Wild Ways

Which was why she was out there half trained and without a clue, determined to prove she could handle the job if it killed her.

Bad choice of words. Meg shook her head and gave the parking lot another searching look, then walked across to her rental, wishing she had eyes in the back of her head. No wonder Bobby used to be so darned jumpy when he was home. Now and again she had walked up on him without warning and he’d nearly leapt out of his own skin, hand going instinctively to where his gun would be had their father allowed them in the house. Now Bobby was dead, and she was the one leaping at shadows. Little wonder everyone wished she would marry Royce Packard and concentrate on charity luncheons and babies.

She unlocked the trunk of the car and raised the lid. Reggie’s suitcase had slid toward the back and she couldn’t reach it without practically crawling in after it. She rested one knee on the bumper and leaned way forward, balanced precariously on her belly and one braced arm, wondering for the umpty-millionth time why everyone in her family had inherited their father’s height except her. Bobby used to say it was because she was the youngest and by the time she was born, all the tall genes had been used up. And Maureen always said—

“That’s one hell of a tantalizing view, Special Agent Mary Margaret Kavanagh. But if I were one of Stepino’s men, you’d be as dead as last night’s halibut.”

For his pains, Rafe damn near lost her.

One instant she was teetering over the lip of the car trunk, rounded little bottom upthrust and perfectly showcased by the loving caress of soft denim and moonlight. And in the next, she’d shot off sideways, moving faster than he’d ever seen a woman move.

He caught her, but not without effort, and he swore savagely at himself as he fought her up against the side of the car, where she couldn’t turn on him. Mistakes like that could get a man real dead, and he didn’t like what it said about his concentration. This whole job had been a series of mistakes from beginning to end, and if he ever got Dawes to Las Vegas and got his thirty grand, he was going to call it quits for a while, because he was by God losing his touch.

Kavanagh was struggling like a tiger, but he had the advantage of surprise, weight and height, and she wasn’t getting very far. He’d wedged her against the side of the car where she had no room to fight, and had shoved one foot between hers and forced her legs apart. He’d pressed his forearm diagonally across her chest, holding her against the car, and had wrapped his hand around her throat so she was instinctively focused on prying his fingers away from her windpipe instead of trying to claw his eyes out, which he suspected would be her first choice if he gave her time to think about it.

She was panting for breath and he could feel her heart pounding against his arm, the pulse in her throat racing under his fingers. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he told her quietly. “Quit fighting and I’ll let you go.”

The moonlight made her eyes glitter and he nearly smiled at the ferocious anger in them. “You’re outgunned, honey. Give it up. I caught you fair and square.”

She gave another furious wriggle and he just leaned against her slightly, rocking his left thigh against her pelvis so she was pinned against the car. He smiled down into her eyes. “You’re the most fun I’ve had standing up in a long time, Irish. Keep wiggling around like that and we could be well on our way to a second date before we’ve even traded phone numbers.”

She went as still as stone. And as pliant. Every inch of her—and there weren’t that many—was nearly vibrating with outrage, and again he found himself nearly overwhelmed with the urge to laugh.

“Let. Go. Of. Me.” The words held raw fury, but she had stopped wiggling around, to his faint regret. She was standing very still now, eyes snapping with rage, all fear long gone. “If you don’t let me go, you’re going to spend the rest of your eternal life in the worst, rat-infested prison in—”

“Where’s your gun?” he interrupted calmly.

She stopped in midthreat. “What?”

“Gun. Beretta, if I overheard Haney right. Where is it?”

“Inside.”

But she said it a bit too quickly, and he just smiled down at her tolerantly. “I don’t think so, Irish.” Slowly, he ran his free hand down her flank, fingertips brushing hot, bare flesh where her sweatshirt had ridden up. It made his belly tighten and he smiled as he moved his hand down her stomach and thigh, back up again.

She wasn’t hiding anything in those jeans but a well-placed dimple or two, he was already sure of that. He settled his hand on her bare waist, wondering if he wasn’t perhaps enjoying this just a little too much, and ran the flat of his palm up and around her rib cage. Her skin was hot velvet and she started to fight, then thought better of it and went still again, small chin set with anger.

The gun was in the small of her back, the metal warm to his touch, and he eased it free of her waistband. “Okay,” he told her agreeably as he eased his weight away from her. “I’m going to let you go, and I don’t want you doing anything reckless. I don’t want to hurt you, but I’m sure not going to stand here and let you try to rip out my eyeballs, either.”

She smiled malevolently. “It wasn’t your eyeballs I was thinking of ripping out, Mr. Blackhorse.”

In spite of himself, he gave a snort of laughter. “You’ve got brass ones, lady, I’ll give you that much. But I’ll still break your arm if you try anything stupid.”

