Bare It All

by Lori Foster

  Killer Designz had a massive front window, so even while still a dozen feet away, he spotted Peterson—he would never get used to seeing her dressed like that—talking to presumably a tattoo artist. She stood with her hip cocked out, an “I’m up for grabs” smile on her painted mouth, and her hands on a counter so she could lean forward, which effectively kept the artist’s attention glued to her rack.

  Rowdy stood a few feet behind her, glancing through a book of designs. The two hoods were off to the side, pretending to peruse the body jewelry in a glass-enclosed case.

  Like either of those goons had piercings.

  A little bell jangled when Reese walked in. Cool air-conditioning washed over his heated skin. Rowdy glanced up and away, doing a good job of dismissing him. Peterson stalled a second but not for long. Her gaze moved to the two thugs and then away again.

  Was that to let Reese know she was already aware of them? Maybe.

  “Well,” she said, her voice somehow throaty, “you’re getting busy, and I don’t want to hold you up.”

  The thugs, it seemed, were more concerned with Rowdy than Peterson, which made sense. Rowdy stood six-four, only a few inches shorter than Reese, with a fit physique that promised capability. In comparison, the Lieutenant was a diminutive little lady, and in that getup, she looked more like fluff than a ball-busting, high-ranking cop who’d damn near single-handedly cleaned up a very corrupt department with cold-blooded determination.

  Shit. “Hey,” Reese said. “You the only one working?”

  The artist nodded at him. “I’ll be right with you.”

  “Great.” Hooking his sunglasses to the front of his T-shirt, Reese did his own perusing. That gave him an opportunity to surreptitiously scope out the interior in case they had to make a hasty getaway.

  The lieutenant put a finger to her lips. “I like all of these,” she said of the designs shown in a free-standing swing panel display. “But I saw a really unique pattern the other day, and I think I want something like that.”

  The artist watched her finger on her mouth as she dragged it back and forth over her bottom lip. “Can you describe it to me?”

  “Sure. It was sort of long and narrow, with lines and numbers.”

  “Numbers?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” She rested her arm on the counter—which dipped her forward even farther until Reese feared she’d fall right out of the dubious constraint of that sheer blouse.

  He stopped staring only long enough to realize that Rowdy and the two goons were also paying very close attention to the straining buttons on her blouse.

  “Like this,” she said, and she used her damp fingertip to draw the size of the tattoo on her arm. She looked up with a slow smile. “Got anything like that?”

  The guy concentrated on breathing for a few seconds. “Yeah, I think I might.” Something glittered in his eyes. Lust, yes, but more than that? “Hang on a sec while I go get a different pattern book.”

  Was he onto her?

  Staying loose, his ankles crossed, Reese leaned back on the counter as he flipped through a catalogue.

  The artist turned and went through a curtain to a backroom.

  Rowdy looked up at her. “Where you getting your tat, honey?” He used the excuse of a conversation to move closer to her—something Peterson didn’t appreciate, given how she took a step away.

  Heat flushed her cheeks, and damn if that didn’t look genuine.

  “I haven’t decided,” Peterson said. “Probably on my arm, but I’m thinking it might look great climbing the back of my leg, too.” She turned, presenting that snug little ass to Rowdy and the two hired hands. She tipped her hip out again and looked over her shoulder with a smile. “What do you think?”

  “I think you shouldn’t mess with perfection.”

  Peterson did a slow bat of her eyelashes, and that was so disturbing, Reese almost missed hearing the lock on the front door click into place. He turned fast and saw that one of the men now barred the door. The other man, mouth twisted in a sick smile of anticipation, pulled out a Desert Eagle .50 cal with a long black suppressor attached.

  Reese didn’t wait for questions, for a better opportunity, or to see what Rowdy and Peterson would do. He thought only of controlling that deadly weapon.

  Full force, he launched his considerable size and weight at the armed man. The complete lack of hesitation took the goon by surprise. Reese topped him by several inches and probably forty pounds, so the impact of his assault crashed them to the ground hard. As they fell, Reese heard a near-silent pop, pop and the shattering of glass.

  He trusted Rowdy and Peterson to handle the other one, not that he had much of a choice.

  While holding on to his wrist so that the bastard couldn’t lift the gun, Reese deliberately thunked the man’s head to the floor, then landed an elbow to his face. That slackened the guy’s grip, and Reese wrested the gun from his hand.

  “You’re a dead man,” the idiot snarled, renewing his effort to get the upper hand.

  Reese used the gun to slug him hard in the jaw.

  The man went limp at the same time something crashed behind him.

  Twisting, Reese looked over his shoulder—and Peterson was all but naked!

  Somehow, while he’d had his back turned, her blouse had gotten ripped, and yes, those were pale, full breasts spilling out all right. Jacking up her skirt, she produced her own weapon—a small handgun she’d strapped to her thigh—and pointed it at the man Rowdy had in a chokehold.

