True Shot Page 4

  He smiled at the sleep-roughened edges of her voice. “Warming you up.”

  She breathed out a noncommittal “Hmm.”

  He liked her half-asleep. With her soft and acquiescent, he could fool himself into believing this was a casual Sunday morning, blues a low throb on the stereo while they cuddled after a night of lovemaking. It was perfectly natural to slide his hand over the curve of her hip. He smiled at her intake of breath as his fingers grazed the smooth skin of her firm abdomen. Any second now, she’d snap at him to knock it off. And he would. With some effort. Because that was the kind of guy he was. A gentleman to the core.

  For now, he lazily explored, walking his fingertips over the lower rungs of the ladder of her ribs, seeking and finding the hairline scar he’d noted earlier. From a knife wound, he figured.

  She shifted under his hand, restless, and he stilled, waiting for her to settle before continuing his gentle exploration of sweet, satin skin.

  Her palm slid over the back of his hand, and he paused again. But instead of stopping him, she guided his hand higher under the T-shirt, until he felt the ticklish stab of nipple against his palm. Holy mother of God. She was encouraging him.

  He closed his eyes as he cupped her breast for the first time, fascinated by the soft, warm weight in his hand. When his thumb dragged over her nipple, teasing it into a firmer erection, she shifted her head back against his shoulder and moaned low in her throat. She wiggled a little, brushing her butt up against him in erotic invitation. She turned her head slightly, bringing her lips within inches of his, her breath cool against his cheek. “Is that what I think it is?”

  Something was off here. Seriously off. This was not the same woman he’d had to pick up off the floor. Not that he was complaining. Oh, hell, no.

  She shifted in his arms so that she faced him, showing no signs of discomfort, and one finger bumped over his top lip and trailed tantalizingly along his bottom lip. “It’d be a shame to let it go to waste.”

  Before he could respond, she pressed soft, warm lips to his and kissed him. Gentle at first, tentative, but growing in depth and aggression until her tongue swept into his mouth. Every cell of his body focused on her mouth devouring his. She kissed like she looked—intense and deadly and . . . and . . . why was he still thinking?

  When she pulled slightly away, coming up for air, he brushed the hair back from her face with one hand. He loved the way it felt between his fingers. Silky. Everything about her was like that. Satiny and smooth yet with an underlying layer of muscle and danger. She could fuck him or snap him in two in a heartbeat—

  She straddled him in one efficient move, leaning over him for another slow but thorough, openmouthed kiss that left him gasping and harder than he’d ever been. Chriiiiiiiiist.

  He put his hands on her arms to slow her down. “Careful,” he croaked. “Your shoulder.”

  “It’s all better, thanks to you,” she murmured against his lips as she circled his wrists with strong, slim fingers and flattened them to the bed, her midnight hair falling forward. The ends swayed over his face in soft, feathery caresses. “Be still,” she ordered, her storm-blue eyes dark with intent. “Don’t move.”

  He obeyed because he couldn’t believe how incredible this was . . . how . . . unlikely . . .

  Working his shirt up to his neck, she began kissing her way across his chest. Her tongue wrapped around his left nipple, and he arched his head back into the pillow. Oh, God, oh, God.

  He had to touch her, had to, but the minute his palms skimmed over her arms, she stopped and pierced him with narrowed eyes. “I told you to be still.”

  God, that voice. Every time she spoke, a chill of excitement thrilled through him. He imagined her reading a book on tape, something sultry and erotic . . . any man listening would end up helplessly and painfully aroused.

  As though she’d read his mind, she repositioned herself and curled cool fingers around his cock. She began a firm, masterful stroke that had the air gusting out of him. Holy . . . holy . . .

  And then, just when he thought he’d embarrass himself and explode into her hand, she took his rigid cock into her mouth. Her magical tongue swirled and massaged and licked like she’d never get enough, a low, approving hum in the back of her throat. He wrapped his hand in her hair to help guide her and closed his eyes. Wow, just . . . wow . . .

  Sam started awake, panting and disoriented, her heart thundering in her ears. Dream, she thought. Just a dream. Except the throbbing ache between her legs was all too real . . . as was the man cuddled up to her back, his erection pressed firmly against the fabric covering her hip.

