Shoot to Thrill (3 page)

“S-so,
um
,” she stammered. “Then why
are
you here? In New York, I mean. And,
um
. Here. At this”—she gestured vaguely, mortification creeping back up her neck—“
um
, thing.”

Surely, he wasn’t here to find a
date
. Dr. Nathan Daneby was famous! Well, sort of. In certain circles. Like among nurses who read
National Geographic
in the lounge and day dreamed about having the courage to venture outside a ten-block radius of home without being paralyzed by fear.

What would it be like to have Nathan Daneby’s daring adventures? She couldn’t even imagine.

He stepped closer and lifted his hand toward her. It was large, strong, and unmanicured. A hand that obviously wasn’t afraid of hard work. For some reason that made him even more attractive.

She could smell him, too. Musky, dark, and exquisitely masculine. All him; no cologne, no shampoo, no minty breath. Just pure man.

Would he notice if she leaned in just a little and inhaled?

Extending his forefinger, he lightly tapped the name tag stuck on the minuscule bodice of her strapless dress, then traced the pad of his finger slowly,
God
so provocatively, along her name and profession. The pebbled tip of her breast sang with a long jolt of electricity that streaked straight to her center.

“I imagine I’m here for the same reason as you, Lorraine Martin, nurse practitioner.” He bent down close to her hair. “But I’d prefer to stay under the radar, if that’s all right with you.”

His finger lingered on the slope of her breast. Suddenly she ached for him to slide it down under her dress and touch her nipple. Cup her naked—

Good Lord!
What was going on with her? She hadn’t reacted this strongly to a man in years.
If ever.
Her face was on fire.

“Absolutely,” she said, striving to keep her voice steady despite the wildly inappropriate thoughts skidding through her mind.

“So about that drink . . . ?”

Don’t do it!
her good sense yelled inside her head.

“Sure,” she said aloud.

“Here?”

His low-spoken query was rife with meaning. Her pulse went crazy in her throat.

Could she? Should she?

My God, she couldn’t believe she was even
considering
leaving the hotel with him. She who was always so careful. So aware of her personal safety. So cognizant of the many perils out there waiting to snuff out your life at any second without rhyme or reason. This man was a virtual stranger. One who fairly vibrated with danger. A man who belonged to a world so different from her own that it gave her vertigo just thinking about it.

No! No! No! Don’t do it!

Still, the refusal wouldn’t come out. Which was so totally out of character she wondered if some alien being had taken over her body.

Talk about hormones trumping intelligence.

But Nathan Daneby
wasn’t
a stranger, she argued with herself. Not really. And she’d love to ask him about his exciting work. To talk about his amazing travels and adventures. And maybe . . . yes, maybe even more than talk, if she could get up the nerve to accept what his stormy eyes were blatantly promising.

More breathtaking excitement than she’d ever experienced in her life.

After all, when would a woman like Lorraine Martin ever get another chance to know a man like him?

So, with a thundering heart, she took that last step off the cliff of uncontrolled madness. And said, “Why don’t we get out of here?”

NATHAN
Daneby’s storm blue eyes took on an unmistakable glitter. The harsh angles of his face seemed to grow sharper, the rough shadow on his jaw darker. He still wasn’t exactly smiling, but there was no doubt that he was pleased with her response. For a split second he looked as though he was going to lower his mouth to hers and kiss her.

But he didn’t. “Let’s,” he murmured.

Taking her hand firmly in his, he led her through the throng to the coat-check to fetch her wrap. When a photographer stopped them at the ballroom exit to snap their picture together, he bowed over her hand and pressed his lips linger ingly to her palm.

She almost melted.

“I’ll get a cab,” he said when they emerged from the lobby into the warm August night.

“No!” She blushed when he gave her an inquiring look. “No need. I know a nice place a couple blocks away,” she said, and shook off the irrational tingle of fear that snaked over her arms at the thought of getting into a taxi.

His look narrowed. “Are you afraid? Of me?”

She swallowed. “I,
um
, I don’t like cars,” she explained, feeling a bit foolish, and turned to continue walking.