  Belatedly, Reese found the wherewithal to follow her gaze, but Rowdy tightened his hold and the second man went to sleep, making Peterson’s effort unnecessary.

  They’d taken charge of the deadly situation with little fuss.

  Neat, tidy, easy...

  Until rapid-fire gunshots shattered the front window and pelted the walls and counter.

  “Shit!” With alacrity, Rowdy released his man and dove for the front counter. His boots crunched over the sharp broken glass of a display case and the scattered, more gravelly glass of the big picture window.

  Hunkered down in her high heels, her skirt still up and her blouse still open, Peterson scuttled ahead of him.

  They both made it behind the dubious safety of the counter.

  More shots zipped into the room, each one a dull ping that sent that debris scattering.

  The shop was destroyed. It appeared the shooters wanted them all dead. Talk about overkill....

  Utilizing professional detachment, Reese stayed plastered to a wall. As his man started to revive, he busted him again and let him slump supine to the floor. He glanced across the room, but Rowdy had choked the other one enough that he was breathing, but unresponsive even to the clamor surrounding him.

  “Get over here,” Peterson snapped when several more bullets littered the interior, exploding yet another case.

  “Move back.” As soon as Peterson got out of his way, Reese snatched up the Desert Eagle, ducked low and, on his haunches, joined them for cover. The damned counter wasn’t big enough to properly shield three people.

  “Sit tight.” Rowdy slipped into the backroom.

  Reese could just see him moving in a crouch, checking the small john, a supply closet and another backroom. He was unarmed, damn it, so he had no business playing hero.

  “Rowdy.” Reese kept his voice calm and in control. “Damn it, don’t do anything stupid.”

  Rowdy returned, his expression grim. “We have to ge
t out of here. The artist is long gone, run off out a back door.”

  If the owner could leave, that meant others could come in. Great, this whole fuck-up just kept getting better and better.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “GONE WHERE?” Peterson asked, as she tried—unsuccessfully—to pull her torn blouse together.

  “Hell if I know. But only an idiot would’ve stuck around once the shooting started.”

  To punctuate that, more shots were fired.

  Where the hell was backup? Surely someone—anyone—had called in the gunfire by now. Even with suppressors, the denizens of the area had to know an attempted murder was going down.

  Rowdy had been keeping watch out back, but for a second there, he stared at Peterson’s chest.

  The lieutenant said low, “If you don’t want me to shoot you, use those eyes to keep watch out the back.”

  “I’m watching.” He lifted his gaze but didn’t smile. “And while it’s clear, I’d suggest you hightail that sweet ass on out of here, now, while we can still go.”

  Ignoring the sexist remark on her body, Peterson checked her weapon and cursed. “That might be exactly what they want us to do.” She narrowed her eyes on Reese. “What do you think? Not to give away an inside secret, but how do you feel about calling your little entourage?”

  Few on the force knew that Reese had personally vetted some of the uniformed cops, forming a solid crew that was loyal to him. But calling them a “little entourage” didn’t do them justice.

  The men were smart, honorable and, above all, trustworthy. “Not this time.” Calling in his own team on such short notice, bypassing on-duty officers, would draw too much attention and defeat the entire purpose of keeping an under-the-radar alliance.

  Reese handed the gun with the suppressor to Rowdy, then pulled off his T-shirt and offered it to Peterson.

  Rowdy lifted a brow and said to Reese, “Spoilsport.”

  “You’re pushing it, Rowdy Yates.” She took the shirt.

  But damned if she didn’t stare at Reese’s chest as intently as Rowdy had stared at hers.

  It was like a comedy of errors, bizarre in the extreme. If they weren’t in such incredible danger, he might have laughed. “Lieutenant?”

  “Right. Thank you.” Showing off strong legs, Peterson struggled into the shirt without standing up in sight of the gunmen or sitting on the broken glass. The awkward position strained her thighs, especially in those heels, but she didn’t seem to notice or care.

  Reese pulled out his cell—and realized he’d busted it when he’d tackled the gunman to the floor. “Damn it.” He sent a questioning look to Peterson.

  Her head cleared the shirt. “Dropped my purse on the other side of the counter—with my phone in it.”

  They both turned to Rowdy.

  He withdrew his cell and tossed it to Reese. “Knock yourself out.” Then, with a hand at the small of Peterson’s back, he helped to steady her, so she could get her arms free.

  Before Reese could make the call, they heard groans coming from one of the downed men only yards away. He said as politely as he could manage under the circumstances, “I suggest we move before we get cornered.”

  “Damn it.” Maneuvering in the limited space, she finished tugging the T-shirt down over her trim body. It fit like a damned tent, billowing down below her knees, more than adequate to keep her covered.

  Taking the lead, she said, “If you have to shoot, make damn sure it isn’t a bystander.” And with that, gun held in front of her, she ducked through the back of the store.

  Still holding the Desert Eagle, Rowdy followed right behind her.