  She rolled away from him before thinking, and gasped as pain ripped through her shoulder.

  In the next instant, he loomed over her, wide awake. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Instinct kicked in, and she thrust upward with the heel of her hand, catching him under the chin and snapping his head back.

  He tumbled backward off the bed, hit the floor with a crash and a grunt and lay still for a silent second before sitting up and shaking his head to clear it. “Fuck! What’d you do that for?”

  Sam stared at him, disoriented, as her eyes adjusted to the dark. She could have sworn he’d been going down on her . . . except she hadn’t been herself—

  Oh. Of course. It really had been a dream—a very erotic one—but it hadn’t been hers. Her empathy had tapped into his dream.

  It had been so long since she’d slept in such close proximity with another person that she’d forgotten that particular aspect of her psychic ability. Sometimes flashing on what was going on in someone else’s head was a curse . . . though, this dream she’d been enjoying. A lot.

  Her cheeks began to burn as she realized she was disappointed that he wasn’t as naked as he’d been in the dream. Had he dreamed those rock-hard abs for himself or did they ripple under the cotton of his white T-shirt in reality, too? And did those faded jeans camouflage the same impressive—

  “Look,” Mac said as he scrubbed his hands over his face. “I know I didn’t get the hell out of Dodge like you told me to, but you were unconscious, and I didn’t want to leave you like that. And . . . and you were cold. Really cold. Shivering, in fact. I didn’t know how else to get you warm . . . so I . . . so I . . . well, hell.”

  “You got into bed with me.” She fought to suppress a smile. He really was kind of cute when flustered. And hot when aroused. He was also far too much of a good Samaritan. Didn’t he know it never paid to worry more about someone other than yourself?

  “Right,” he said with a sigh. “But it was all perfectly innocent. You’re dressed. I’m dressed. It was just about getting warm. I guess I . . . I guess I got a little too warm. Kind of tough to control certain things when I’m asleep.”

  “It’s okay. I get it.”

  A trickle of blood on his chin caught her eye. Gritting her teeth against the ache in her shoulder, she got off the bed, grateful for the T-shirt and boxers he’d put her in, and knelt in front of him. “Are you okay? It looks like I might have done some damage.”

  Bracing herself to suppress the empathic flash, she gently angled his chin to inspect a small cut on the right side of his jaw. She must have nicked him with a fingernail. But then the texture of his razor stubble grazing against her fingertips distracted her. It was nice. As was his jaw, angular and strong. The realization that she found him far more appealing than any man she’d met in a long, long time made her quickly draw her hand back.

  He blinked at the abrupt move, and she wondered if the brief expression that rippled over his features was disappointment . . . and why did it matter? His presence here was trouble, period.

  “Who are you?” he asked. “Some kind of secret agent?”

  She forced out a hollow laugh. “Yeah, right. Isn’t there a first-aid kit around here? I should clean this for you.”

  “Um, yeah. In the kitchen. But it’s not necessary. I’ve done worse shaving.”

  “You don’t want it
getting infected. The kit’s in the kitchen?”

  He put his hand on her arm to stop her, and she flinched, unprepared for the unexpected contact. As she absorbed the empathic hit of the blow to his chin, dizziness eddied through her head. Her legs folded as easily as a new colt’s.

  “Whoa!” Mac caught her good arm to help ease her back to the floor.

  She kept her head down, waiting for the vertigo of bouncing from his consciousness back into her own to pass. Her defenses were in such disarray that leveling her system took longer than usual.

  “Maybe you should wait here,” he said. “I’ll get the kit.”

  “Just give me a minute.” She pushed his supporting hand away, embarrassed by how weak she must seem in front of such a strong man. Not that she should care, but still. She was used to having perfect control of her ability, calling on it when she wanted it, not getting caught off-guard.

  “How about we compromise and go together?” Mac got to his feet and extended a hand.

  She braced herself before accepting his help up, relieved that when their hands touched, nothing from inside his head flooded into hers.