Around her, the sounds and smells of the city filled her senses with the comfort of familiarity. The waiters and bar-tender at the Green Man bistro were also familiar, so she’d feel safe there. Perhaps it was a false security, but she refused to let the irrational fear take over her life completely.

“Which didn’t answer my question.”

She smiled gamely over at him, took in the concerned look on his face, and shook her head. “No. I’m not afraid of you, Dr. Daneby. I wouldn’t have come if I were.”

“Please, call me Kick.”

“Kick?” She’d never heard him referred to by that nickname before.

He shot her a lopsided smile. “Don’t ask.” He slid his arm around her shoulders as they walked. “I’m glad you’re not afraid. I promise there’s no reason to be. I only want . . .”

She glanced up when his words trailed off. “Want what?”

All at once he turned and pulled her into his arms. “This.”

She gasped in surprise as he lifted her into a kiss.

“Oh!”

But her gasp melted into a low moan as his tongue took advantage and slid past her lips. He tasted so incredibly good! He deepened the kiss, taking away her ability to think.

She put her arms around his neck and leaned into him. He stumbled a little, and without lifting his mouth, turned and pressed her against the smooth marble of the hotel wall they were walking past.

“Open more for me, baby.”

A groan rumbled through his chest when she willingly obeyed. His kiss was hot and hard and thoroughly sinful. He kissed like a man used to taking what he wanted. A man who wasn’t afraid of anything. A man strong enough to banish her own fears just through the sheer strength of his presence.

Suddenly, a nearby door smacked open with a loud bang.

In a single, lightning-fast motion he tore his lips from hers, jumped away, and whirled. Whipping a large gun from the back of his waistband, he aimed it at the door. A giggling couple spilled out through it. Just as quickly, the gun disappeared again under his jacket. If she’d blinked, she might have missed the whole thing.

But she hadn’t.

She stared at him, confusion welling through her.

He had a gun!

But Dr. Nathan Daneby hated guns. He always made a big deal about that in all the magazine articles. A ban on weapons of any kind was also one of the main tenets of Doctors for Peace, the organization he worked for. They forbade their members from carrying them. Ever.

Which meant . . .

This man—couldn’t be Dr. Nathan Daneby.

But . . . But . . .

Oh, shit.
Rainie’s knees threatened to buckle. She reached behind her, fingers scrabbling against the cold marble of the wall, searching for purchase.
Oh, shit.

Seven years of martial arts were no match for a bullet.

The man—whoever the hell he was—swore low and harsh, cursing at the sidewalk as the couple hurried off down the street without even seeing them.

Real fear started to trickle through Rainie’s limbs.

She tried to sidle away from him, but her high heel caught on a grate in the pavement. In a blur, he spun back to her. She froze.

For a long second he regarded her in taut silence.

“You aren’t Nathan Daneby,” she managed to croak. Her voice broke on the false name.

He didn’t move. Not a muscle. But there was a light sheen of sweat forming on his brow. It wasn’t
that
warm out. “No,” he finally said.

A whimper came from her throat, sounding a lot like desperation. “Then who are you?”

“Seriously, you don’t want to know.”

Now, there was the truth. “You’re right,” she said, and straightened away from the wall, forcing steel into her spine. “And I’ve changed my mind about that dri—”

“I don’t think so.”

She blinked. Panic dissolved the steel. “Please move aside,” she bluffed. When he didn’t, she lurched sideways. “I’m leaving now.”

He swiftly closed the gap between them and grasped her upper arm. His grip was like iron. “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.”

Dread swirled through her veins.
Oh, God.
This was really and truly happening. “Let go of me, or I’ll scream!” She yanked frantically at her arm.

“No,” he calmly said, banding his arm around her shoulders and pulling her flush to his side. A second later, the barrel of his gun dug painfully into her ribs. “You won’t.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. Willed herself not to scream anyway.
She would not panic. Panic would not help.

Deep breath, let it out slowly. Deep breath, let it out slowly.

