Wild Ways. Naomi Horton

it’s like to look in a man’s eyes and watch the life leak out of him?”

      “One more step, and we’ll both get the lesson of a lifetime.”

      Rafe smiled again. “You’re not going to pull that trigger, sweetheart, and we both know it. No way you’re going to kill me.”

      Her eyes narrowed very slightly and Rafe’s heart stopped.

      Then she took a deep, unsteady breath. “Well, maybe not.” She looked at him thoughtfully. Then, without shifting her gaze from his, she dropped her aim with unnerving swiftness to a point about eight inches below his belt buckle. “But I bet I can hurt you bad enough that you’d wish I had.”

      Rafe felt his belly constrict and had to fight to keep from dropping his hand protectively over his groin.

      The apprehension in her eyes had turned cool. “Put the weapon down, Mr. Blackhorse. If you’re the legitimate cop you’d have me believe, you’re not going to shoot me, either.”

      “And if I’m not?” He said it belligerently, wishing—not for the first time today—that he’d never left Bear Mountain. No amount of money was worth this kind of aggravation.

      Kavanagh lifted one delicate eyebrow and smiled. “Then, Mr. Blackhorse, I’d say the question isn’t whether or not you’re going to kill me, but whether you can kill me quickly enough to keep my finger from pulling this trigger as I’m going down and doing you a very painful and extremely inopportune injury.”

      Rafe nearly winced. He was tempted to just walk across and grab the Targa out of her hands and have done with it. Odds were she wouldn’t shoot, but then again…if that gun went off—even accidentally—the damage would be a hell of a lot more than just inopportune.

      Swearing under his breath, he swung the Beretta away from her. He cleared the chamber and released the clip, and tossed both onto the table nearby.

      She didn’t lower her own weapon so much as an inch. “Take the other weapon out of the holster under your left arm and put it on the table as well, please.”

      Rafe thought of arguing with her, then just did as she asked, staring at her challengingly as the Taurus landed on the table beside the Beretta.

      “Thank you.” She smiled a disarmingly sweet smile. “Now take the other gun out and put it on the table with the others, please.”

      “Other gun?”

      “The Smith & Wesson, Mr. Blackhorse. It’s in the waistband of your jeans in the small of your back, and I’d like it on the table.”

      Rafe’s teeth grated together and he balked for a moment, then swore savagely and wrenched the weapon from his jeans and put it on the growing pile of hardware. He held his arms out to either side, forcing himself to smile. “Anything else you’d like me to take off?”

      “I guess that would depend on whether or not you have anything else I’d be interested in seeing.”

      He let the smile widen and dropped one hand to his belt buckle. “Guess there’s one way to find out.”

      She smiled tolerantly. “Don’t think a threat to drop your jeans is going to get me so flustered you can get this gun away from me, Mr. Blackhorse. I have five brothers, and I can assure you that I’m immune to adolescent male humor.”

      Rafe was half tempted to call her bluff but then had the distinct feeling that all he would accomplish was making himself look like twelve kinds of a fool. This day had gone badly enough already without winding up standing there with his jeans around his ankles and a gun pointed at the part of his anatomy nearest and dearest to him.

      He contemplated a half-dozen options, discarding all of them as too risky. Which was pretty ridiculous, considering he wasn’t up against a handful of Navy Seals or a squad of Green Berets but one small, very inexperienced government agent. He remembered what she’d felt like in his hands out by the car, all soft curves and satin skin and lithe muscle. Easy prey. He should have taken her out by now. Should be halfway back to Las Vegas with Reggie Dawes. Money in the bank. He eased his weight onto his left foot, trying to make it look casual.

      Reggie moaned just then and she looked at him with concern. “Reg, are you all right?”

      And, in the end, it was just that easy. Distracted, she let her attention waver for just that critical instant, and that was all it took. Rafe pivoted on his left foot and brought his right up high and fast, knocking the gun cleanly out of her hand, then swung around to grab her by the wrist before she could go after it. She responded faster than he’d anticipated and he nearly got a karate chop across the face for his trouble, but he blocked the blow awkwardly.

      “Damn you!”

      She sounded more astonished than dangerous, and Rafe had to grin. “That’s lesson number two, Irish. When you’ve got your gun on a man, never take your eyes off him.”

      “A mistake I won’t make twice,” she said through gritted teeth.

      Rafe’s eyes narrowed as he watched her trying to decide what to do next. Oddly, he found himself hoping she wouldn’t try anything, because if they kept this up long enough he was going to hurt her without even meaning to, and that seemed like a shame. “If I was serious about taking you out, sweetheart, you wouldn’t get a second chance. Just what agency are you working for, anyway?”

      “Does it matter?” She gave her head a toss to get a tangle of hair out of her eyes, scanning the room, looking for the advantage he had no intention of letting her have.

      “Whoever it is, they have no damn business sending you out solo before you’re ready. Or are they trying to get you killed? Is that it? You tick someone off who wants a little payback?”

      “Miss Kavanagh?” Reggie sat up just then, blinking blearily and rubbing the back of his head. “Miss Kavanagh, did you hit me?”

      “Reggie, are you okay?” Kavanagh hurried across and knelt beside him. “Do you know where you are, Reg? Do you know who you are?”

      “Of course I know who I am,” he replied indignantly.

      “You’re not bleeding or anything.”

      “It hurts,” he muttered petulantly, giving Rafe an affronted look as he rubbed the back of his skull. “I could have brain damage.”

      “Somehow,” Rafe drawled, “I find that hard to believe.” He walked across to the bed, still keeping an eye on Kavanagh.

      “Come on, Reg, sit over here. I’ll get you a glass of water.” She helped him up and into one of the chairs. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

      “He’s fine,” Rafe put in impatiently. The pile of things he’d dumped out of her purse still lay in a mound on the bed, and he rifled through it until he found what he was looking for.

      “Hey!” Kavanagh turned just in time to see what he was doing and took an indignant step toward him. “You have no right—”

      “Lady, not five minutes ago you were threatening to shoot off body parts I’ve become very fond of. I think I have a right to know just who the hell you are.” Rafe flipped open the slim leather identification wallet. The picture was hers, and he had to smile. Typical first-year operative photo ID. They all had the same overly serious expression, trying to look blasé and tough as nails at the same time and winding up looking like kids playing cops and robbers.

      Then he saw the agency name on the plasticized card and felt his heart stop for one long, disbelieving moment.

      He blinked, not quite trusting his eyes, and moved closer to the reading lamp on the table by the bed, turning the gold shield to catch the light. But there was no mistake.

      He remembered to start breathing after a moment or two, too many emotions racing through him to make sense, mind spinning. Remembered the last time he’d seen this same gold shield. Remembered lying in the dust, blinded by the sun, knuckles bruised,