Shoot to Thrill (24 page)

She met his eyes again and they narrowed. Almost as if he could read her thoughts, and didn’t care for what he was reading. She raised her chin.
Dream on, baby.
If she ever fell in love, it sure as hell wouldn’t be with a man like Kick Jackson. Dangerous, uncivilized. Able to do things without a second thought that went against everything she believed.

Too bad he was also able to do things to
her
that made dangerous and uncivilized feel alarmingly close to virtues.

Like the caveman way he swept her off her feet and took control of her. The heart-pounding thrill of his body sliding between her thighs. The sweet, savage thrust of his arousal as it scythed deep into her.

Damn.

Was falling in lust the same as falling in love?

No. No way.

Love was so much more than physical attraction and sex. It was respect and admiration and trust and security and . . .

God
. Everything she was feeling about Kick.

But how could she possibly feel
any
of those things for a man who so willingly condoned violence, who so easily killed? Who, if she allowed herself to read all the ample clues he’d thrown at her, had no doubt killed a lot more than this once?

Impossible. She simply couldn’t know that about him and still feel respect and admiration, let alone trust the man.

And yet . . . she did.

Rainie let out a long sigh.

Jesus. How scary was
that
.

FOURTEEN

GINA
couldn’t believe Rainie was dead.

No. She
didn’t
believe it.

Not a chance.
Gregg van Halen was handing her a big fat load of CIA BS, and that was the God’s honest truth. It had to be.

At home in her Upper East Side brownstone, Gina had watched CNN the whole night, crying her eyes out and waiting for some mention of the terrible incident that had claimed her best friend’s life.

Nothing had appeared.

That’s when she’d started getting suspicious.
Hello?
Government agents and innocent woman killed in a fiery plane crash? When was the last time the news media had missed such a juicy, sensational story?

So as dawn slipped over the city, she searched the Inter-net while tuning in to every TV network and cable newscast she could find, including the BBC World News. Still nothing.

No plane crash anywhere in the country.

No plane crash at
all
. In the whole damn world.

Something just wasn’t right. No, sir.

She debated calling CNN in Atlanta and asking outright if they were sitting on the story due to government pressure. That was possible. After all, they were dealing with the mother of all Big Brothers, the C-freaking-IA.

But before she had a chance to pick up the phone, it rang.

She pounced on the receiver. “Hello?”

“How are you holding up?”

Van Halen.
Anger
whooshed
through her. The nerve of the man to call her sounding all concerned, as if he were actually a friend!

“How do you
think
I’m holding up, being fed a pack of lies?” she snapped.

He was silent for a moment. “What lies are you referring to, Gina?”

Oh, right. Mr. Innocent.
“There was
no
plane crash. Anywhere. What have you bastards done with Rainie?”

More silence, then he said, “I have a satellite photo showing the wreckage, if you’d like to see it.” At his calm assertion her heart squeezed painfully. “We also have reason to believe there may have been a survivor,” he added.

Hope swelled anew. “Rainie?”

“No way of knowing. Whoever it is, they’re hiding well out of sight.”

“Where?” she demanded.

“Can’t tell you that.” The voice brooked no argument.

She battled back her anger. “I want to see that photo.” Maybe the surroundings would give her a clue as to where this alleged crash had happened. Then at least she’d know where to start her search.

“All right,” he said. “Stay where you are. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

She glanced at the clock. “I have to be at work in—”

“You’ve been up all night. You’re tired. Call in sick.”

Then there was a click. He’d hung up.

My God.
How had he known she’d been up all night? She glanced uneasily at the drapes she hadn’t bothered closing last night. Had he been watching her the whole time?

In which case the
last
thing she should do was call in sick. What she should do was get the hell out of there before he—

There was a loud knock on the door.

Hell.
A few
minutes
? That had been more like
seconds
. He must have been calling from the sidewalk out front.

“Gina, it’s me. Open up.”

His voice sounded so neutral. So harmless. So . . . deep and reassuring.
More lies.
Lies, lies, lies. This guy was harmless like a yawning cobra.

He knocked again. “Gina!”

Should she run? She probably would have, but she really needed to see that satellite photo.

She unlocked the two dead bolts, slid off the heavy chain, and swung open her door. He stood there on the landing in the early-morning light, bigger than life and just as serious. Today, under the black leather jacket, he was wearing urban cammie BDUs and black combat boots. Trying to blend into the surrounding buildings? His silver aviator shades hung casually from the collar of a snug black T-shirt. She could see the imprint of his compact male nipples poking provocatively at the fabric.

Good grief, what had made her notice
that
?

“I thought you might have bolted out the back way,” he said, regarding her with an expression she couldn’t decipher.

“Don’t be absurd. Come in.”

Too late she remembered she hadn’t gotten dressed yet.

He was perusing the crop-top and plaid boxers she used as pajamas, his eyes lingering on
her
nipples . . . and her bare legs. His gaze eased back up again and met hers. Damn, she must be a sight, her eyes puffy and face blotchy from hours of crying, and not a speck of makeup on.

Not that it mattered. She didn’t care one bit if she looked like death warmed—

“I’m sorry about your friend,” he said, moving past her into the foyer. Setting down his motorcycle helmet on the hall table. “I really am.” Without comment, he extended an eight-by-ten black-and-white aerial photo to her.

“I still don’t believe it,” she countered stubbornly. Maybe if she refused to believe it, it wouldn’t be true.

She took the photo and walked into the dining room, setting it on the table to examine under the light of the chandelier. Behind her, she heard the front door close, the chain slide back on, and the dead bolts click home.

“I’m afraid there’s no doubt,” he said, coming into the dining room. “There were witnesses to her going onboard that plane.”

She shot him a look, but his face was as impassive as ever. Did the man never crack? Or let his thoughts and feelings slip past that unreadable façade?