  In the kitchen, where early morning light seeped through the red-and-white-checked curtains above the sink, Mac quickened his pace to get to the first-aid kit before she did. He probably seemed way too eager, but he’d stashed her gun inside, assuming he’d be the only one making use of the kit. He didn’t want her flipping up the lid and thinking he’d tried to pull a fast one on her. Even though he had.

  He’d just stuffed the gun into the waistband of his jeans and jerked the tail of his T-shirt over it when she said, “Did you hear that?”

  He paused in the act of drawing a chair out from the table and turned toward her and the door. The anxiety in her voice alarmed him as much as the idea that someone could actually be in the cabin with them. “I didn’t hear anything.”

  Then he saw a shift in the shadows. Samantha saw it, too, because she started so violently that she wobbled. Mac stepped up behind her and steadied her with his hands at her waist just as a tall, wiry man with a shiny bald head materialized out of the darkness of the hall.

  Under Mac’s hands, Samantha stiffened, then took another step back and bumped solidly against his chest. He kept his hands where they were, noting the tremors that began to ripple through her. This wasn’t the cavalry.

  “Flinn.” Her voice was no louder than a rough whisper.

  Ah, shit, Mac thought. Wasn’t Flinn the guy she was running from?

  The bald guy smiled, showing very white, very straight teeth. Mac guessed his age as middle fifties, though the man obviously didn’t want to look his age, judging by his too-tan complexion.

  “Samantha,” he said, slow and low, almost an affectionate purr with an underlying menace. Then his dark eyes rested on Mac, flat and cold. “Hello.”

  Mac managed what felt like a sick smile. “Hello.” Harmless schmo, he thought, that’s me. All I’m doing here is keeping the storm trooper on her feet.

  Under Mac’s hands, a coiled tension replaced Samantha’s shakes, as though she’d mind-over-mattered her fear. Her strength was impressive.

  The other man’s Colgate smile didn’t waver as he flicked his dark eyes up and down her body. “ Are you all right?”

  “Watson clipped me when he took out Zoe.” The peeved woman who’d demanded her clothes earlier was back in charge. “Did he botch the shot or was only wounding me part of the plan?”

  The bald head tilted slightly in question. “Plan?”

  “You’ve never mastered playing dumb, Flinn.”

  “And you’ve never been dumb, Samantha. So let’s say you come home. It’ll be easier on everyone that way.”

  “It was never going to be easy the minute you had Zoe killed.”

  “Zoe went rogue.”

  “Bullshit!”

  Mac felt the rage vibrate through her lithe body. If she’d had her gun, he was certain Flinn of the shiny head and shinier smile would be bleeding out at their feet. He had to fight the urge to ease the weapon out of his waistband and hand it over.

  Flinn raised his hands in a calming gesture. “What exactly did Zoe tell you?”

  “I’m not playing this game with you. And I’m not going anywhere with you, either. Not alive. Not anymore.”

  Flinn sighed. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Mac almost choked as two hulking soldiers stepped out of the shadows behind Flinn. They aimed what looked like rocket launchers at him and Samantha.

  She didn’t flinch at the sight of the big guns, but she did lean back a bit, as though seeking more support from Mac’s body. “So you’re going to kill me, too, then?” she asked.

  Mac winced at the idea of another bullet tearing through her flesh, and he calculated the odds of how quickly he could put himself between her and the rocket launchers. Not good. And why would he, anyway?

  “I’m not going to hurt you, Samantha,” Flinn said. “I just want you to come home so we can talk. Or we could talk here.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Because of your friend?”

  “He’s not my friend. He’s just some guy who can’t follow a map and ended up at the wrong cabin.”

  Mac straightened his shoulders. He happened to kick ass when it came to reading maps.

  “He seems protective,” Flinn said, his scrutiny of Mac shrewd as he conducted a pre-death autopsy with only his sharp gaze.

  Samantha heaved a dramatic sigh. “Fine, I’ll come with you. But he stays here.”

  Mac was already mentally shaking his head. No way was he letting her go with this guy. “I don’t like that idea,” he said in a low voice near her ear.

  “Shut up,” she hissed over her shoulder.

