An Eye for Danger (54 page)

Closing my eyes, I rubbed my cheek against his jaw, the tingle of his stubble a welcome reminder that we were beat-up and bruised, but still standing. I realized tomorrow was Thanksgiving, and by then I'd be alone.

"God, I'm so crazy over you," I whispered in his ear. "Crazy because of you, crazy for you. Just plain—"

Then he kissed me like there wasn't a soul in the room.

CHAPTER 37

"Just one more phone call, I swear," said Sam as we approached the bar, but I shook my head. I couldn't take any more interruptions. "To find which state has no waiting time for a license."

"We have more weapons than we can handle already, Sam. Besides, the stores are monitored. They'll find us."

He laughed, framing my face in his hands. "Not that kind of license, baby." He searched my eyes, waiting for his meaning to register.

I latched onto his wrists. He was locking me into the game, into his life. And I wanted him to.

Before I could give my answer, Sam's jeans pocket came alive against my hip. A quick glance at his cell and his face iced over.

"Stand by," he said into his phone as he anchored me to the bar, nodding to the bartender to take care of my order.

"Tell me that's your partner," I said.

"You don't want to know."

My breath caught when Sam released my hand, and he narrowed his eyes.
Don't be so obvious.
He popped a handful of peanuts into his mouth and smiled devilishly, trying to lighten the moment, so I put on my brave face, gave him a peck on cheek, and waved him off.

He couldn't push through the jungle of dancers fast enough and slipped near the back door to take the call.

The bartender proffered two new beers. From my bra I fished out a bill for the drinks. The bartender pushed it back.

"Compliments of the gentleman," he said and cantered to the next stall of women.

My head pounded with music, the beat pushing my heart rate higher. I stole glances at Sam, who leaned into a hall near the exit. Who the hell could be calling at this hour if not his partner? Yet the additional minutes gave me time to think straight, make the right decision here. The state line never felt so dangerous.

On my right, a dark-skinned man with a five-o'clock shadow and full sideburns smiled hello. On my left, a stocky fellow tapped the neck of his bottle to the bill of his cap when he saw me checking out his tight jeans, though I was looking for firearms, not whatever else he was packing. Without Sam I couldn't distinguish between FBI agents, Goliath members, and average citizens flirting with a nervous blonde at a bar.

Relax, I told myself, taking up one of the beers. I was in a hoedown bar, not a hostage situation, with come-ons flying instead of bullets. But beer was the last thing my stomach wanted, though the bottle was breakable should I need to shove glass into someone's throat.

Someone tapped my shoulder. I spun, raising the bottle. Beer spilled down my arm, and the man's face seemed more humored than frightened. Under a black Stetson hid velvet brown eyes, but his thin cowboy shirt couldn't hide his jock physique: broad-shouldered, tightly packed, above six foot. And a smile that wouldn't quit.

From his back pocket he pulled a kerchief. "Looks like you need a dance partner. And a little napkin." He clipped his words with a brogue that sounded Louisianan.

"More like a bar of soap." I set aside the bottle and used his kerchief to wipe my arm.

When I returned the kerchief, he took my hand and hooked my waist, sauntering me toward the dance floor while he nodded to the fellows at the bar he'd out-gamed.

Over the singer's booming voice and the drumbeat, the man couldn't hear my 'no thank you's.' Or didn't want to. I called for Sam, but his head was tucked in the hall.

A twenty-something gal and her friends unrobed him with her eyes as we veered past her landing space.

"Hey, Sue," he said, drawing out her name.

"Hey, back at ya, handsome."

Clearly he was the local Casanova Cowboy. And he was a fast dancer. A couple quick turns and I realized he had a great two-step. The band seemed to be keeping rhythm to his feet alone. He held me close to keep me upright, as my toes tangled beneath us.

"Let 'em slide," he said, glancing at my boots. "You're a fine dancer with the right partner. Thatta girl, you got it."

Through the cloud of couples, Sam returned from his phone call to find me MIA at the bar. Scoping the room, he spotted me waving frantically as Casanova Cowboy took my hand, spun me halfway so my arms arched backwards above my head, then snapped me around again. His dancing style was fun, if you liked whiplash.