He could see her thinking it over, testing the threat for truth, anger and resentment warring with good sense. He held her there a moment or two longer, until he could tell by her eyes that good sense was winning, then he released her abruptly and stepped well back, bracing himself.

There was a heartbeat of time when Meg actually contemplated going for him. But she took a deep, ragged breath of cold air instead and forced herself to stay where she was, her desire to maim him for life counterbalanced by an equally strong desire to stay alive. There was something about the cool watchfulness in those dark eyes that made her think his threat to break her arm wasn’t entirely idle.

So she satisfied herself with swearing at him instead, calling him a couple of choice things, not surprised when he didn’t turn a hair. By the look of him, he’d been called worse over the years. She tugged her sweatshirt down and combed her hair back with her fingers, praying he couldn’t see how badly her hands were shaking. “Was there a point to this exercise, or is being obnoxious something you do for fun?”

To her annoyance, he just grinned lazily. “Well, I can’t say it hasn’t been fun.” The grin widened suggestively and he let his gaze rove from hair to ankle and slowly back up again. Then his eyes met hers, cool again. “But, yeah, there’s a point. I want Dawes.”

Meg just stared at him. Then she snorted. “Yeah, well, I want world peace and a cure for cancer, Mr. Blackhorse, but I don’t see them happening tonight, either. Reggie Dawes is in my custody. If you want him, you’re going to have to take your turn. You can put in a request with my boss and maybe in fifty years—when we’re through with him—you can take him back to wherever it is you’re from.”

“Nevada.”

“Whatever.” She put her hand out. “My weapon, please.”

His smile was pleasant. “I don’t think so. Not until I have Dawes.”

“You’re not getting Dawes.”

“Yep.” He shoved her Beretta into his belt. “I am.” Then he turned and walked toward the motel room door.

Short of bringing him down with a volley of bad language, there was nothing Meg could do but scramble after him. He turned the knob and shoved the door open, and Meg found herself holding her breath, but Reggie was nowhere to be seen and the connecting door between the rooms was closed. Blackhorse stepped inside and Meg came in on his heels, not giving him a chance to lock her out.

Think! Damn it, no agent of O’Dell’s would just stand by and let this happen. Then again, no agent of O’Dell’s would have been caught as easily as she’d been, either.

“Where were you hiding?” she asked very casually, her mind going like a windmill. “Just for future reference.”

“Halfway up the stairs,” he said just as casually, giving the room a quick but thorough glance. “You’re new at this secret agent stuff, aren’t you?”

“What makes you think that?” Her voice was sharper than she’d intended.

“No other explanation for why you’re still alive.”

“I stayed one step ahead of you for a week,” she said with annoyance. “So I can’t be that bad.”

“I didn’t say you were bad.” His gaze held hers momentarily. “Just inexperienced. You looked around you out there, but you never looked up. I was right above you the whole time. If I’d been on Stepino’s payroll, I’d have taken you out with one shot to the head.”

Meg swallowed, knowing he was right but resenting the fact that he took it so matter-of-factly. I am inexperienced, she felt like shouting at him. So give me a break! Let me take Reggie back to the people who want him so my boss will let me be one of his agents and I can find out who killed my brother!

Did any of O’Dell’s agents get what they wanted by bursting into tears when things got tough?

The thought almost made her laugh. O’Dell’s agents, to a man, were walking advertisements for testosterone and macho heroics. Bullets and balls, the old agency joke went.

“So, where is the little guy?”

“He’s not here,” Meg said instantly, praying that Reggie was listening from the other room and had the sense to hide. “I’m not as inexperienced as you seem to think I am. Reggie’s in a safe place. Sorry to have led you on this wild-goose chase, but that was the point.” She smiled ingenuously, praying he took the bait.

And for a moment she thought he might. He glanced around the room again, frowning now, looking undecided. Then he shook his head. “No, I don’t think so, Special Agent Mary Margaret Kavanagh—that’s a hell of a mouthful, by the way. Mind if I just call you Irish for short?”

He was prowling now, peering in the closet, behind the drapes, glancing around at her now and again as though not entirely sure she wasn’t going to haul out a Mack Ten and start blasting away at him. Meg watched him silently, heart hammering against her ribs as she strolled casually toward the table where her handbag lay.

“You wouldn’t let the little weasel out of your sight, for one thing,” Blackhorse was saying. “And for another, I was on your tail ten minutes after you left Haney’s office, and you came straight here.”

“You weren’t on my tail.”

He just shrugged. “You were good, I’ll give you credit. Better than most, in fact. If you don’t get yourself killed before you get some experience under your belt, you’ll be pretty damn good.”

“I am pretty damn good.”

“You’re not bad.” He smiled as he said it, swinging his head around to look at her. His gaze drifted to her handbag, maybe three feet away now. “You wouldn’t have another gun in that thing, would you?”

Meg let her eyes widen with innocence. “Of course not.”

