by Lois Greiman
Probably true, he thought. She seemed to have all the qualities an employer could want: intelligence, integrity, compassion…looks. Or maybe those were the attributes he wanted.
God, how drunk was he?
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be whining when you…” She paused. “What’s your name anyway?”
He was almost tempted to try another lie. As if taking a new identity could clear out the past, could pave a new future. “Gabriel,” he said. “How ‘bout you?”
“Jenny.”
“With an ie?”
She shook her head, jiggled the ice in her glass. “A y.”
“You look more like an ie to me.”
“Maybe I’ll have to reconsider,” she said and motioned for another drink. Her blouse gaped a little at the neck; the waiter seemed to appear instantaneously, like a character in a kid’s pop-up book.
“Thanks, Walt,” she said. Burly and florid, Walt nodded once before returning to the bar. “I don’t usually imbibe,” she admitted once they were alone again. “Mom was an alcoholic. At least, that was Dad’s opinion.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh. No,” she said and waved off his sympathies. “She wasn’t…I mean…Dad was the psycho. But he was hardly ever around anyway.”
“Divorced?”
“Thankfully.”
He lifted his drink in some kind of idiotic salute. “Mine, too.”
“Your mom ever get over it?”
He shrugged, thinking of the woman most referred to as Sarge. “Ma kind of defies description.”
“Give me a for instance,” she said.
He considered remaining mute. There was lots to be said for mute. Such as, it generally didn’t get you shot or make you look like a dumbass. But he spoke anyway. “For instance, she’d kick me from here to Christmas if she knew I wasn’t making a pass at you.”
“I don’t think…” she began then paused. “What?”
He’d been wrong. She wasn’t cute. She was gorgeous. Almost too good to be true. If the bastards in Basic wanted to send the perfect woman to test his willpower, she’d be the one.
“She doesn’t hold with self-pity,” he said.
“So why haven’t…” She paused but spoke again in a moment. “Are you gay?”
He choked on his whiskey, coughed twice then wiped his mouth with the back of his left hand.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she added, angel eyes wide as forever. “I’m not homophobic or anything. One of my best friends…”
“No,” he said.
“You’re not gay?”
“Someone would probably have informed me by now if I was.”
For a second, she looked ready to continue that line of questioning, but finally she shook her head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t usually act so weird.”
“Sometimes the dickheads get to you.”
“I guess so.” She shrugged. The movement shifted her blouse a little more, showing the slightest bit of cleavage. And wasn’t that interesting—turns out half a barrel of whiskey wouldn’t limit his ability to do something about her eroticism, after all. But there were other things to consider. For instance, she appeared to be slightly younger than his combat boots. “I kind of thought he was my friend.” She glanced at her drink, causing a shiny lock of hair to fall across her cheek. He could imagine it slipping soft as a sigh through his fingers. And with that image in his mind, he realized his combat boots were pretty damned mature for their age.
“The dickhead?” he guessed.
“Yeah.”
“Sometimes even friends screw up.”
“Especially friends,” she corrected, and he nodded.
Their gazes met and held. Something sizzled through his inebriated system. Sexual tension maybe. Then again, it might be alcohol poisoning.
“Well…”
They spoke in unison, then drew identical breaths and laughed at the chemistry that bubbled between them, as harmless as nitroglycerin.
“I should get home,” she said and motioned for the nearby waiter, but Gabe shoved a fifty into the man’s hand and shook off her protests.
“My pleasure.”
She looked pretty steady as she rose beside him. “Well...I wouldn’t want to ruin your pleasure.”
He caught her gaze. She embodied an odd meld of shyness and bravado that he found dangerously appealing. Matched with her sugarplum smile and slim, rocking body, she was all but irresistible.
But he would resist. He’d been trained to resist. To overcome. To lead the damned way, as the Ranger credo said.
Pushing back the flagrant flow of memories, he lifted his left hand to the small of her back and ushered her toward the door. “Can I call you a cab?”
“No. Thank you. I only live a few blocks from here.”
“You don’t plan to walk,” he said and glanced out the window. By the glare of the overhead lights, he could see it was beginning to spit some kind of viscous precipitation.
