Hot Target

by Marliss Melton

  She wore more makeup than usual—perhaps to disguise the dark circles rimming her eyes. Fine lines of strain bracketed her lovely lips. Something was bothering her.

  Suddenly she laid her fork down and dug into her purse. Pulling out a square of folded paper, she handed it to her sister.

  "Do you recognize this man?" she inquired, changing the topic of conversation out of the blue.

  Curious, Tristan watched Emma take the paper and study it with her soft blue eyes. A frown creased her forehead. "No. I've never seen him that I know of."

  With a look of disappointment, Juliet took the paper back.

  "Who is he?" Emma prompted.

  Tristan saw that the drawing was a computer composite of a mature man's face—prominent cheekbones, high forehead, light eyes. Juliet's lips pursed with disappointment as she retrieved it. Watching her refold the paper slowly, he was struck with a sense of relief. Juliet needed his help finding her suspect. She just needed to be reminded how well they worked together.

  Where to start? Juliet wondered. Her awareness of the demi-god next to her—the one who smelled so good she wished she could bottle him—made it hard to think straight. Of all the days Tristan could have chosen to pop up again, why this one? Of course, she knew the answer.

  She should have guessed he would materialize precisely six months to the day after she'd given him that ridiculous challenge. After all, he'd given her a heads-up, at her sister's wedding two months earlier, that he hadn't dated anyone in the previous four months, thus abiding by her wishes. He must have made it to six months. Given his reputation for always being in a relationship, that had to be the longest he'd ever been single.

  Now, somehow, some way, she had to get out of her end of the bargain. Not only did she abhor becoming a link in Tristan's chain of girlfriends, whether he'd broken the chain or not, but she didn't do relationships any better now than she did six months ago. She had made up her mind years ago to stay single. That way, apart from her sister and niece, she would never have to grieve the loss of someone close to her. Tristan, with his endearing grin and can-do attitude, tempted her to change her mind. Given his highly dangerous career, how stupid would that be?

  His timing, however, undermined her determination. She could use his help the way she had down in Mexico.

  You're not in Mexico, she reminded herself. She was on her own turf in Northern Virginia, and she already had a competent assistant in the form of Hilary Alcorn, working at her office.

  Ignoring Tristan, Juliet leaned across the table to tell Emma about her dream. "Ever since what happened to you and Sammy in the Yucatan, I've been dreaming about Mom and Dad's accident. Something came back to me the other night—something I must have repressed."

  Emma's eyes widened. "What?"

  "There was a man at the scene after the crash happened." Juliet waved the folded composite. "This guy. I remember opening my eyes and seeing him next to Mom's window. Dad saw him, too. I could tell because his breathing changed. Something told me not to move because the man hadn't seen me. He just watched until Dad stopped breathing, and then he walked away. And, no, he didn't call for help," she added seeing her sister's mouth open. "No one came until much later."

  Morose silence fell over the table. Jeremiah slid a protective hand over Emma's, rousing Juliet's gratitude that Emma had found a man worthy of her.

  "Are you sure it wasn't a dream?" Emma asked.

  "I'm sure. You know we've always suspected foul play," Juliet reminded her sister. "I need to find out who that man was. Then maybe I'll discover why he killed our parents."

  Emma nodded and pushed her plate away.

  Juliet looked down at her sister's half-eaten sandwich. "Sorry to ruin your lunch."

  "It's OK."

  The feel of Tristan's hand settling on her forearm incited a mix of resentment and self-pity. She wasn't fragile like her sister. She didn't want or need a reminder of how comforting it felt to lean into his powerful body and let him hold her.

  "Please don't touch me," she said under her breath.

  In her peripheral vision, she saw him straighten. He removed his hand, taking his heat with it.

  Shame prompted her to add, "I'm sorry. I just... I need to focus."

  Wrong words. Damn it. The instant they left Juliet's mouth, she wanted to retract them. Because the implication was if she couldn't focus, she clearly wasn't immune to him.

