Wild Ways. Naomi Horton

imagined danger, and she felt the old impatience rise. Fought it down as she tried to see past both men to the door beyond. She was starting to feel trapped, unable to see anything, her view of the door blocked by broad shoulders. Reggie felt it, too, and was shifting uneasily in his chair, as though getting ready to bolt.

      “See?” The drunk smiled broadly at the salesman. “She says I’m not botherin’ her.”

      “But maybe you should sit down,” Meg said gently. “You don’t look too…steady.”

      The grin widened, jaunty and irreverent and utterly charming. “A li’l drunk’s all.”

      In spite of herself, Meg had to laugh. “Yeah, I can see that.” The bartender had come around from behind his bar and was standing there, poised and ready, watching them intently. Meg shook her head very slightly and he relaxed after a heartbeat, then went back behind the bar, still watchful.

      “Look, chief,” the salesman said congenially, “take this and buy yourself some beer, all right?” He tucked a crumpled ten-dollar bill into the man’s shirt pocket.

      “Hey.” The man plucked the money out of his pocket and gazed at it wonderingly, staggering a little to one side.

      “Now, as I was saying,” the salesman continued smoothly, turning back toward Meg, “you look just like this girl I used to know. Let me give you my card and I’ll—” He started reaching inside his jacket, and in that moment, all hell broke loose.

      Meg didn’t even see what started it. One instant she was just sitting there, and the next the salesman went flying off to one side, the gun in his hand spinning away. Meg just gaped at it uncomprehendingly as it arced through the air in a perfect parabola, and she found herself wondering where on earth it had come from and why she felt so calm and why Reggie was shouting at her to get down, get down, get down…

      In the end, she didn’t have a choice. A large hand fit itself around the back of her neck and shoved, and the next thing she knew she was flat on her belly in a puddle of what she prayed was spilled beer, the wind knocked completely out of her. The big round table followed, landing on its side with a crash that nearly deafened her, wooden chairs and beer glasses and pretzels cascading across the floor. People were shouting and then she heard shots—two, one right after the other—and she gulped for air, blinded by tendrils of hair as the wig slipped, groping for her small handbag.

      All wrong, she thought dizzily, this was going all wrong. She was supposed to be the one with the gun. She was supposed to be protecting Reggie, supposed to be—

      Another two shots. Wood splintered right above her head and she sucked in a startled breath. Reggie…oh, God, where was Reggie…?

      Frantic and completely disoriented, she started to sit up, desperate to find her handbag and the gun, desperate to—

      “Stay—down!” Another hand, or perhaps it was the same one, landed between her shoulder blades and shoved her flat, making her wheeze, and then someone was firing right above her head. It was heavy firepower and she could tell by the way the shots were spaced that whoever was using it was an expert, and then a beer glass lying just to her left exploded into shards and she recoiled with a yelp as broken glass sprayed around her.

      Another shot, this one even closer, and suddenly something massive and heavy landed across her, driving the rest of her breath out of her in a gasp. She could smell leather and beer and cigarettes as the man’s jacket fell open around her, wrapping her in his heat, and she tried to suck in her breath to scream for Reggie.

      More shouts, crashes. A shotgun blast roared to her left, deafeningly close, and then, abruptly, there was utter silence. She could hear someone swearing a little distance away, and the rasp of someone’s breathing against her ear. And slowly, she started to collect her wits.

      Whoever was lying on top of her was heavy, all solid muscle and meat pressed a little too intimately against the full length of her body. She could feel his heart hammering against her back and wondered dizzily what on earth he was scared about, considering he was the one with the gun and she was the one lying flat on her face on a bar floor, unarmed and dazed, not having a clue what was happening.

      “Reggie?” Her voice was just a wheezy squeak. She turned her head, but the blasted wig had tumbled down over her eyes and she couldn’t see a thing.

      “I’m okay.” Reggie sounded shocked and scared. “I’m okay.”

      “All right, you jokers,” someone bellowed above them. “Onto your feet, all of you! This is my bar, by God, and no one comes in here and starts shooting it up, understand me?”

      “Meg? Miss Kavanagh? A-are you all right?”

      “Yeah.” At least she thought she was, Meg decided dimly. She was completely paralyzed, but nothing hurt outrageously and she didn’t seem to be gushing blood all over the place. Of course, it was a little hard to tell, with this behemoth on top of her. She gave her head a slight shake, and the wig tipped even more precariously.

      This hadn’t been in the plan. Not a shoot-out in a Dakota bar with some unknown assailant. Not being pinned to the floor under about a ton of human male—who, by the way, didn’t seem to be in any kind of hurry to get off her. Not completely losing control of things like this…

      She rammed her elbow into the nearest part of the behemoth’s anatomy and was rewarded by a grunt of pain. “Get off me, damn it! I’m a government agent and you’re under arrest!”

      This wasn’t going according to plan, Rafe thought irritably as the slender female form under him gave another wriggle. Under different circumstances it wouldn’t have been that unpleasant, but it wasn’t doing much at the moment but distracting him. And he was getting the hell beat out of him, into the bargain. She had the sharpest elbows he’d ever encountered in his life, and seemed to have no qualms about using them enthusiastically. Plus, she kept yelling something about arresting him, which didn’t make a lot of sense considering he was on top and had the gun.

      She gave another muffled threat of some kind or another, but he ignored it, swearing through clenched teeth as she buried her elbow into his solar plexus. He wasn’t getting paid enough for this, he thought wearily. No way was he getting paid enough.

      “Okay, you jokers—I said on your feet! And keep those hands and guns where I can see ’em, ’cause this here shotgun can make an awful big hole in a man.”

      Rafe sighed. Maybe he was losing his touch. Maybe it was time to find a new line of work, because nothing about this whole case had come even close to going the way he’d planned it.

      “Okay, okay,” he growled, planting both hands flat on the floor where the bartender could see them. “Where’s the guy who was shooting at me?”

      “Down,” the bartender said succinctly. “Bleeding all over my floor. You going to pay to have that cleaned up?”

      “Yeah, yeah, I’ll pay, I’ll pay.” Rafe swore under his breath again. “I’m going to get up now, so keep your finger off that damn trigger.”

      “Just don’t give me no reason to do otherwise,” the bartender rumbled. “Come up slow. That skinny little runt down there beside you have a gun?”

      “N-no,” Reggie stammered. “I—I’m an accountant.”

      Rafe didn’t see where that made a difference, but it seemed to satisfy the bartender, who motioned Reggie up with the barrel of the shotgun. Honey Divine was still wriggling and swearing underneath him, and Rafe eased himself off her gingerly, wondering how long it would take the bruises on his ribs to fade.

      The bartender was watching him intently, and Rafe got up slowly, hands well outstretched, giving the man no reason to feel threatened. “I’m a cop,” he lied. “ID in my hip pocket.”

      The bartender gestured with the shotgun. “Get it out. Slow.”

      Rafe reached behind him and under the jacket slowly. The Taurus brushed his fingertips but he left it there,