Hands-On Training

Copyright © 2012 by Paige Tyler

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be
reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying recording, or by any information storage and retrieval
system, without permission from the author.

Cover
Design by Gemini Judson

Dedication

With special thanks to my extremely patient and
understanding husband, without whose help and support I couldn’t have pursued
my dream job of becoming a writer. You’re my sounding board, my idea man, my
critique partner, and the absolute best research assistant any girl could ask
for!

Thank you.

And thank you to my wonderful executive assistant
Jennilinh and the girls of my Street Team—Barb L., Barb K., Christy, Cyndi,
Dani, Dianna, Desere, Janet, Jennifer, Kimberly, Kris, Regina, Susan and
Yvette. You all rock!

Hands-On Training

This
hot cop is only too happy to give her private lessons!

Texas State Trooper Blake Jordan
can't afford to get distracted on the job, but he can't take his eyes off the
beautiful woman in his concealed carry handgun class. With soft feminine curves
and eyes he just about gets lost in, Trista Durant is enough to make him forget
his own name.

Trista's been drooling over Blake
since the moment he walked in the classroom. His broad shoulders, big biceps
and sexy voice are enough to almost melt off her panties. When the hot cop acts
completely professional despite the sultry smiles she sends his way, she realizes
she's going to have to give up on getting him in her bed, or do something
drastic to make it happen — like failing the hands-on portion of the class so
she can get some time alone with him.

Blake is only too happy to give
Trista private lessons, and soon shows her what real hands-on training is all
about.

Who knew shooting a gun could be so
much fun? Give a whole new meaning to the term keep your weapon pointed in a
safe direction at all times.

Chapter One

As a cop, Blake Jordan couldn’t afford to be distracted, but
he couldn’t take his eyes off the gorgeous brunette in front of him. The only
woman in the Concealed Handgun License Proficiency course he was teaching, she
was all soft, feminine curves with long, silky hair and full, pouty lips. Not
to mention honey-colored eyes he could just about get lost in. Which made it
damn hard to concentrate on his presentation.

He dragged his gaze away from the beauty in the front row to
scan the rest of the faces. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her studying
him.

“We'll spend the first part of the day going over Texas
concealed carry laws, use of force laws, nonviolent dispute resolution and
general administrative matters related to maintaining your license.”

Everyone groaned at that. Everyone, but her. She sat back in
her seat and got comfortable.

Most of the time, the ten-hour course was taught over two
days, but as a full-time Texas State Trooper, Blake could only hold the class
on his days off. Those were few and far between, which meant he had to cram
everything into a single day. While he made some money on the side teaching the
CHL course, it wasn't the pay that made it worthwhile. It was the knowledge
that what he was doing would pay off in the long run, making the city of
Houston a safer place for everyone. Concealed weapons were a way of life in
Texas and he wanted to make sure the people who carried them were trained and prepared
to handle the responsibility that came with the license.

“After that, we’ll do the written test, then grab lunch
before the hands-on portion,” Blake said. “I'll cover how to properly handle a
weapon, clean it, store it, and if the situation ever requires it—how to use
it. We'll spend the last two hours using the indoor range, where I’ll get a
chance to see how you handle your weapons. If I like what I see, you'll be out
of here by six o’clock with your certificates in hand.”

His eyes lingered on the gorgeous woman in the front row
again before he turned to the PowerPoint slide displayed on the screen. Damn,
if her eyes didn’t sparkle like gold in the early morning sun coming through
the window. Was she wearing colored contacts? The question mystified him half
the morning. When they finally took a break, he found himself wandering over to
the vending machine where she was standing to get a Coke he didn’t want simply
so he could check.

“I'd recommend something with a lot of caffeine,” he said.

She turned to look at him and his breath hitched. Damn, she
was even more devastating up close. He could actually see the little, green
flecks of color in her gold eyes. Definitely not contacts.

Her lips—which were not only full and pouty, but very
kissable—curved into a sexy smile. “I have a feeling listening to you talk is
going to be more than enough to keep me awake.”

He pulled out a five-dollar bill and fed it to the vending
machine, then pressed the Diet Coke button twice. He flashed her a grin as he
handed her one of the bottles. “These concealed carry laws can be some riveting
stuff, huh?”

She laughed. “I probably shouldn’t say this since you’re a
cop, and I’m here to get my license, but actually they’re really not. You make
the subject interesting, though. I think it’s because you have such a nice
voice.”

He did a double take. Was she coming onto him?

She looked up at him from under her lashes. “I’m Trista
Durant, by the way.”

“Blake. Jordan.”

His last name was already on his uniform, so telling her
again wasn’t really necessary, but it was already out. Being around her made it
hard to think straight.

She opened her coke and took a sip. “I’m guessing this isn’t
the first time you’ve taught this class.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “What makes you
say that?”

“You barely looked at the slides on the screen.”

Because he’d been too busy looking at her. He took a swallow
of Coke. “Guilty as charged. I teach it every few weeks or so.”

She lifted a brow. “I didn’t realize that many people got
concealed carry licenses.”