  "What can we do to help?" Jeremiah's steady offer pulled her back into the conversation.

  Juliet sighed. "Honestly, I don't know. Dad's car was crushed and melted down years ago. I've requested the original police reports which are on microfiche in Burlington Township's archives, but I already know there wasn't any mention of a stranger. I simply don't understand why I didn't remember him before."

  Jeremiah sat forward. His hazel eyes conveyed both intelligence and sympathy.

  "You were sixteen years old," he reminded her. "You'd just survived the worst experience a child could have. Assuming you saw this man the way you now remember, you might have realized you were looking at your parents' killer, and your conscious mind refused to accept it."

  His words brought unexpected tears to her eyes. She turned her head, pretending to regard the other restaurant patrons until the moisture evaporated.

  Tristan, despite her earlier warning, put an arm on the back of her chair as if to erect an invisible wall around her. To her discomfort, she felt immediately protected.

  Juliet looked back at Jeremiah. "I'll go with that theory, but why now? Why would I suddenly remember after eleven years?"

  "Because you're stronger now than you were at sixteen," Emma suggested.

  "That's right." Jeremiah nodded with approval at his wife. "Because you beat the odds in Mexico. Maybe your subconscious mind figures you can handle the truth now."

  Juliet did feel stronger for her victory over the ruthless capos this past spring. But wasn't eleven years a little too long to repress a memory as important as this one? The trail leading to her parents' murderer was bound to have grown cold, especially since Emma didn't recognize the man in the sketch. And that was Juliet's only lead.

  Emma held out her hand. "Let me see the picture again."

  Juliet handed it back, and Emma unfolded it, studying the man's shadowed features for several moments. As her sister's tawny eyebrows knit with concentration, Juliet's desperation rose. It was clear Emma had no idea who he could be.

  "No idea," she confirmed, handing the drawing back. "But here's a thought," she added.

  "What?"

  "Why don't we both go through our childhood albums? I left half of them at your place when I moved. You go through those, and I'll look through the ones I have. If this man killed Mom and Dad, he might have known them. Maybe they considered him a friend. Who knows? We could recognize him in a photo."

  Juliet pictured the two of them sifting through old albums, looking for a man who resembled the shadowy figure in her dreams. Talk about finding a needle in a haystack. "I'll try that tonight."

  Producing her cell phone, Emma snapped a photo of the drawing before handing it back.

  Juliet stuffed it into her oversized purse.

  "I'll look, too, as soon as I get home," Emma promised.

  A suffocating feeling ambushed Juliet. Desperate for more space, she pushed her chair back, causing Tristan to drop his arm. "If you'll excuse me, I need to use the restroom."

  Emma eyed her with concern.

  Sending everyone a tight smile, Juliet picked up her purse and, conscious of Tristan's brooding gaze, walked rapidly away.

  Given Tristan's persistence in the past, she guessed at once that he would follow her and seek to waylay her the instant she emerged from the ladies' room.

  Call her a coward, but she was feeling a tad too vulnerable right then to have the kind of discussion he most certainly had in mind. Seeing their waitress ringing up a bill, Juliet detoured on her trek to the bathroom. Tristan couldn't see her from his present vant
age.

  "Hi, I need to leave early," she said, gaining the girl's attention as she pulled her wallet from her purse. "Can I pay for our bill?"

  The waitress looked at her and blinked. "Oh, sure. I just rang you up," she said, handing her the black folder from the pocket of her apron.

  Juliet stuck several bills inside it. "Keep the change."

  "Thank you."

  With a smile and a nod, Juliet pretended to proceed toward the restrooms. Emma would forgive her for leaving. Tristan not so much.

  Regret latched onto her ankles, slowing her retreat. Truth was, she wished they could have one more adventure with Tristan before she ditched him, but considering how much she'd cramped his style these past six months, it would be awfully unkind to use him like that. Leaving now was honestly the nicest thing to do.

  Dodging behind a wave of people entering the restaurant, Juliet skirted the restroom and slipped out the front door, certain no one at her table had observed her departure.

