One-Eyed Jack (The Deuces Wild Series Book 3)

by Irish Winters

  Her temper flared. This whole damned predicament ruffled her feathers, and she definitely had feathers. Spiky pinfeathers, and every last one of them was standing on end, poking at her to wrest control back from this unlikely hero. If he’d been abrasive, she’d have had no trouble, but Special Agent Zaroyin was just plain—nice. And nice people irked the shit out of Roxy.

  “Candace what?” she snapped, instantly regretting her tone. None of this mess was the vic’s fault, but damn. Why’d she have to look so, so innocent?

  “Candace Bratton,” Doll Face whispered, her voice soft and timid, but not as shaken as Roxy expected. Even with her bruised cheek and bloody lip, she looked calm despite the now less than five-minute warning. “Thanks for helping me, Officer Thurston. It’s been a really bad day.”

  “Can you diffuse the bomb?” Roxy asked Zaroyin as she eased her capable fingers around the weapon in Candace’s hand. Soothing the vic could wait. Seconds until oblivion was next to no time at all, and damned if one part of her brain hadn’t already flitted home to tell her father goodbye and ‘I love you, Daddy,’ one last time.

  “I can,” Agent Zaroyin answered in the same casual and seemingly capable masculine voice. His head lowered to the exposed bricks taped to the vest covering Candace’s chest. The metal contraption restraining her arms had been buckled over the vest, but damn it. Mr. FBI had gotten so close to Bratton’s rather large breasts that the tips of his short hair brushed the inside of her upraised arm, and… For hell’s sake! What’s he going to do? Lick her?

  Roxy stifled a grunt at the way her usually analytical mind had launched into an uncharacteristically possessive mode. She didn’t care how or if Psychic Dude touched this particular hostage. Zaroyin meant nothing to her. He was just—some guy.

  “I’ve never done this in person, but I’ve watched enough training films, and if I’m right…” He ran two fingers along the red wire between the timer and the coiled wires looped around one of the bricks, easing it away from Bratton’s body. Will you stop touching her already!

  “Wait a minute! You watched training films? You’ve GOT to be kidding me. And I’m supposed to trust you instead of an EOD expert?”

  He never hesitated. “Cutting this should do the trick, this one right here,” he said, his fingertips pointing out the wire he meant, his perfectly arched brows lifted, and those deep blue eyes, so damned—

  “Ready Officer Thurston?”

  “Umm, yeah. Sure.” Roxy could not think! This was not the time for anything less than professional behavior, but… but... He had the most compelling eyes. She couldn’t seem to tear her gaze away. Why’d he affect her like this? In the middle of a hostage situation, for hell’s sake!

  And where he’d come up with the multi-purpose tool now in his grip? He looked so capable and confident that she wanted to scream. This was her turf, damn it, yet he’d sneaked past her defenses like a pro, and he’d done precisely what she would’ve done—if she’d thought of it first. What would the guys back at the precinct say when—if—they found out?

  Agent Zaroyin had barely tugged at the wire, when Roxy barked, “Stop!” before he could do anything stupid. Her heart pounded like a mother, and the top of her usually calm head felt ready to blow off. What if he’s wrong? Candace Bratton could be a damned good actress and a suicide bomber in disguise, working a deadly misdirect while her buddy Garrett Randall got away. Okay, so that was a stretch, but still. This could all go so, so wrong, and Roxy wasn’t ready to die.

  “Jesus H. Christ, not so fast. You’ve never done this, but you’re willing to take a chance and blow us to hell? Right here? Right now?” What are you, crazy? “Damn, I need a drink.” And a cigarette. Oh, wait. I don’t smoke anymore. I’m just out of my mind for letting this sexy guy take over my crime scene!

  “Roxy,” he breathed. That one word made everything perfect by the way he’d said it. Not commanding. Not cajoling. Not any of those other annoying guy-ploys men used when they wanted their way. Not one whisper of disdain, contempt, or intolerance colored that single, sweet word. Zaroyin had spoken to her as if he knew she was the coolest head in the room. As if he knew using her name would work magic on her nerves. Oddly, it did.

  What is wrong with me? She blinked, not understanding how he’d filled her two-syllable name with a tender kind of trust she’d never known in all her twenty-four years. Roxy swallowed hard, looking to the victim instead of the man who just might be able to save them both. Zaroyin’s gaze had suddenly become too, too—something—to risk falling into again, so she focused on the woman she should’ve consulted long before now.

