Dead Aim

by Anne Woodard

  “Just in case one of these fits the front door,” she said.

  When they finally emerged, Grace deliberately draped her legs over the arm of the chair so that her back was to them, then took a long, hungry drag on her joint.

  “Didn’t find anything, did you?” Her words were starting to slur together, but not enough to cover the hostility in them.

  Rick had to stifle a second, more insistent urge to grab the girl and shake her till her teeth rattled. Better to put as much distance between him and her as he could before he gave in to temptation.

  He was halfway to the door when he realized that Maggie wasn’t following him. Instead, she’d walked right around Grace’s chair so Grace would have to look at her, whether she wanted to or not.

  “Grace?” Maggie said in a friendly tone. “What’s your major in college?”

  That startled Grace out of her pot-induced torpor. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Just curious.”

  “Nosey, I’d call it.”

  Maggie just kept smiling, waiting for an answer.

  “Psych,” Grace muttered at last resentfully.

  “Psychology! Not art?”

  “Art!” Grace almost spat the word. “Why would I want to waste my time on something stupid like that?”

  “Does your friend study art?”

  “My friend?”

  “The one who suggested you share this apartment with Tina.”

  “He’s a professor, not a student!” Grace said hotly. “And he doesn’t study—”

  She stopped as abruptly as if someone had shoved a gag in her mouth.

  “Yes?” Maggie prompted. “He doesn’t…what?”

  Grace glared up at her from under a curtain of tangled hair. “Piss off. Both of you.”

  When they finally left the apartment, Grace was blowing marijuana smoke at the ceiling and humming to herself, oblivious to their departure.

  Chapter 10

  I t had to be Jerelski who had arranged for Grace to share Tina’s apartment, Maggie thought, not for the first time that night. The pieces fit too neatly, and far too conveniently, for it to have worked any other way.

  With practiced ease, she tamped down the freshly ground coffee, then slipped the brew basket onto the espresso machine and locked it into place. She’d been working at Joe’s long enough now that she didn’t have to think about the work, which left her free to think about other things entirely.

  Tonight, there were plenty of other things to think about.

  Tina must have stumbled across something. Drugs, or maybe even stolen art, as Rick had suggested. Given Tina’s upright nature and academic focus, stolen art was more likely than illegal drugs. The bit of shattered statuary in a house where she’d been hiding certainly supported that hypothesis.

  Or maybe Jerelski just started worrying that she would see or hear something she wasn’t supposed to. What better way to find out what your industrious student assistant was up to than to plant a spy in her own apartment? A spy like Grace Navarre, who had no obvious academic connections to him, and who would keep silent and do as he said in return for the drugs he could so easily provide her.

  Jerelski must have been aware that he had fallen under suspicion. The stepped-up customs inspections on incoming shipments could have tipped him off, as could have a few visitors to Imports, Ltd. who’d asked a lot of friendly questions but hadn’t ended up as paying customers.

  The recent arrests and convictions of a number of the local street dealers and a few of the key people higher up the drug ladder wouldn’t have made him feel any too secure, either. A couple of those baddies, Maggie was proud to admit, had been grabbed as a direct result of her work here at Joe’s. The coffee shop wasn’t the usual sort of place for undercover work, but it was popular, and far easier to gossip and pick up bits of information than in the midst of the ear-busting insanity of a place like the Good Times. It was successes like that that made the hardships of the job easier to bear.

  She added another dollop of foamed milk to the cappuccino she’d just brewed, angled a chocolate biscotti at the side of the plate, then slid it all across the counter. “That’s five-fifty.”

  She made change from the six dollars the customer handed her, then gave a distracted nod of thanks when the woman dropped the change in the tip jar.

  She was only two hours into her shift, but she was having a hard time concentrating.

  It hadn’t been easy, but she’d finally convinced Rick that they’d gone as far as they could go on the information they had, and that he would do Tina more good by going home and catching up on his sleep than he would by chasing after phantoms. Besides, despite the gaping holes developing in her cover, it still might be handy for her to be able to pass as a friend of Tina’s who was trying to help her brother find her.

  Rick had reluctantly agreed. That’s why he was at her apartment right now and she was here, brewing coffee.

  For the first time in years, she desperately wished she could be home.

  That in itself was disconcerting. Ever since Greg’s death, her work had been her world, her life. She’d never minded working a full-time job while undercover because the more hours she put in, the fewer empty hours there were to fill afterward. Until now.

  She’d tried to tell herself she was tired, that she needed some time to herself to think through all they’d learned today, but she’d had to admit that was a lie.

  She wanted to go home because Rick was there, waiting for her.

  Well, all right, he was there, sleeping—three days with little or no sleep had finally caught up with him. When she’d left him there earlier, he’d been fairly reeling with the effects of exhaustion and nerve-wracking worry. He probably hadn’t managed more than a bite to eat and maybe a quick shower before collapsing into bed.

  But thoughts of Rick Dornier, sleeping, were even more dangerous than thoughts of him, awake. In spite of herself, she kept picturing him sprawled across the bed with the sheets tangled around his glorious, naked body.