  Marching swiftly toward her silver SUV, she thanked herself for having the forethought to back into her parking space. By luck, this space was on the side of the lot Tristan couldn't see from the table. He would never notice her departure, though he'd find out soon enough.

  And he'd be justifiably outraged. That was why Juliet had thought of a way to make amends. As soon as her consolation package was ready, she would send it to him and hopefully ease the sting of her rejection. Would it really appease him, though?

  A sliver of doubt slid through her mind as she shut herself in her driver's seat and reached for the ignition.

  She'd never seen Tristan get angry, except briefly when she'd driven off in a Belize jungle looking for a short cut so she could beat him in a race. He'd scolded her for eschewing the buddy system. Other than that, the SEAL tended to laugh off irritants. He didn't sweat the small stuff—though she doubted he would view her disappearing act as minor.

  Jamming her seatbelt into place, she sped out of the parking spot and left the restaurant, heading for home.

  Tristan had no idea where she lived, but he wasn't above extracting that bit of information from her sister. Juliet had better warn Emma not to tell him.

  Ding! The chime reminded her about her empty gas tank, the one she hadn't filled that morning because she'd been running late. Crap, she'd better have enough gas to get home. But first things first.

  "Call Emma." She floored the accelerator while accessing her Bluetooth with a voice command. The call went through, but Emma's phone rang and rang.

  "Oh, come on."

  She knew her sister had her phone with her because she'd taken a photo of the suspect, but it was probably set to silent mode.

  "End call," Juliet snapped, glancing at the display on her dashboard.

  She would run out of gas in three miles, and her apartment was nearly four miles away.

  "Call Bullfrog." She decided to call her brother-in-law, who'd earned his moniker for being the fastest frogman in the water.

  He answered after only one ring. "You OK?"

  "Um, yeah. I just tried to call Emma, but she didn't answer."

  "She's looking for you in the restroom, but you're not here, are you?"

  "Um, no. I'm sorry. I needed to leave. I paid the bill, though," she added, hoping the gesture made up for some of her rudeness.

  "That wasn't necessary."

  Jeremiah's reply was uncharacteristically terse.

  "Is Tristan mad?" she guessed.

  "That's not the word I would use."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Nothing." His tone was suspiciously neutral. "It was good to see you again. Keep us posted on the situation. Bye."

  The call ended abruptly.

  She frowned and gripped the steering wheel harder. Why had Bullfrog's comment sounded like a warning?

  Sudden suspicion had her checking her rearview mirror. Was Tristan coming after her? How could he? He'd caught a ride with Jeremiah and her sister.

  Besides, he didn't know where Juliet lived unless Emma had already told him.

  She licked her dry lips. At that exact moment, her favorite gas station came into view. Seeing the street light ahead turn red, she swerved into the station, figuring she could fill her tank in the time that it took the light to turn green again.

  Leaping out of her vehicle, she studied the cars on the road while pumping her gas. Her heart beat unevenly.

  It took a card key to get into her building, and Tristan didn't have one.

  With her tank half-full, Juliet jumped back into her SUV and shot out of the station just as the green light turned yellow.

  I've seen the last of Tristan Halliday, she assured herself.

  Weird how the thought of never seeing him again failed to cheer her.

  By the time her apartment building loomed in the distance, her heart was beating at a normal rate again. She'd seen nothing in her mirrors to suggest anyone was tailing her.

  She turned into the underground parking garage, practically deserted on this weekday afternoon. Her footfalls echoed in the concrete enclosure as she crossed to the elevator, swiping her card key to summon it.

  Any other day, she'd have taken the stairs. Today her knees felt too wobbly to handle the five-story climb. As the elevator rose steadily, Juliet drew a deep breath and exhaled. The scent of Tristan's sports soap still clung to her.

  Stepping out on her level, Juliet proceeded to her door, secured with a deadbolt requiring a four-number combination. As she entered her code, she gave a thought to how long it had been since she'd changed it. The light flashed green. She depressed the latch and thrust the door open.