  A small smile twisted Flinn’s lips. “He seems like more than a friend.”

  “He’s no one. Let’s go before I change my mind.”

  “It’s not that easy. If you’ve compromised us—”

  “I haven’t. You know me, Flinn.”

  “And you know me, yet a minute ago you accused me of having Zoe killed.”

  “I misspoke. I . . . I’ve lost a lot of blood.”

  As if to prove it, she leaned more heavily against Mac, though he worried that wasn’t part of the act. Or perhaps she was trying to tell him something?

  “Let’s do this easy, Samantha,” Flinn said, cool-as-you-please. “No need for drama. Deke and Tom here are going to pat you both down. Then we’ll take a drive back to the District and get that shoulder taken care of. After that, we’ll sit down and have a nice, calm talk. Does that sound agreeable?”

  Mac’s stomach twisted with dread. Agreeable, my ass. At some point during all that nice, calm bullshit, they’d both end up with bullets in the head. That’s why Samantha had said he was no one. She was trying to protect him. Well, he wasn’t some sissy man who needed protection, damn it.

  Tightening his hands at her waist, he pressed up against her until the gun in his waistband dug into her back. That’s a gun in my pocket, baby, though I am also very happy to see you.

  Flinn arched a questioning brow. “Samantha?”

  “Actually,” Mac said, stepping abruptly around her and turning his back on Dr. Evil to face her. “You know, great as this has been and all, I’m going to just . . . you know . . . take off now.”

  She stared up at him in shock, her steel-blue eyes screaming what the hell are you doing? But when he eased the tail of his T-shirt up with one hand, his movements as minimal as possible, her attention shifted down.

  “Call me sometime, okay?” he added. “After the sugar daddy here gets over himself.”

  A rocket launcher poked into his back, and his gaze locked on hers. She really did have arrestingly beautiful eyes. For a commando.

  “You’re insane,” she said through her teeth, but she grabbed the gun from his waistband, shoved him sideways with surprising strength and fired twice in quick succession.

  Mac watched from the floor
in stunned fascination as both Deke and Tom toppled, tidy bullet holes in the center of their foreheads.

  She hesitated when it came to the smarmy Flinn, however. “What did you do to me?” Her voice shook as much as her hand, her finger flexing on the trigger, but her expression was cold and hard.

  “I saved you,” Flinn said. “When you most needed someone on your side, I was there for you. N3 is your family, Samantha. And family doesn’t point guns at each other.”

  Mac stifled his snort of disbelief. Guess that rule didn’t extend to the thugs.

  “Did you do to me what you did to Zoe?” Samantha asked.

  Flinn’s smug smile twitched but didn’t falter. “What did Zoe tell you?”

  She firmed her grip on the gun, her face twisting into a mask of tightly controlled pain and anger. “You mean before you had her killed?”

  Flinn finally had the sense to raise his hands in supplication. “Let’s stay calm, Samantha. Don’t do anything you’ll regret. We can talk this through, and everything will be okay.”

  “It’s too late for that.” She jerked the gun toward the chair Mac had pulled out from the table. “Sit.”

  Flinn didn’t move.

  She pulled the trigger.

  Mac scuttled back, instinctively covering his head with one arm. Holy shit!

  Silence followed, and when he dared to look, he saw a very unhappy Flinn. No bullet hole marked his forehead, which was more than Mac had expected.

  He glanced at Samantha, noted the lethal determination firming her jaw, and got that she hadn’t missed by accident. Her formerly trembling hand couldn’t have been steadier now.

  Mac swallowed, glad he wasn’t Flinn. And impressed, not to mention a bit freaked out, by how comfortably she held that gun. Like it was a part of her.

  “Sit,” she repeated.

  Flinn, hands still raised, did as he was told, a weird smile curving his lips.

  Samantha flicked barely a glance at Mac. “Tie him up.”

  He didn’t bother asking with what. He scrambled to his feet and started going through kitchen drawers until he found twine. Samantha’s hands may have been deadly steady, but his had to be registering 6.0 on the Richter scale. She’d killed two men without flinching. Granted, they’d pointed huge guns at them, but still . . .