A Shot at Love. Peggy Jaeger

you witnessed the shooting? You photographed it?”

      She nodded. “I was working when it all started. I took a series of shots while it was happening.”

      His gaze flicked to the camera she held in one hand.

      “I need to see those pictures.”

      His first impression of her height had been correct. She was maybe three or four inches shorter than his six-foot-one frame. As she moved closer, the hairs on the back of his neck stood straight at attention. She smelled as good as she looked and his nostrils flared from the scent of sweet cherries blended with some hot exotic spice.

      “It all went down so fast,” she said. “But I got some good shots.” Handing him the camera, she added, “Press this button to advance.”

      The first few pictures showed his witness ambling along the sidewalk, hands in his pockets. There was a smug, satisfied smile on his face as he was flanked by the two agents assigned to protect him. Ky pressed the button a few times. Another series of pictures showed the impact of the bullets as they pierced one of his agents, the next detailing the second man as a single shot impaled the center of his forehead. Shock, horror and stark fear replaced the smile on his witness’s face as he bent forward and appeared to run from the bullets. The next few photos showed him struck and then felled by several shots, all clustered in his chest. Ky depressed the advance button again. The photographer had moved to view a black van with no windows on the sides nor any identifiable markings on the body. He wanted to curse when he saw it, thinking the van would be a dead end, when he flipped the advance button again to see she’d zoomed in on the license plate.

      Elated, he glanced up and found her eyes trained on him.

      “I need you to come with me.” He grabbed her arm.

      “Where?” She stretched across him and tried to take back her camera. Ky held it up and away from her reach.

      “My office. I need a written statement from you about what you saw. It’s better to do it now, right away, so you don’t forget any details, anything of importance.”

      “I never forget details,” she said, reaching across him again. “Can I please have my camera? I don’t like anyone carrying it but me.”

      “This piece of equipment is the only link to finding out who killed my men. It’s not leaving my hands.”

      She stopped and tried to pull her arm out of his grip. Ky tightened his grasp.

      “Look, Agent PappaJohn—”

      “Pappandreos,” he corrected. It was a common mistake, one he’d heard a number of times in his career, but hearing her say it, wrapping the syllables around those pouty lips with that husky voice, for some reason charmed him.

      “Whatever.” She swiped her free hand in the air. “I want my camera.”

      “You’ll get it back, I assure you.” He started walking, giving her no choice but to follow.

      Before she could protest again, he stopped. “Jon?” His partner turned from the interview he was conducting with a restaurant waiter. “Can you have someone escort Miss Laine back to the office? She needs to have her statement written up.”

      “Sure, Papps.”

      “Wait a second,” Gemma said, wrenching her arm from his grip. The smooth, natural warmth in her voice had turned to frosted ice. “I’ll be happy to give you a statement, but I want my camera. Now.”

      “I won’t break it, Miss Laine, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

      “Then stop holding it like it’s a cheap piece of tin! Give it back to me. I’ll hold it.”

      “This is digital, right?” Jon Winters stepped between them and asked.

      “Yes, and it’s very expensive,” Gemma said, still trying to take it from Ky’s hand.

      “We really only need the SD card then, Papps, not the camera.”

      “True.” Ky examined the device, found the button to expel the memory card and depressed it. He took the card and slipped it into his pocket. “Here.” He handed the camera back to her.

      “Wait a minute.” She clutched it to her chest as if she were protecting a child from a threat. “You can’t keep the card. All my work is on it.”

      “We won’t erase anything you need,” Ky told her. “Or let anything happen to it.”

      “This is ridiculous.” Gemma blew at her bangs. “How do I know you won’t keep it as some kind of evidence? I haven’t uploaded the pictures I took today. I need those shots.”

      “I told you you’d get the card back,” Ky said, his patience wavering. “Now we’re wasting time. Jon?” Dismissing them, he walked away and over to the scene of the shooting.

      * * *

      Gemma paced the small room for the hundredth time, her arms folded across her chest, desperately wanting to hit something.

      No, not something. Someone. Agent Pappa-pain, or whatever the heck his name was.

      For over two hours she’d been confined to this cramped, windowless, and drab room. During the first hour she’d written, in full detail, everything she’d witnessed on the street corner. Agent Winters had guided her through the questions while she wrote the answers in her smooth, precise script. When they were finished, he’d left her, promising to return shortly.

      Winters’s definition of shortly was exceedingly different from hers.

      With a heavy sigh, she plopped back down into a metal chair, arms still crossed, and thought about Winters’ partner, Special Agent Moron. Reconsidering, she added, a hunky moron, but one nonetheless.

      Gemma had been speaking on the phone when she’d turned and seen him approaching. Her first thought had been serious eye candy. Clad in a supremely well-fitted dark-blue suit, he simply tore up the pavement on his way to her, those long legs striding with purpose and determination in each step. His face was a contradiction in origins. Deep, milk-chocolate colored hair, cut just a bit too short for her liking, with soft, gold flecks framing his temples and the top of his head. His skin was a light golden brown, giving the impression he spent a great deal of time in the sun. Eyes the color of the sea at sunrise, so light green, they almost appeared crystal with the sun hitting them, were surrounded by jet-black eyelashes Gemma admitted she was jealous of. His face was angular, the jaw tapering into a rock solid V at its tip, a small crevice winking out right below his lower lip.

      All-in-all it was a face she wanted to photograph, knowing just the way she’d capture it. The fact he’d yanked her along after him like an errant child got her dander up. Coupled with the way he’d carelessly held her camera, it made her want to kick some sense into him.

      God, what a day.

      All she’d planned on doing was spending a few hours walking along the city streets, shooting interesting faces. She was almost done when the dapper-looking gentleman alighted from the restaurant, a self-satisfied smile on his lips. Gemma recognized that smile. It was the same one she always had after treating herself to some well-deserved Cherry Garcia ice cream after a tough, demanding day. She knew without a doubt the man had just eaten a pleasant meal. Satisfaction like that came only from two things: good food or great sex. Since he was walking along with two testosterone hulks in conservative suits, she figured it was the food part of the equation dancing on his face.

      In the blink of her camera shutter’s eye, the scene had changed to one of horror. Professional instinct made her continue shooting the events as they unfolded, capturing the slaying of the three men. She turned her camera when she realized the direction the shots were coming from, and through her viewfinder found the van speeding off. Pointing her lens at its retreating back, she zoomed in on the license plate. Without even thinking about the composition of the shot, she snapped as fast as she could, trying to record as much information as possible.

      After