  “Are you sure about this, Candace?”

  Candace nodded, her gray eyes bright with confidence Roxy didn’t yet feel. But neither did she detect a shred of deceit in the woman. If anything, she radiated an eerie confidence that everything was going her way. “He’s saving me, Officer Thurston. Don’t you see?”

  Still, Roxy hesitated. No. I don’t see, and I need to, damn it. None of this makes sense. Why should I trust both of our lives to a guy I’ve only met a couple times before? Why should I believe him, when I don’t really know him? I’m not even sure I like him.

  “Please, Officer Thurston,” Candace whispered, her big eyes brimmed with exhaustion. “My arms hurt, and I’d really like to go home to my kids.”

  Roxy finally had the nerve to meet Zaroyin’s cool stare from where he knelt opposite her with Bratton lying between them. Rich, black lashes fringed his dark blue eyes, pulling her into their warmth and an unsettling feeling of camaraderie and that damned trust thing. Damn, she didn’t know this guy, but she knew her gut. It wasn’t pinching or filled with acid. Psychic Dude could be right.

  “Isaiah,” she said, for the first time using his name like he’d used hers, at this enormously risky pivot point, when all could go really, really bad. Or just as good. Where that positive thought came from, she had no clue, but once it filled her head, it seemed annoyingly spot-on. Like it belonged there. “Do it. Cut the right wire. Save the girl. Let’s all go home in one piece.”

  Isaiah kept his gaze fastened to hers while his fingers plucked the wire away of the vest and… SNIP. There was no explosion. No heat or detonation. No blast and no shockwave. She’d live to serve another day.

  Roxy let go of the deep breath she’d been holding. Thank you God for the Psychic Dude.

  “You did it, Special Agent Zaroyin,” Candace whimpered, snaring his head and neck inside that awkward triangle brace still under her coat.

  “Wait. Hold on. Let me get you undone first,” he murmured, reaching into the folds of the red leather and around her back.

  Roxy nearly turned away when he lifted Bratton off the floor just enough to unbuckle the belt. Poor, innocent Candace’s cheek pressed against his very fine chest. She closed her eyes. Her tears dampened his shirt, and enough already!

  “You about finished?” Roxy bit out. Or do you need an f-ing room, Special Agent Za-roy-in?

  “Just as I suspected.” Psychic Dude didn’t respond to the snark she’d leveled at him. “Randall strapped you into a double harness. He turned you into a puppet, didn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Candace said breathily, her voice quavering along with her bottom lip.

  He’d arched his neck to look down at the redhead in his arms, and damned if Bratton didn’t get all misty-eyed looking up at him. But when she batted those damned gray eyes—

  God, give me strength. Roxy looked to the ceiling and counted to ten, not sure why she cared if these two got it on here in the bank or afterwards in a hotel room or—whatever! Why her fingers had just curled into fists made no sense, either. It’s waaaaaaaay past time to get the hell out of here!

  Yet the tenderness in Zaroyin’s tone tugged at Roxy’s heartstrings. He seemed to know what to say to this tormented victim to calm her nerves. Candace was all but hugging him, what with her wrists still taped together, and he didn’t seem to mind manhandling her, while he
sliced through the duct tape, then tugged the harness and its metal supports away from her stiff arms.

  “I only came here to get a home loan. Didn’t think I’d end up like this.” She tipped her forehead toward Zaroyin, going for waifish when Roxy wanted to knock her on her butt and tell her to back off already!

  “Why you?” Roxy asked, her snarky cop side ready to brawl, trying to wrest control back from Zaroyin. “Why’d Randall zero in on you instead of someone else? There were plenty of folks in the bank. Why you?”

  “I don’t know,” Candace whined as Zaroyin manfully tossed the metal frame across the floor with a clatter, but kept his hand on the middle of her back.

  Roxy hadn’t noticed until then, but the revolver Candace had been holding now lay tangled in the sticky duct tape at Zaroyin’s knee. Like a true professional, he’d set the safety, and Roxy’s heart did a funny somersault that turned into cartwheels. How had she missed that, too? She was no wet-behind-the-ears recruit. So why didn’t I think of that first?

