A Breath Away. Wendy Etherington

you are now?”

      “For the most part. I’d just started on some research for a new project.”

      “So this shooting is personal?”

      “I think so.”

      She stopped, glancing at him. “Related to your past.”

      “Yes.”

      “Who?”

      “I have several people in mind.”

      Her eyes flashed with anger. “Thieves?”

      She would never understand his past. He resisted the urge to sigh. He knew this, after all. “They all have illegal connections.”

      “Have any of them threatened you? Do any of them know what you do now?”

      “My cover is secure, and getting shot is pretty threatening.” Holding up the videotape he’d procured a few hours ago, he crossed the room to the VCR and popped the cassette in. “Maybe this will help.”

      “The tape of the shooting? Lucas said you—” She stopped as he walked back toward her.

      She glared up at him, and he could tell she didn’t like his proximity or their size difference. He was a solid six-two, whereas she was only five-seven.

      “How did you get the tape?” she asked.

      He returned to his seat on the sofa, leaning against the cushions and laying one arm along the back. His effort at casualness was deliberate, since he felt anything but. Both the shooting and the woman who stood so close had knocked him dangerously askew. “From the police.”

      “They just handed over a copy?”

      “Not exactly.”

      She looked disgusted. “If we’re going to do this, you can’t just swipe anything you want.”

      “Why not?” he asked reasonably, though when she opened her mouth to no doubt tell him why, he continued, “I made a copy and returned the original.”

      “Is that where you’ve been the last twelve hours?”

      “How do you know I’ve been gone twelve hours?”

      “’Cause I’ve been here nearly that long.” She dropped onto the opposite end of the sofa and propped her feet—encased in dark green alligator boots—on the coffee table.

      “I only spent a small part of that time at the police station. Their security is shockingly lax.”

      “I bet you say that about everyone.”

      “True.”

      Anxious to view the tape himself, Remy pressed the play button on the remote. The digital timer in the upper right-hand corner allowed him to fast-forward to the moment he was interested in, though later he’d watch the hour before the shooting to look for any details that might be relevant.

      At 7:52 p.m., a white male with dark-brown hair, about five-ten in height and dressed in a waiter’s uniform, walked out of the French doors to Remy’s right. Holding a bread basket to conceal his gun, he headed straight to Remy’s table, but at about five feet from his target, another waiter crossed his path, bumping into him and knocking the basket to the floor. The other waiter knelt to clean up the mess as the shooter directed his attention to Remy. Then, in either a panic or a rage, he fired off two shots.

      Remy yanked his date under the table as the shooter leaped over the low brick wall surrounding the patio and disappeared from view.

      He remembered well his heart hammering, his arm burning and his thoughts racing. He’d tried to block out the panicked shouts and cries as he palmed the .22 pistol he carried concealed in an ankle holster, quickly returning the weapon to its hiding place when he realized no more shots were coming. The waiter who’d knocked into the shooter had crawled beneath the table to check on them, and Remy had the presence of mind and training to morph into a shocked and outraged art executive as the police were called and he and his date were sent to the hospital.

      Jade asked for the remote, and he handed it to her without comment. She ran the tape back three times before asking, “Do you make a habit of eating at this restaurant?”

      “I’ve never been there, though I did make a reservation two days before.”

      “Do you often sit outside at restaurants?”

      “Hardly ever in February. But there was a live band, a number of heaters, and my companion pleaded.”

      “You don’t know the shooter I take it.”

      “Never seen him before, and the tape is pretty grainy. We can try running his image through the usual channels, though.”

      “Let the police chase that. He doesn’t seem like a professional.”

      Remy agreed—and all the more reason the shooting didn’t make sense. “Rather lousy aim.”

      “And the whole plan was bad. Too risky, too public.” She angled her head. “Unless the intent was simply a warning.”

      He nodded. He’d considered that, as well. In fact, given his suspect short list, it was likely.

      “Who would hire such an incompetent idiot?”

      “Somebody desperate, equally stupid or very, very clever.”

      She glanced at him for the first time since the tape started.

      “I’d feel better if it had been a good hit.”

      He was nearly sure she didn’t mean a successful attempt on his life. Still, he agreed. The clumsiness of the whole business was somehow more chilling. It was out of place and unfamiliar in their world.

      The intrigue and danger they lived with day-to-day made them suspicious of everyone, unable to trust, and forced them to distance themselves from most people. As a result, they were paranoid. And very careful.

      But he’d made mistakes in his past. He’d already paid for some and there was one whose bill seemed to finally be due.

      “I need everything you have on your date and the people you believe are behind the shooting.”

      “Got it.” He reached beneath his shirt and pulled out a minidisk, then handed it to her. He was interested in what she’d come up with. More than him? Or at least something different? He was nearly positive who was responsible, but he needed to be sure before he risked revealing details about his past to Jade and her team. “My date’s clean, though.”

      She glanced at the disk before setting it on the table in front of them. “Part of your mercy mission?”

      “I had to stash her somewhere until I can figure out what’s going on.”

      “Where?”

      “Puerto Rico—a lovely resort and spa.”

      “How’d you get her there?”

      “My LearJet.”

      “You have a private plane?”

      He liked the way her eyes turned hot when she was annoyed. He wondered what they looked like when she was aroused. “Mmm. It’s handy.”

      “Bought on your government salary?”

      “Certainly not.”

      “I don’t want to hear about it.”

      Though his heart pounded, he watched her with the appearance of calm. The Arrow probably never stepped outside the lines. “Perhaps I bought it with my ill-gotten gains. Maybe everything I have is tainted with greed and deception.”

      Her gaze slid back to his. “Maybe it is.”

      “I’m a legitimate art dealer.”

      “I’m sure you are.”

      “I