Sam propped his elbows on the bar and leaned back, a beer swinging from his fingers, a broad smile warming the room. With him enjoying the show, I performed more heartily despite feeling like a roped mare. Distraction: exactly what my worry-sport mind needed, and Sam knew that as well as I. But we also needed to talk. About the future. Our future.

When the song ended, I started for the bar. Casanova Cowboy's feet revved as the drummer started the next number, and he imprisoned my hands, pushing me deeper into the crowd so I couldn't see Sam. A shock ran up my spine, and I lifted my heel to pummel Casanova's two-stepper.

"Whoa there." A heavy hand landed on my shoulder, and I assumed Sam was breaking up my fight before I got started.

My eyes cast downward, noted the pretty tan shoes and black slacks inserting themselves between me and Casanova. Not Sam. I looked up.

"No need to assault the man, Julie. He's only obliging my request." Seeing Stone's crisp blue eyes shocked me into paralysis. His big hands smothered my little fingers as he stepped in time to the music. "I'll take her from here."

So Stone had called Sam from the building. No new trick there.

"How's my favorite witness? Enjoying a night on the town, I see."

Wrenching my arms didn't free me, and his grip tightened till the bones of my fingers ground against each other. I tried to move toward the bar, so Sam could see us, but Stone wouldn't slack his hold.

"I'm not going back with you," I gritted out. "I'm with Sam."

"Yes, I see how you're with Sam. Despite everything I've told you about him, Julie, despite all my warnings, you go and get stupid."

Little Miss Redhead approached, gave Stone a ravenous once-over.

"He's all yours." I pushed him toward her, but Stone ripped me back into formation.

Redhead shook her head and scattered.

"You won't be needing this." Stone stripped the bracelet off my arm and tossed it.

Sam's head popped above the crowd. Seeing my new partner, he hit the dance floor.

I whipped my arms to break Stone's hold, but his spidery hands worked fast to keep me inside his web. He was well practiced with subjects evading captivity, but surely he wouldn't make a scene in a public place.

"Get off me!" My scream was barely a whisper over the screeching guitar.

A broad-bellied man stepped into Stone's face. "Hey, let her go."

"Back off, asshole." Stone flashed his badge. The man stepped back, and Stone one-armed my waist so I was off the ground, and he carried me across the dance floor.

"As you can see, Sam's not joining you." Stone grabbed my jaw and jerked my face to see Sam stumble, grab a table to break his fall, then hit the floor.

A man helped him up, the same bouncer working the entrance. Sam's head swung drunkenly back and forth and his arm flailed as the bouncer dragged him.

"Sam's had a bit too much to drink, as usual," said Stone.

"That's impossible. He's only had two beers."

"Yes, I know. Who do you think sent the last one?"

"Sam!" I screamed, my voice absorbed by the cacophony.

I kicked, squirmed, reached for anyone to help me. But Stone's badge was his permit for human abduction and the crowd parted, eager for him to remove the lunatic throwing a fit and her drunk boyfriend.

My arm worked free long enough to retract, cock, and let fly. But my aim was off, and Stone's jaw was harder than my knuckles. An electric shock jolted up my arm into my shoulder and neck, short-circuiting my muscles. Stone lifted me again and kicked open the back door, carrying me into wind gusts that threatened to topple even a determined detective.

Outside the music dulled, washed out by a storm shaking the trees. Stone made for his Crown Vic. But my eyes were on Sam and the bouncer dragging him along a trajectory that led to my Land Cruiser.

"Sam didn't do anything," I said. "Troy was working with the shooter. And I'm the one who knocked you out."

"Yes, and you're the one I'm taking," Stone said.

With a thud, Sam was tossed like dirty laundry next to the wheel of my truck.

A pair of loafers dropped down from a shiny black Escalade, crossed to my truck, and planted within kicking distance of Sam's face. I followed the pale overcoat up to those round mirrored glasses. Agent Reynolds.

"Sam wasn't the shooter," I said to Stone. "Reynolds will believe you."

"And if this was an FBI matter, I might intercede," said Stone.

With a nod, Reynolds sealed whatever agreement he'd made with Stone, who then lifted me against the car and patted me down, slow and intimate, as I watched Reynolds dig into Sam's pocket for keys. My truck's alarm beeped. The bouncer popped the hatch and I waited for Max to lunge. Instead, the bouncer tumbled Sam's body inside the truck, torso first. My breath broke.
Where the hell was Max?