  The silhouette of a man standing in her darkened living room startled a gasp from her. The door thumped shut behind her. With the blinds closed and her lights out, the shadowy figure brought to mind her parents' killer.

  Juliet's hand reached automatically into the depths of her purse where she stowed her 9mm pistol when she wasn't working. But then the intruder swiveled her blinds, flooding the room with light and revealing his identity.

  "Tristan!" Astonishment rooted her in place. "How the hell did you get in here?"

  He shook his head, tsking in disapproval as he walked toward her. His dark blue eyes gleamed predatorily. Every hair on her body rose in wariness as he closed the distance between them.

  "You don't get to ask the questions, honey."

  She ordered herself to pull out her gun, but she'd frozen. Jeremiah's earlier comment made sudden sense. That's not the word I would use. He'd known Tristan was beyond angry. He was, in fact, so upset he had left the restaurant to pursue her. Jeremiah and Emma hadn't managed to stop him. If anything, they had helped him find his way in.

  Damn it, she wasn't going to get away with disappearing and apologizing later. Her resolve to stay single was suddenly under siege. If she didn't hold the line, she would surely suffer for it down the road. God help her because she wasn't sure she had the strength to resist what Tristan had to offer.

  Chapter 2

  "Ah-ah." Spotting Juliet's hand sliding into her purse, Tristan wagged a warning finger at her. "No you don't. Give me the bag."

  The outrage that had goaded him to ride his motorcycle like a demon through a suburban neighborhood still flowed through him like lava. The relentless and inexorable heat of anger staved off the insecure voice in his head insisting Juliet didn't want him. Like his birth mother, she'd rather walk away than get to know him.

  "Give it to me." He thrust out his hand.

  Her full upper lip curled into a sneer. Tristan had to give her credit for looking unafraid. Yet the flutter at the base of her slender neck revealed that he'd succeeded in freaking her out. Good. It was about time he got her attention.

  "Or what?" she taunted.

  He snatched the purse so fast she only had time to blink. Digging into it, he found her Ruger and tossed the handbag down. He made a show of checking the magazine and shaking his head when he found it full of bullets.

>   "If there's going to be a crime of passion here," he grated in his best Dirty Harry impersonation, "it's not going to involve bullets." Slapping the magazine closed, he laid the pistol on the narrow table in the entryway and gave her a "what now?" look.

  Juliet lunged for the purse, most likely going for her cellphone. He grabbed her, catching her up in his arms and eliciting a growl as he carried her, fighting him vigorously, toward the couch. She landed a few good blows, but her physicality didn't surprise him. He'd found out down in Mexico she handled herself like a cage fighter. That was something he liked about her, actually. However, their wrestling wasn't so much a fight as it was a prelude to lovemaking.

  Her heeled pumps struck his shins before they mercifully fell off. He tossed her onto the sofa, but she'd sunk her hands into his hair, so he went down with her. As they descended, she kicked his upper thigh—three inches from the nuts she was targeting.

  He had to admit her training was thorough, but his was more extensive in scope. Plus, he was twice her size.

  Exerting pressure on her wrists, Tristan freed his hair from Juliet's grasp. Straightening, he picked her up again and flipped her belly-side down onto the cushions, promptly sitting on her bottom to keep her from going anywhere.

  "Get off me, you son of a bitch."

  "No name calling," he warned. Catching Juliet's flailing arms, he pinned them behind her back. "You don't want to go there. I'm not the one reneging on a promise or running away from an honest conversation. If we start slinging names, I'm bound to call you a manipulative bitch or a low-life coward. See what I mean? Doesn't get us anywhere."

  She squirmed beneath him, fighting ineffectually to free herself.

  "You really should hold still," Tristan warned, pinning her with a fraction of his weight. "I haven't been with a woman in six months. Every time you raise your ass, I think about how much you like getting it from behind."

  Juliet stilled instantly, though her chest still heaved with fervor. He knew she worked out daily. That heavy breathing wasn't just due to exertion.