  Oh, hell. She’d sort the details later because Zaroyin had just pulled Candace forward. Like one of those sappy Disney princesses in fairytale land where dreams came true—like, never!—she leaned into that powerful chest again. Lithe, ropey muscles rippled over well-defined pecs as he soothed her with that melt-in-your-mouth sexy male voice while she fell apart in his arms.

  He told her as calmly as ever, “You’re safe now. It’s over.”

  “You s-s-saved me,” she sobbed. “I… I owe you everything.”

  “You’re okay now, ma’am, just breathe with me. Deep and slow. There you go.”

  Oh, give me a break! A sudden wave of righteous hostility rattled up Roxy’s backbone, nipping at each vertebra and raising those edgy Spanish/Irish hackles again. That line sounded more like an invitation to sex, and her combined lineage made for a double dose of passion she didn’t need at the moment.

  Holy Jesus H. Christ! “She needs a medic,” she declared loudly, needing to get control of herself and possibly the situation, too. “Let’s get out of here. Move it guys. Now.”

  She wanted Zaroyin to step on it, but he was the perfect gentleman. Holding Bratton so she didn’t fall. Securing one arm around her shoulders and a hand at her wrist to keep her steady. Lifting her to her feet.

  “Don’t just stand there,” Roxy snapped, rolling her shoulders to get that annoying jealous troll to let loose. Sheesh, it felt like it had spurs on and those spurs kept stabbing the cheeks of her ass. She had no reason to be jealous of this particular redhead, and she didn’t care about Zaroyin. He wasn’t anyone special. He was just some guy, one of many at that. So why the hell is he getting to me?

  “Thanks for your help, Officer Thurston,” Zaroyin said when they hit the front entrance. He palmed the door open for Candace to exit, his other hand settled at the small of her back like a true gentleman.

  How intimate. How irritating. You don’t have to keep touching her, Zaroyin. You’re no hero. Damn, get over yourself!

  “No problem,” Roxy shot back at him, her gaze locked on that spot between two sharp manly shoulder blades and the broad wall of a back that was to-die-for gorgeous. Wide at the top, his shoulder blades jutted when he flexed. Roxy wanted to lick her way up the column of that straight arrogant neck and bite his ear. Zaroyin radiated nothing but male confidence. Honestly. The man was drop dead gorgeous, and the rear view wasn’t half bad either.

  She could’ve slapped herself. Rear view? You mean the comfy looking jeans he wore or the firm globes of a taut male ass beneath those denims? Or the hollow on those athletically sculpted cheeks that showed with each step he took? Hmmm. Not a single jiggle. Possibly tanned. Definitely sexy. What woman wouldn’t want to sink her nails—or her teeth—into that fine masculine backside?

  Ugh! Roxy slammed her eyes shut to block her wayward thoughts of his naked ass. She wasn’t looking for a man in her life. Roxy Thurston was the job and the job was Roxy Thurston. That, by hell, was all there was to it. So stick a pin in it and get over it already!

  Shaking her out of control imaginings off, Roxy needed that drink now more than ever. Until Zaroyin came to an abrupt halt. With an indelicate, ‘Ooomph!’ her belly and hips collided with said manly butt, and she nearly swallowed her tongue. My hell, he was deliciously warm, and the masculine scent drifting off him oozed into her nostrils, inciting the tips of her breasts to stand up and point, demanding he take notice. How embarrassing, to be instantly hot and bothered by some FBI guy, the Psychic Dude no less, whom she hardly knew and didn’t care about.

  Roxy took a full step back, needing a margarita with a tequila shooter. Make that a double. Forget the crushed ice. Just give it to me straight up.

  “What’d you stop for?” she asked, annoyed that she was, well, annoyed.

  He’d just handed Bratton off into the hands of a waiting police officer, and suddenly, Roxy was lost in those sexy deep blues all over again. A shiver of vertigo slammed into her when she lifted her chin to look up at him. Not only was he fit, but he was a good twelve inches taller than her, and he was deep inside her comfort zone. She had to crane her neck to meet his gaze.

  He didn’t need to touch her. He had some kind of—something—that set her blood thrumming like a freight train in her veins.

  “I know a place that serves a good Long Island Iced Tea, Officer Thurston. Or a margarita, if you prefer. Top shelf all the way. We could go there after this is over. Interested?” he asked. “After work, I mean.”