“Please don’t hurt me,” she pleaded, the words thready with blind terror. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just please don’t—”

“Follow my orders,” he said, “and nothing will happen to you. Understand?” The gun retreated a fraction from her ribs.

A trickle of hope warred with the deluge of terror.
Deep breath.

I will be fine.

I will be calm.

I will be safe.

She looked up at the imposter, trying desperately to judge his sincerity. Was it just a trick to lull her into compliance? His pupils were black and dilated, and the sable hair falling over his forehead was dark with sweat. Almost as though—

A wave of shocked recognition coursed through her.
My God!
He was . . . Suddenly, she understood. She was a nurse, with free access to the hospital supplies.

She should have known.

“You want drugs, don’t you?”

His brows flared. “No!” A breath jetted out and he scowled fiercely, making her jump. “
No
. That’s not what I need from you.”

His storm blue eyes bored into hers, and panic reared up anew, stronger than ever.
She’d been so sure
. If not drugs, then . . . “What
do
you want from me?”

She felt the cold caress of the gun barrel under her breast.

“Just one thing,” he growled. “Take me to your apartment.”

TWO

THE
man called Pig woke up with a start.

The redhead had come to him again. She was a real redhead, you know. Not one of those bottle-job wannabes. He knew for sure, because she was naked.

She was always naked in the dreams.

That’s what was so damn frustrating. She was always naked, but she only ever wanted to talk. Just talk. Jesus help him. All this time. Endless days and nights—at least he assumed they were days and nights—and she had yet to let him touch her. It had to be years now. At least a year. Two. Maybe even three. Who knew? When everything around you was black, black, black, time ran together into one long, fucking stretch of limitless pain and suffering.

The least she could do was freaking touch him.

Pig banked his frustration. Again.

At least she talked to him. Talking wasn’t so bad. Even if it was a dream. Nobody else did. Nothing he wanted to hear, anyway. “Get up, Pig.” “Eat your slop, Pig.” “Bend over so we can beat you, Pig.” Thank Christ they weren’t into rape. Not men, anyway. He’d heard the muffled women’s screams, though. Real ones. Just girls, from what he could tell.
They
hadn’t been so lucky.

And they called
him
a pig.

The naked redhead held out her hand to him. “Hi. I’m H—”

He strained to hear her name. Like he did every time. But he never caught it. Something with an
H
. He’d tried to guess endlessly. Holly. Helen. Hope. Hallie. Hanna. Heather. Helga? Nothing sounded familiar. Though her face and body were as familiar to him as his own.

Okay, that wasn’t true. He had no idea what his own face looked like. It had disappeared. Gone completely. All but the long, filthy beard he could touch. And the bruises he could feel. They were all too familiar. As for his body, well, he was happy not to see it, thank you very much. He couldn’t afford to lose what little he had in his belly.

“What’s your name?” she asked him, smiling sweetly. So damn sweetly it made his eyes hurt just looking at her pretty smile. Or maybe they just hurt, period. They’d hurt for fucking ever.

She waited patiently. Oh, yeah. His name.

Whatever. He had no fucking idea.

No, not true. It was Pig. That’s it. “I’m Pig,” he said.

She blinked. He could tell she didn’t believe him. But she smiled again anyway. That blinding smile. No, he was already blind. That wasn’t her fault.

“I hate that name,” she said, her eyes soft and sad as she watched him.

“Me, too.”

“Then don’t use it. I’ll call you . . . James.” Every time she appeared, she tested out a different name on him. Like she was trying to get him to remember. A hopeless cause. “What would you like to talk about today, James?”

Yesterday—or had it been last week?—he’d been Fredrick, and they’d talked about music. She liked country and classical. He was more of a jazz fan.

“Ice cream,” he said today. Damn, he really missed ice cream. Almost as much as he missed sex. Some days more. Hell, most days more. Which said a lot. Because he really loved sex. At least, he had . . . before. Not so sure anymore. But he was pretty damn sure he still loved ice cream. They couldn’t take that away from him.

Whoever the fuck
they
were. . . .

* * *

NATURALLY,
she
would
live on the fifth floor of a six-floor walk-up. The stairs were fucking endless.