I watched Reynolds strip bills from a wad of cash and hand them to the bouncer. The hair on the back of my neck stood at attention.

Oh, God. Goliath.

"You two-faced bastard!" I kicked at Stone, who twisted my arm 180 degrees.

Reynolds sauntered toward us. "I rather like chasing down witnesses, Miss Larson." He pinched my chin for inspection. "Not very easy prey, this one. But I enjoy a good hunt."

I jerked my head from his hold. "You killed them. The sharpshooter at the hotel. That was you."

He'd known our room number, the headcount of men in my detail, the layout, the schedule. How perfectly he fit the profile of cool-headed sniper: stealthy, intelligent, and far enough down the corporate ladder to be scheming for promotion.

"A little slow, and a lot too late." Reynolds glanced in Sam's direction. "Bet he'll appreciate the irony, don't you think?"

"Let him go, please. I'll do anything. I've got money."

Reynolds sneered at me. "Little late for playing crybaby, Miss Larson, and I don't like crybabies."

Stone covered my mouth, pulled me out of Reynolds' reach. "You should get on the road before the locals get wind."

With that razor edge he'd shown Sam at the hospital, Reynolds narrowed his eyes on Stone. "We've been generous with you, Detective, but we're not patient. You've got twenty-four hours to secure the package. Or dump her. Remember, a man shows his worth under pressure. Goliath is waiting to see yours."

"Save the threats for your recruits, Reynolds. I've paid you plenty in favors. Especially in handling your screwups. Let's see Goliath finally match up to its reputation."

Reynolds stepped toward him, tilted his head. "You're proved slippery, Detective. Maybe I should have shot you first instead of Daniels."

The muscle in Stone's jaw twitched as he and Reynolds stared at each other a few chilling seconds.

"Relax, Detective. Don't take yourself so seriously. We're on the same side, of course."

"Of course."

Buttoning his coat, Reynolds smiled at me, and then climbed behind the wheel of
my
truck. He'd been behind the wheel of this case all along, advising Stone of Sam's moves since the park, sending his agents at the hospital away from their posts so he could sneak into my room and kill me. Then he'd assigned Stone to my detail to keep tabs on the situation, relay a window of opportunity to strike.

Which meant Stone knew all along who was after me. And that Sam had stayed in my apartment.

"Don't worry." Stone spun me around. "You aren't the first woman to betray Sam, so he won't be surprised to find you gone when he wakes up. If he wakes up."

"You sonavabitch." My elbow struck gold on Stone's throat.

He groaned, and I struck again to break his hold.

With one hand still locked on my forearm, Stone twisted. My body spun to avoid the shock of pain. He twisted again and searing fire ran up my neck and dropped me to my knees. And twisted again till my arm nearly popped from the socket and I cried out.

"Not very nice, Julie, considering I just saved your life." With a grunt, Stone drew me off the ground. The piercing through my shoulder kept me gasping. "You should be thanking me. I promised Goliath that your testimony would keep them in business so we can pin everything on Sam, nice and tidy."

"I'll never testify against Sam."

He whispered, his hot breath against my ear, "Sweetheart, you're going to do whatever you're fucking told to do."

He slammed me onto the trunk of his car so I was on my belly. I kicked his shins, wriggling to break free of his hands.

"Don't make me have to suppress you, Julie. Trust me, you won't like that experience."

My arm was nearly useless, but I sank my fingers between the window and the lip of the trunk and slid myself higher to gain space and kick his chest.

One yank of my leg and he broke my grip. Another yank and he sandwiched me between him and the trunk, my toes hovering above the ground. Then his body came down hard on my back, flattening my gut into the hood and blowing out my breath. My abdomen lost all muscle power as fire licked the surgery scar. Cramps lanced through my core, and I wanted to curl into a ball and vomit, but I couldn't move under his weight, couldn't even scream for help.

Scoffing, he grabbed the back of my neck and squeezed as he pinned my legs to the car with his knees; he'd handled tougher prisoners than a woman half his size.

"You'll testify," he said in my ear. "Or I make one call and Sam's dead for sure."

He pulled my arms behind my waist, wresting my wrists into cuffs. Fatigue, pain, and guilt whittled down my fight.