  Her mind went blank and her brain developed momentary paralysis. Her throat stopped working and she could barely swallow. His lips moved again, but processing what he said took time. Something about Long Island on a shelf and work and… Wait. What? Sex? Did he just say sex was that—me?

  “…just to talk shop…” finally pierced the fog. One sexy masculine brow lifted, and she was utterly defenseless against his obvious psychic prowess.

  “Umm, sure,” she breathed, her usual tough-cop voice turned to mush.

  Absolute mush.

  Chapter Three

  “You have to,” Director Tucker Chase insisted. “Garrett Randall’s still out there, and if what we suspect is true, he’ll make another play for your girlfriend.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” Isaiah reminded his pushy boss for the umpteenth time. “Candace Bratton’s a client, pure and simple, and I’m the wrong man for the job, especially if you intend on me working with Officer Thurston.”

  “We don’t have clients, nimrod. We’re FBI. We have victims. Suspects. CIs.” As in confidential informants.

  Isaiah stared the former Navy SEAL down. Tucker could get under anyone’s skin with his perpetual innuendos, name-calling, and insinuations. Unfortunately, he’d also been on scene immediately after the hostage situation. He’d seen Isaiah exiting the bank with his arm securely around Candace Bratton’s shoulders, comforting her. But that didn’t make her his girlfriend.

  A single mother with two kids: Kitty, twelve years old, and Darrin, ten, Candace was caught between a rock and a hard place. Between her ex-husband, Bob Bratton, who hadn’t been in her life since Darrin’s birth, and her former father-in-law, one headline-making Chester Bratton, known up and down the East Coast for his safe-cracking talent, she couldn’t seem to win. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

  Seven years back, Chester had partnered with Garrett Randall and his three brothers to rob an armored car in D.C. Oddly, that heist went down at the same bank the Randalls had attempted to rob this morning. They’d gotten away with five million in large bills back then, and were on the lamb for two years. The problem to their perfect plan was that Chester Bratton retained the five mil, not Garrett Randall or his brothers. They were supposed to meet up later to split the goods. That never happened.

  Garrett got antsy. Then the unfortunate altercation with Mr. Whidbey occurred. Out of the blue, the kindly old gentleman bought Chester’s rented house out from under him, as well as the fi
ve properties surrounding it for a real estate investment to fund his retirement. When Garrett caught wind of the quick sale, he went looking for his cut, but ended up being charged with assault with a deadly weapon after he’d bludgeoned the elderly homeowner, who, by the way, knew nothing about the robbery or the five mil.

  By then, Chester had skipped town. To this day, the FBI suspected Garrett had offed him, but couldn’t prove it. It seemed Garrett’s problem was the same as the Bureau’s and Candace Bratton’s. No one knew where Chester or the money was. Not even his son. Bob Bratton had an airtight alibi and the motel receipts to prove it. He’d been in Boston at the time of the heist.

  “Where is she now?” Isaiah asked, tired of the continuous power struggle with his boss. If Tucker toned down that alpha personality of his, he’d make more friends and influence fewer enemies. But that was Tucker for you. An obnoxious Navy SEAL at heart and proud of it until the day he died.

  “Taking a lie detector test.” Tucker cocked his head, squinting, giving Isaiah the evil eye. “Don’t give me that look. She volunteered, said she’d pee in a cup and take a drug test, too, but we don’t need her to do that.”

  “But you don’t believe her.” Isaiah made it a fact. “You think she knows where Chester and the five million are.”

  “I don’t trust anyone, you know that. But tell me this. Why can’t you get a read on her?”

  And there it was, one of those puzzling psychic anomalies Isaiah had no answer for. He’d encountered very few people able to block his mental probes, but Candace Bratton was one of them. He’d sensed her resistance to his gentle touch immediately in the bank. While she’d projected a certain level of fear, there was also a calculating side to her, which explained why she’d kept her weapon raised despite the metal framework inside the trench coat.

  Until Tucker asked, Isaiah felt almost certain she’d been honest as far as the hostage situation went, ninety-nine percent sure, but that annoying one percent bugged Isaiah. Candace was an intelligent woman, and Isaiah hadn’t been able to get a decent read on her, not once during the attempted robbery. He’d bet his last dollar the polygraph wouldn’t be any more conclusive.