He laughed. “I’ll tell you one thing for nothing, Irish—you can’t lie for spit. That’s something you’re going to have to work on if you want to be successful at this secret agent business.”

“Will you stop calling me a secret agent!” Trying to distract him from the handbag, she strode across the room angrily. “I’m a government agent! Law enforcement of sorts. Or at least a lot closer to it than you are.”

“Uh-huh.” He didn’t seem impressed. “Well, let’s see what you’ve got in here.” Still keeping an eye on her, he grabbed her bag and upended it over the bed. A variety of things spilled across the faded bedspread, but the thing both of them looked at for a silent moment was the small, satin-blue Targa semiautomatic pistol.

Rafe smiled. He looked at Kavanagh, but she just gazed back at him stonily, and he wondered what other armament she had stashed throughout the room. He took a couple of steps backward and rapped on the connecting door. “Come out of there, Dawes.” Silence answered him and he hammered his fist against it. “I said come out, Dawes.”

“He’s halfway to Canada by now,” Kavanagh said impatiently. “Once he knew you were here, he’d have been out the door and gone.”

Rafe ignored her and tested the knob on the connecting door. It turned easily and he pushed the door open gingerly. The other room was pitch-dark, drapes drawn, lights off. The back of his neck prickled and he gave the door a shove with the toe of his boot. “Dawes? I know you’re in there, so stop playing games and—”

He sensed more than actually saw something move in the darkness, something coming straight at him, and he recoiled instinctively. The suitcase flew by him, inches from his face, and Rafe swore and dropped like a stone, grabbing for the Beretta even as his mind took in two separate images: Reggie Dawes taking aim with another suitcase, and Kavanagh diving for the gun on the bed.

He took Dawes out first, ducking under the suitcase that came cartwheeling through the doorway and grabbing the little guy by the front of his T-shirt. Dawes gave a squeak of terror as Rafe pulled him into Kavanagh’s room, then shoved him ferociously. Dawes hit the wall with a thump and slowly slid to the floor, eyes glazed, down for the count. And in the same motion, using the momentum to spin him around, Rafe had the Beretta out and aimed.

And found himself staring into the barrel of the Targa. She’d landed on the bed on her shoulder and had rolled onto the floor, snatching up the small gun as she did so. And now she was kneeling between the bed and the wall, looking a little pale, as though unnerved by her own wild heroics. But unnerved or not, her hands were rock-steady. That damned pistol was aimed square at his chest, and it didn’t waver so much as a hair.

“Okay.” He blew out a tight breath and straightened very slowly, the Beretta trained on her. “This could get interesting.”

“Put the gun down.”

He very nearly laughed. “I was going to say the same thing.”

“I’m not playing around here!”

Rafe let his smile fade deliberately. “Honey, neither am I.” He let her think about it. “I know you think you’re doing the right thing, Irish, but you’re way out of your league here. Put the gun down, come out from behind there, and we’ll talk.”

She gave him a searing look, but did get to her feet and walk around the end of the bed, her weapon still aimed at his chest. “I won’t ask you again to put that gun down.”

He smiled coolly. “You haven’t got the stones to kill a man in cold blood, Irish. I’ll bet you’ve never even fired that thing at anything but a paper target.” It was a wild guess, but he could tell the instant the words were out of his mouth that he was right.

Faint apprehension flickered across her face, gone in an instant under steely determination. “There has to be a first time.”

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to kill a man, Irish?” he asked softly. “Ever seen what a bullet can do to a human body at this range?” He dared to take a step closer to her. “Know what 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, jaw half-broken where—

“I’ll be damned,” he finally breathed, straightening to his full height and looking across the room at her. “And just how the hell is old Spence O’Dell, anyway?”

She blinked. “You know O’Dell?”

Rafe’s laugh was tight. “Oh, yeah, I know O’Dell.” He took a deep breath, the tangle of emotions surging through him separating out into strands now, each as bright as hot gold. Rage so strong it burned. Disappointment. Betrayal. And, brightest, hottest, of all, the hurt of memories he didn’t want to remember. He saw Stephanie’s face then, just a flicker really, a searing ghost image of laughing eyes and dark swirling hair, the remembered scent of her perfume. He shut his eyes tight and fought it down and away, back into the vault beneath his heart where he kept her memory stored, safe from prying.

When he opened his eyes again, Kavanagh was still standing there, an odd expression on her face. “I know you.” She was looking at him intently, her eyes scanning his face. “You were an agent once. You used to be one of O’Dell’s men.”

“Once.” Rafe bit the word off, almost daring her to say the rest.

“They…” She paused, as though trying to remember. “They talk about you. At the Agency. I thought…I thought you were dead. That’s why I never made the connection. Your name was familiar, but…” She gazed at him curiously. “I thought you were dead.”