“I’ll be fine.” She turned, but somehow he had moved closer than he’d intended. Her hip brushed his crotch. Her shoulder grazed his chest, and when she inhaled, they shared the same breath. “I’m…ummm…” Her voice was quiet, and there suddenly seemed to be a distinct lack of oxygen. “I’m tougher than I look,” she said, but her words were little more than a kitten-soft murmur.
“Yeah?” Sparkling repartee, Durrand. But what did he expect? He could barely breathe. Thinking was out of the question. “Listen.” His voice sounded oddly raspy, as if it intended to cold-cock his good sense and blindside his best intentions. “I don’t think you should get involved with someone like—” he began.
But that’s when she kissed him.
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.
“W
hat 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.
Chapter 5
Gabe straightened slightly and nodded once at the mop-wielding woman across the restroom from him. Sure. Of course. Murphy’s Law was bound to make its presence felt today. “You’re Eddy?” he asked.
She blinked. Eyes more fresh mint than asparagus now, they were as wide as a doe’s and doll-bright. “Put down the pistol.”
He should probably do that, he thought, but couldn’t quite manage to make his muscles unclench. ‘Cause the kicker was, he might be entirely wrong about the mop-wielder’s identity. Again. “Eddy,” he repeated, still holding the ASP’s cool grip in both hands. “You know Captain Reynolds?”
“Eddy!” Someone pounded on the restroom door again. “Hey! Everything okay in there?”
She scowled, the affronted expression that of a toddler. “Captain Reynolds?” She straightened a little, too. “You mean Uncle Lou?”
Uncle Lou? Uncle Lou? He felt his breath catch in his throat. Captain Reynolds stood six feet, eight inches in his stocking feet. If he ever had stocking feet, which he did not because he’d been gestated in combat boots. Probably was born with six mags of ammo packed into his pistol belt, too. Gabe had known Reynolds for fifteen years and had never once called him anything more personal than “sir.”
Edwards’ scowl darkened, going from petulant toddler to angry teenager.
“Eddy! I’m coming in,” someone yelled from the hall.
She drew a deep breath, never breaking eye contact. “Just a minute.”
“Your uncle Reynolds said I might find you here,” Gabe said. The idea of Captain Reynolds being avuncular would have made him laugh if he weren’t pretty sure a show of humor would get his nuts kicked into his larynx.
“Did he tell you to attack me in the ladies’ room, too?” she asked.
He shrugged, going for casual, but the motion
pulled the aching muscles tight across his shoulders and back. “Actually, he suggested the men’s room, but I thought…what the hell…a change of venue might be nice.”
“Eddy?” The voice from the hall sounded more quizzical than frantic now.
“Everything’s fine, Walt,” she said and dropped her voice. “I think.”
They had reached what used to be called a Mexican stand-off in less pc times. Gabe drew in a lungful of air and forced the muzzle of the ASP toward his knees.
Relief or something like it shone on the girl’s farm-fresh features. “I’ll be out in a second,” she called, then sotto voce, “if you give me my sidearm.” She narrowed her aspen green eyes at him. “Otherwise, I’ll see that you’re court-martialed before sunrise.”
“I’m afraid my schedule’s kind of tight right now.”
She tilted her head at him.
“I don’t have any time to spend in the brig.”
Her cheeks were flushed, her expression determined.
“I don’t want this to get messy,” he said.
“Well…” She shuffled her feet a little. “You should have thought about that before you stole my ASP and threatened my life.”
He watched her carefully, assessing her weaknesses. She longed to be tough. No doubt about that. But would she risk the lives of others? He didn’t think so. “Walt seems like an okay guy. I wouldn’t want him to get hurt,” he said and did his best to sound ominous.
Apparently, it worked because she inhaled sharply. “If you give me my sidearm we can walk away unscathed. No one the wiser. We’ll never have to see each other again.”
He gave it a moment’s thought then lifted the ASP, dropped its ammo into his pocket, and handed her the pistol.
She took it in a hand as slim as a lightning rod then tucked the weapon back into the waistband of her trousers.
“After you,” he said and nodded toward the door.
She raised her chin a notch as if considering his challenge and turned, back straight, movements stiff.
“I’m sorry, Walt.” She was apologizing before she reached the hallway. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I was just…feeling a little dizzy.”