out of luck, even if he were still alive.