  Worse, she kept picturing herself naked beside him, her legs tangled with his beneath the sheet, their bodies hot and damp and sated. That was downright dangerous. Just the thought of making love to him was enough to heat her blood and addle her brains.

  Bad enough she still remembered every single detail of that kiss this afternoon, every nuance of scent and taste and touch. The details had been whirling in her head, over and over and over, ever since he’d reluctantly pulled away from her, and she’d as reluctantly let him.

  But to picture him naked—them naked—and in bed together…!

  Bursey was right. She was too close to her job, but not for the reasons he thought.

  Fewer than twenty-four hours had passed since Rick Dornier, Ph.D., had walked through the front door of Joe’s, yet she was so raddled by his effect on her that she could hardly think straight. And he wasn’t even trying.

  It didn’t help to know that she affected him pretty much the same, and she wasn’t trying, either. In fact, she was trying her damnedest to keep a professional distance between them. Trying, but not succeeding.

  She would have to try harder, that’s all. Her job was to stop Jerelski and his friends. Helping Rick find his sister was a part of that job. Sleeping with him was not.

  She couldn’t afford to let hormones muddle her thinking when a young woman’s life was at stake.

  She couldn’t afford to ever let them muddle her thinking, because once Tina was safe, Rick Dornier, Ph.D., would be gone.

  Once Jerelski and his crew were safely stashed behind bars, she would be gone, too. Back to Washington, then on to her next assignment, wherever that might be.

  Since Greg’s death, she’d preferred it that way, the change, the constant challenge, the freedom. No strings attached, no commitment to anyone or anything except her job. Given the very real physical risks her job sometimes entailed, it was better that way. For all concerned.

  The last thing she needed was to let h
er own unruly attraction to a man she’d scarcely met get in the way of doing her work or living the life she’d chosen. In fact, she had to admit to a bit of resentment that Rick Dornier had distracted her even this far. After all, home right now was a bland apartment she’d rented furnished. Not exactly the sort of place she ought to be wanting to rush back to. If it weren’t for Rick—

  “Miss? Miss!” An angry masculine voice shattered her train of thought. “Can I get a cup of coffee, or are you standing there so the floor won’t walk away?”

  Irritated, Maggie dragged her thoughts back to the present. She forced an apologetic smile. “Sorry! What kind of coffee? Would you like a sandwich with that?”

  Yet even as she prepared a cheese-and-veggie sandwich and steamed more milk for the angry man’s espresso, Maggie found her thoughts slipping back to Rick Dornier.

  It wasn’t just sex, she admitted. The sexual attraction between them was potently distracting—no two ways about that. But she’d known sexier, better-looking men than Rick Dornier, and not one of them had ever raised her temperature by so much as a hair. So…why Rick?

  It wasn’t just their shared experience of guilt and self-recrimination that drew them together, either. That they understood each other had helped to break down the natural barriers between them faster than would normally have happened. But that wasn’t enough to explain why she’d been so instantly aware of him the first time he’d spoken, why his smile made something heavy within her grow light and buoyant, why the mere sound of his voice was like honey against her skin, making her nerve ends shiver with anticipation.

  God knew she’d tried to hide her reaction, to pretend she wasn’t affected. He’d been so worried about his sister that she probably would have gotten away with it, too, if he hadn’t been as drawn to her as she was to him.

  That he didn’t seem any happier about the situation than she was didn’t solve anything. If neither one of them could control this attraction thing, how in the devil were they ever going to—

  “You heat that milk any more and there won’t be any left to foam.”

  The angry voice once more dragged her back to her job.

  “Sorry,” Maggie apologized, genuinely contrite. “I’ll get some fresh milk.”

  “Just make the coffee, will you? You start with fresh milk and I’ll end up old enough to qualify for Medicare.”

  You get any ruder and you’ll need it, Maggie thought sourly, then felt ashamed of herself.

  Amazing what hormones run amuck could do to a normally rational, sensible woman like her.

  With a little effort, she managed to finish the coffee and sandwich and pass them across the counter to the still-fuming customer. She paid for his food herself, but even that didn’t appease his ill-humor. His back was stiff with indignation as he carried his things to a table at the far side of the room.

  Maybe she should camp out in the office tonight instead of going home. She could kick Rick out of her apartment in the morning, then get back to doing her job instead of mooning around like some witless teenager in love with a rock star.

  In the end, she gave up the fight, turned over the store to the staff and went home early.

  The minute she put the key in the lock, she wished she hadn’t. There was an eagerness in her that was almost frightening, a hunger that wasn’t sexual, though it had a sexual element to it.

  Part of it was relief that the apartment was no longer a few rooms that needed painting and cheap furniture filling the empty spaces. Tonight there was a living, breathing someone in there, waiting for her return.

  For the second night in a row, she wouldn’t be alone.

  He’ll be asleep, she told herself. In the guest room, with the door closed, sound asleep.

  Chances were good he wouldn’t hear her even if she slammed the door and clomped across the floor in steel-soled boots. For the past three days the man had been running on worry, adrenaline and far too little sleep. She could probably march a brass band across the living room and back again without waking him.