  Reese peeked around the counter to ensure no one followed. So far, both men were still out, and he hadn’t heard a shot in the last few sec—

  A bullet hit the floor in front of his face, sending him ducking for cover again. Not more than two or three minutes had passed, but under these circumstances, a minute could feel like an hour.

  He joined the others in back.

  As Rowdy had said, the store was empty. The second they cleared the doorway, Reese closed the door. There was a dead bolt on it, which to his beleaguered senses seemed fairly suspect. What happened in this narrow room that required such a sturdy lock?

  He saw only shelves of supplies, a file cabinet and a single chair...in the middle of the floor.

  His brain buzzed with possibilities, but for now, the dead bolt worked in their favor. He secured the lock and turned to assess the situation.

  Peterson stood beside the back door, her spine flattened against the wall. At any other time, Reese might have paid more attention to how mismatched she appeared in those mile-high heels and a printed T-shirt so large it hung off one shoulder and fell below her knees.

  Today was not that day.

  He put in the call for backup, then pocketed Rowdy’s phone. They had a squad car about five minutes out—which might not be soon enough if they got into a shoot-out in such close confines. “Is it clear?”

  She shrugged the bared shoulder. “Looks like. We open into an alley that leads to the street. But since none of this was expected, are we willing to trust that it’s not a trap?”

  Reese weighed the options. “The angles are wrong unless they have a sniper.” What to do? “If we stay here, we’re sitting ducks.”

  “I have my car close by,” Rowdy said. “That alley leads to a back street. I’m one block down in an empty lot.”

  “Don’t even think it,” Peterson warned. She chewed the pink gloss off her bottom lip. “Jesus, I never expected things to go so hot so fast.”

  “It’s insane,” Reese agreed as he tried to figure out what to do.

  The jarring sound of the front door crashing open drew his attention. They wouldn’t have five seconds, much less five minutes. Whoever came after them didn’t worry about witnesses or the destruction of Killer Designz.

  That could only mean they planned to kill all three of them and be long gone before the police arrived.

  Reese removed the Glock from his back holster and traded it for the Desert Eagle.

  Rowdy lifted a brow. “You want the bigger, badder gun?”

  “I trust my weapon,” Reese explained. And he wanted to ensure Rowdy could defend himself. “I know I’ve taken care of it.”

  “Thanks.” Rowdy hefted it in his hand once, then launched out the back door before Reese could stop him.

  “Idiot,” Peterson muttered in a hiss.

  Cursing softly, Reese divided his time between watching the locked door, as the sounds of assailants drew closer, and watching Rowdy as he darted to the end of the alley.

  “What the hell is he doing?” Peterson asked.

  Seeing Rowdy run without apparent fear of personal injury, Reese muttered, “I assume he’s playing hero.”

  Luckily, Rowdy made it without a single shot being fired. At the end of the alley, near the street, he signaled that it was clear.

  The lieutenant sucked in a breath and said, “Let’s go.”

  Great. They’d either be killed or not, but sitting there waiting to be murdered didn’t much appeal to him either. Reese followed her out, impressed that she could run so fluidly in those deadly heels.

  Rowdy covered them, his gaze going everywhere as he waited for them to join him. Not a single shot was fired, and no more noise came from the tattoo parlor.

  Together, they hustled toward the lot holding Rowdy’s car. Soon as they reached it,
they could let the officers know they were clear.

  And with any luck, they’d be able to round up the shooters.

  But Reese wouldn’t be holding his breath; so far, luck hadn’t been on their side.

  Two questions pounded through his brain as they reached safety.

  Just how big was this operation—and how far would they go to find Alice?

  * * *

  THE PHONE CALLS had come in rapid order.

  First the warning call from Killer Designz, letting him know that people were snooping around. He’d sent in his men, and they’d reported back to say they had effectively razed the place, leaving behind little more than rubble within an empty building. The curious trio had escaped, but not without first understanding the reach of his power, the strength of his daring.

  Smirking, Woody Simpson recalled the breathless panic of the tattoo artist who, from a safer location, had called again. With the promise of protection from the law, and a new and better location, concerns had been quieted.

  And now he had DeeDee on the line.

  Feet propped on the desk, shirt unbuttoned and chair tilted back, Woody listened to the final report on the day’s events. Thanks to a fast-growing enterprise, he spent so much time in his office that he’d gradually turned it into a comfortable, condolike space.

  He didn’t cook, of course, but he had others who made use of the small kitchen to prepare his meals. He had a large-screen TV and spacious couch, and he’d brought in a king-size bed to convert a boardroom for sleeping.

  Not that he ever slept during the day. Even at night, he didn’t need much sleep. He’d always been high-energy, motivated and so fucking smart that others couldn’t keep up.

  But when he wanted an afternoon distraction—as he’d planned today before the phone started going off—the bed sometimes came in handy.

  “So, you’re sure they’re cops?”