“A couple hundred people take the course every month. What
made you decide to get your permit? Someone hasn’t made you feel threatened,
have they?” He grimaced. Why not just add “little lady,” while he was at it?
“Sorry. Occupational hazard of being a cop. You have every right to tell me to
pound sand.”

She laughed. “There's no particular reason, but Houston is a
lot bigger than it was when I lived here before. I just want to be able to
carry if I feel the need.”

Smart move. “It can be a scary place out there sometimes.”

“Yes, it can.” Trista casually looked him up and down, her
gaze lingering on his crotch for a moment before their eyes met. “And there's
nothing like getting your hands on a big weapon to make a girl feel all safe
and secure.”

Blake almost choked on his soda. Damn. Guess that answered
his earlier question about whether she was coming onto him or not. And with a
blatant invitation, he’d be an idiot not to flirt right back.

Unfortunately, one of the men in the class wandered over to the
vending machine before Blake could say anything.

“Don’t mind if I slip in here and get something, do you,
Officer?”

Blake inclined his head, giving the man an apologetic smile.
“Sorry about that. Go ahead.”

Trista moved away from the vending machine as well,
automatically falling into step beside Blake as they walked back to the classroom.

“You said you lived in Houston before.” He sent her a
sidelong glance. “Where’d you move from?”

“Birmingham. I moved there when I went to the University of
Alabama and stayed when I was offered a job in the area. I’ve wanted to come
back to Houston for a while, so when a position opened up, I jumped at the
chance.”

He gestured for her to walk into the classroom ahead of him—because
he was a gentleman, but also because he wanted to check out her ass. Damn, she
looked fine in a pair of jeans.

“What do you do for a living?” he asked.

“I’m a graphic designer.” She turned, her long hair swinging
over her shoulder. “Right now, I’m doing websites.”

“Sounds interesting.”

Blake wanted to ask what kind of websites she designed, but
a heavyset man in a plaid shirt interrupted him.

“Got a minute, Officer?”

Blake glanced at Trista and saw disappointment flash in her
eyes. He’d rather spend the whole day talking to her, too, but he couldn’t ignore
the rest of the class.

“If you’ll pardon me?”

“Of course.” She smiled. “Thanks for the soda.”

Blake tried to give the man his full attention—he really
did—but Trista was so damn captivating, it was practically impossible to keep
his eyes off her. And while that made the boring part of the class a whole hell
of a lot less boring—at least for him—it was also a kind of sweet torture.
Especially when she did little things that drove him crazy. Like nibble on the
top of her pen. Or cross her long legs. And when she leaned forward giving him
a glimpse of her perfect cleavage? It was enough to make him groan.

As much as he wanted to monopolize her every time they took
a break, he resisted the urge. If he did that and someone failed the course,
that same someone could claim misconduct on his part, saying he was showing
favoritism, and he’d be screwed. So, he limited their conversation to a few
minutes before making the rounds. Fortunately, everyone passed the written
test. And Trista maxed it, so no one could say she'd passed because he was
sweet on her.

Nearly everyone in the class went to the restaurant across
the street for lunch, including Trista. Blake quickly slipped into the empty
chair beside hers before any of the other men could grab it. He got a smile for
his efforts that just about did him in. He’d never met a women who had that
effect on him before.

“So, do you and the other State Troopers alternate teaching
the class?” she asked in between bites of her turkey sandwich.

He set down his iced tea. “No. I just do this on the side on
my days off.”

“Oh.” She chewed on her lower lip as if considering
something. “Your wife must hate that.”

That was blatant enough that even he picked up on it. “I’m
not married.”

That seemed to give her pause. “Then your girlfriend must
hate it.”

“Don’t have one at the moment.”

Her lips curved, and he waited for her to say more, but once
again, someone interrupted them—this time it was the waitress asking if she
could refill their iced teas. By the time the woman left, the guy on the other
side of Blake already engaged him in a conversation about handguns—or more
precisely, why he preferred a revolver over a semi-automatic. Usually it was a
debate Blake was always up for, but discussing the pros and cons of each weapon
while Trista’s arm kept “accidentally” brushing against his was damn near impossible.
God, he couldn’t wait until class was over so he could grab a minute alone with
her. Maybe then he could finally ask if she wanted to go to dinner with him.
But first he had to get everyone certified and out of there.

He started the afternoon session talking about how to both
store and clean a handgun, as well as how it should be carried concealed. After
that, it was the part of the class everyone had been looking forward
to—hands-on training. This was where Blake got to find out whether he should
certify a person or not. Anyone could sit through a class and take a test. What
he needed to know was what a person did when he or she had a gun in their
hands.

Blake glanced at Trista as they made their way to the indoor
shooting range. She didn't appear uncomfortable, but she didn't look completely
at ease, either. That was normal. She probably didn't have a huge amount of
experience with a handgun. Most people who took the class didn't.

She did okay loading and unloading an empty magazine—not
perfect, but acceptable. It was when they loaded live rounds and did some
shooting that Blake got concerned. Trista couldn't shoot worth shit. She didn’t
have to hit the man-shaped silhouette dead center, but she had to at least get
close. Best he could tell, she wasn’t hitting the target at all.