Meanwhile . . . he had locked himself in with her.

She was proud of her brownstone. She had rehabbed the three-level town house as a fixer-upper, doing a lot of the work herself. It was beautiful. But not particularly large. As in, nowhere to hide. Not from a man like him, a trained hunter of human prey. Not if he was determined to—

To what?

Don’t be ridiculous
, she admonished herself silently. He was
not
out to get her. That was just paranoid thinking.

Or was it
wishful
thinking?

Hell, no!

Suddenly he was there, standing next to her. His arm brushed hers. When had he taken off his jacket? She swallowed and stayed very still.

He handed her a magnifying glass. “Here. It’s easier to see with this.”

Oh, Jesus.
She let out a breath. What was
wrong
with her?

“Thanks,” she said unsteadily, taming her thundering heart. She gave herself a mental shake and bent over the photo, peering through the glass.

He brushed closer, pointing. “See the debris, here? And here?”

Her throat closed at what she was seeing. A small plane scattered in bits on the ground in a desolate landscape.

“Dear God.”

So it was true.
But she still didn’t understand how a woman who was even afraid to ride in a car would have willingly flown in an airplane, especially a small one like this. Rainie had just
met
that dangerous-looking man. Gina should have stopped her from leaving the speed dating with that character. This was all her fault. If Rainie had really been on the plane.

“Why would she have gone with him?” she whispered. “To this place? On an
airplane
?”

“As a favor,” van Halen said. “She was helping him get clean. Apparently he was addicted to some kind of pain medication and going through withdrawal. She wasn’t supposed to be on that flight, but he started having symptoms and she went with him just in case they got worse.”

Gina took a shuddering breath. Yeah, that sounded like Rainie. Always the first to volunteer to help someone in need. Still . . .
this
didn’t make sense. This
place
. Gina studied the landscape on the photo. Some kind of harsh desert. It looked like a different planet. Even if they survived the crash, how could anyone live for more than a day in that environment?

“What makes you think there are survivors?” she asked, her optimism waning.

“Maybe just one.” His body pressed against her side and he grasped her hand, guiding the magnifying glass past a section of burned, crumpled fuselage with ‘Ex’ . . . something . . . painted on it, and over to a jumble of what appeared to be giant rocks. “Here. See that?”

“It looks like . . . a sheet or something flapping in the wind.”

“A parachute. And see here.” He pointed to an odd-shaped shadow.

“What is that?”

“The better question would be
who is it?
Unfortunately, we don’t know which of the team it is. Or Ms. Martin.”

Gina sucked in a shaky breath as she straightened and looked up into his eyes. “But you’ll send someone, won’t you? To rescue that person.”

“Trust me. If your friend is still alive, we’ll get her.”

Gina closed her eyes against the stinging in them. Trust him?

Did she have a choice?

Gently, he pulled her against his chest. “
Shhh
. It’s okay.”

Ohgod.
No, it
wasn’t
okay. This whole thing was crazy. Rainie gone. A man she barely knew and couldn’t possibly trust holding her like it was the most natural thing in the world. This insane attraction she was feeling for him, an inscrutable stranger, despite her grief. Or maybe because of it. . . .

Life was always more precious when something like this showed you how very fragile this world was. Made you want to feel,
really feel
, that you were still alive.

Would it be a mistake to trust him? Or would it be safe to let him comfort her with his tall, powerful frame; envelope her in his strong, persuasive arms?

Safe? Hardly. But Lord, it felt good.

The thing about younger men, they were enthusiastic. But they didn’t know how to simply stand still and let a woman’s feelings overwhelm her.

Who’d have thought this stoic, emotionless man would know how to do that so damn well?

Except . . . his heart was beating nearly as fast as hers. . . .

She grew acutely aware of his body pressed tight against her, curve to hollow, hard to soft. And his smell. Masculine, spicy. Tempting. God, she loved the way he smelled.

His fingers tunneled into her hair and he urged her head against his shoulder. She tried to let herself relax into his embrace. But she just couldn’t.

Relax?
She was far too aware of him physically. Of her reckless attraction to him.

His hand glided comfortingly down her back and up again as he murmured soothing words.

She’d long ago stopped being shy of wanting sex. Gina loved getting naked with a man. She knew marriage was most likely not in her future, but why forgo the best parts of life just because you didn’t have a steady partner?

But this, this was different. This wasn’t some innocuous intern or research fellow carefully selected to spend a few nights of harmless mutual pleasure with. No, there was something else going on here with Gregg van Halen, and throwing sex into the mix would complicate things wildly.

But Lord, she didn’t know what to do with her hands.

Everywhere she touched him, he felt warm and solid and God so incredibly enticing. Did she dare put her arms around him? Or would he misinterpret . . .

Down and up went his soothing hand. Down and up. Then it slid under her top. His fingers caressed her bare skin.

Her eyes flew open. She tried to pull away. He didn’t let her.

“
Shhh
. It’s okay.” He held her firmly against his unyielding, muscular body as his hand crept upward.

Oh, God.
She clutched at his T-shirt.
Was
it okay? Was this really what she wanted?

Such a bad idea. Terrible idea. The worst—

He turned and backed her up against the dining table. His stance spread just wide enough that her legs were caught between his, her bare feet captured between his boots, her hips cradled against his. He was aroused.
Very
aroused. Hard and thick and long beneath his BDUs.

Ohgod, ohgod, oh, God help her.

Because she was aroused, too.

His hand slowly smoothed up her bare back, over her ribs, around to her breast. And he touched her there.

She gasped, her whole body reacting with a deep shiver of unwilling pleasure.

“
Shhh
,” he murmured in her ear, his hot breath whispering over her cheek. “It’s okay.”