  Reassured, she turned the key in the lock, then quietly pushed the door open and tiptoed through. He’d thoughtfully left the table lamp at the far end of the sofa lit, which was nice of him. The lamp was turned to the lowest wattage, but its soft light was warm and welcoming. Until now, she hadn’t realized how little she liked coming back to an empty, unlit apartment.

  She glanced at the door to the guest bedroom. It was closed and the crack at the bottom was nothing but a black strip of darker shadows. He was asleep then, as she’d expected.

  And that was not disappointment she was feeling, either!

  Swearing softly, Maggie locked the door, shucked her jacket, then slipped off her shoes. She was halfway across the room when she realized the sofa wasn’t empty, as she’d thought.

  Rick Dornier hadn’t left the lamp on because he was being thoughtful. He’d left it on because he’d fallen asleep before he even reached his bed. A small plate sat on the floor by the sofa, lightly dusted with crumbs from the sandwich he’d fixed for supper. The empty beer bottle beside it was still half-full, set down and forgotten. One of the upholstered pillows had slid or been kicked off the sofa. It must have barely missed the beer and now lay disreputably cocked against one leg of the battered coffee table.

  She focused on the details because that was so much safer than focusing on the man sprawled across the sofa.

  He’d showered and donned clean clothes before he’d fixed that sandwich, but he hadn’t bothered to shave or comb his hair. Now he lay with one arm cocked over his eyes, the other flung over the edge of the cushion so that his fingers curled into a relaxed curve scant inches above the carpet. His stocking-covered feet were propped over the arm of the sofa at the other end, heels close together so that his toes pointed outwards. It couldn’t have been comfortable—the sofa was several inches shorter than he was—but he’d probably been too tired to notice. Even asleep, there were shadows under his eyes, and lines of worry etched his broad brow.

  But nothing could disguise the lean power of his strong, well-built, eminently masculine body. In some ways, he was almost more dangerously appealing asleep than he was awake. She already knew that he was kind, that he had a sense of humor that was apt to break out at odd times and that he cared deeply about family, and especially about his sister, even though they’d grown up apart. She knew that he was honorable and intelligent and very, very determined, and that, for all his openness, he was still a deeply private person.

  Now, asleep like this, his last defenses had come down.

  His lashes were longer and thicker than she’d realized. In the lamplight they seemed to glow gold against his sun-bronzed skin.

  There was a softer, gentler curve to his mouth than she remembered, and she could have sworn she remembered every detail about it from that kiss this afternoon.

  The collar of his shirt was open, revealing the arch of his throat and the slow, steady pulse beating beneath the skin.

  His hands were…beautiful. She’d always been drawn to hands for some reason, and she’d noticed his right off. But with him relaxed like this, his fingers curled as loosely as a child’s, she had the strangest urge to trace her fingertips across the curve of his upturned palm, then up each finger, one by one. But gently, so as not to wake him.

  Her own palms itched at the thought of touching him like that, a touch that would be at once intimate and innocent.

  There was nothing innocent about the attraction between them, and nothing innocent about the way her body was reacting to the sight of him, stretched out on her couch as if he regularly took a nap there, as if he were at home.

  There was definitely nothing innocent about the wild thoughts that the sight of his long, lean body roused in her. Broad chest, slim hips, those long, strong legs. The pieces of him fit so smoothly together—not with the polished perfection of a body sculpted in a gym, but with the easy, powerful grace of a body honed by hard work and long hours on foot in the wildernes
s.

  His skin would be warm, she knew, his hands callused but gentle, his body hard, bigger than hers, stronger.

  The needy, hungry heat that washed through her at the sight of him made her palms sweat and her knees suddenly grow weak.

  She should go to bed.

  Instead, without taking her eyes off him, she sank down on the edge of the coffee table. She should wake him, she told herself. There were things they needed to discuss, leads to work out, plans to make for tomorrow.

  She should send him to bed. He would be a heck of a lot more comfortable there than on the couch.

  Then again, maybe it was better to leave all that to the morning, when they were both more wide awake. She’d throw a blanket over him and leave him to wake up when he was ready.

  Yes, that’s what she’d do. She’d sit here for a moment, relax, let the stresses of the day go. Watch Rick sleep. And then she’d get that blanket for him and go to bed. In a minute or two.

  His hand was only inches from her feet. It must be uncomfortable for him, twisted like that. But if she tried to shift his hand, she’d probably wake him up and—

  Oh, hell. Since when had she started lying to herself?

  Her purse gave a loud thump as it hit the floor. The bottom of the beer bottle clattered against the dish as she picked them up and set them out of the way.

  His eyes blinked open when she leaned over and kissed him.

  “Wha— Uph! Ahhmmmmm…”

  He woke up fast and reacted even faster.

  His arms came around her, pulling her closer until she was half kneeling, half lying on top of him. And then he pulled her head down to his, drawing her into a kiss that seemed to go on forever.

  When she finally came up for air, she was panting and flushed and feeling better than she had in ages.

  “You’re a heck of a kisser, Dr. Dornier,” she said, propping her elbows on his chest and arching back so she could look him in the eyes without her own eyes crossing.

  He grinned up at her. “You’re not too bad yourself, Agent Manion.”