Shoot to Thrill (4 page)

Kick grimaced at the pain throbbing in his left leg and kept his arm tightly around Nurse Practitioner Lorraine Martin, leaning on her as much as he dared. The SIG dug discreetly into her ribs, keeping her honest.

She had to sense his leg’s weakness, and he wouldn’t put it past her to jerk away and shove him down the stairs before they made it up the five flights. Not that he blamed her. He was messing with the woman big-time. But he just didn’t have a choice here. He needed her. And he needed a place to hide for a day or two. He couldn’t chance anyone else finding out where he was. Because if someone else knew,
they
would know.

Could you
believe
the woman had actually heard of his friend Nathan Daneby? And admired him. How perfect would that have been?

Damn the fucking painkillers that had screwed with his finely honed reflexes, and damn the fucking door slam that had sounded way too much like a gunshot, throwing him briefly straight into his past and causing him to break cover and blow the whole sweet deal.

Damn it to hell. He had been so fucking close to talking her into sharing her bed with him, with no need for guns or threats. So close he could still taste her on his tongue. Feel the shape of her lush breast on his palm. And the uncomfortable tightness of his pants.

Jesus, God.

They made it upstairs to her apartment door and she pulled out her key, but Kick stopped her before she could insert it into the lock.

He’d already checked her driver’s license to be sure she was taking him to the right address, and he’d asked if she had a roommate. She’d denied it. But, then, so would he under the circumstances.

“Is anybody home?” he asked again.

“I told you. I live alone,” she said stiffly.

He nodded, and pressed the buzzer anyway. Before she could react, he pulled her to him, stabbed his fingers in her hair, and covered her mouth with his. He wouldn’t exactly call it a kiss since she was struggling against him. But anyone looking on would just think she was moving around because she was excited. She tried to bite his lip. He bit her back. Not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to elicit a gasp of pain . . . or perhaps outrage because he sucked her lip into his mouth and tongued the spot. After that she went rigid and didn’t try anything else.

When a full minute had gone by with their lips crushed together and without anyone answering the buzzer, he released her. They were both breathing hard.

He took the key and opened the door, herded her inside, then closed and locked it, depositing the key in his pants pocket. Yeah, the one with the hard-on under it.

She watched the key disappear, then glared up at him. “If you think—”

He lifted the gun to silence her while he sized up the place, grateful when she actually took the hint.

It was a typical older Manhattan apartment, compact and efficient. Antique furniture and pastel paint, with the minimal clutter of an occupant who spent most of her time elsewhere. In the case of a nurse, probably at work. Incongruously, the walls were covered by colorful travel posters. The kitchen was galley-style, accessed through a wide opening by the front door. Kick made sure no one was lurking in it, then turned his attention to the living room’s alley-side wall, which was punctuated by two windows with a steam radiator between. And more posters.

“Do the windows open?”

She hesitated, obviously surprised by the question. “Yes.”

“Open one.”

Her eyes widened in fear. “What are you—”

“Not pushing you out,” he assured her with a shade of exasperation, reminding himself she had no way of knowing he truly had no intention of hurting her. “I need to check the fire escape.”

“Why?”

Nosy little thing.
He prodded her none-too-gently in the shoulder. With his hand, not the gun. “Just open the damn window.”

She did. Reluctantly. He wondered whether it was raising the window or obeying his orders that she didn’t care for. Not that it mattered. He was in charge whether she liked it or not.

He followed. Keeping a hand firmly on her wrist, he stuck his head outside the window. The fire escape was located between this apartment and the next one—about a five-foot stretch from where he stood. No doubt there had once been a balcony that connected it all, but it was long gone. The good news was, unless she was an Olympic gymnast she couldn’t escape that way. Not without risking a five-story fall and being smashed on the street below like a bug on a windshield.

The bad news was, neither could he. Not in his present state of fitness. Sixteen months ago, he could have. In his sleep. With one hand tied behind him. But no longer.

He left the window up, lowered the blinds over it and the other one, then turned to her. “All right, show me the bedroom. You first.”

She stiffened, but after a glance at the SIG she didn’t argue. She was learning. She led him to the open door of the only other room in the place. He reached in, flipped on the light, and did a quick once-over before he put his hand to the small of her back and made her go in.

It was a soft room, the color of old butter. The subtle scent of a flowery perfume—her perfume—lingered intimately in the air, making him acutely aware that he was invading her most personal space. His eyes were naturally drawn to the bed. It was large but not huge, covered with lots of pillows and a quilt of the type he’d seen in antique stores. Like the furniture.
Dresser, bookshelf, a carved wooden armoire that took the place of a closet.
None of it really seemed her style. He would have pegged her for more of a modern-contemporary type. Still, what did he know?

“I inherited the apartment from my grandmother,” she said, reading his mind. Her chin lifted slightly. “I like old things.”

He didn’t comment, just pointed to the bed while he checked the bathroom. “Sit down.” Again, the walls were covered by bright travel posters. Greece. Portugal. Iceland. Egypt. No wonder she’d been attracted by Nathan Daneby, world traveler extraordinaire. Of course, he was, too.

He came out and she had not moved. He pointed to the bed again. “Sit. Down.”

Her eyes were wide with fear. “Please, no!” She backed away from him, pulling her flimsy wrap protectively around her body. For all the good
that
would do if—

He pushed out an impatient breath. “I told you, obey my orders and nothing will happen to you. I
mean
that.”

She shook her head at him accusingly. “You’re lying.”

“No, I’m n—”

“You kissed me,” she blurted out. Her teeth worried her bottom lip where it was still red and swollen from his love bite. Or whatever the hell it had been.

For some totally illogical reason, her outrage irritated him. “I kissed you before that and you didn’t object,” he reminded her tersely. “In fact, I could have sworn you enjoyed it.”

“That was before I knew you were a—” She snapped her mouth shut.

“A what?” he demanded. Now he was really getting annoyed.

Her throat worked. “A . . . a kidnapper!”

Kidnapper?
He almost laughed. Was that the best she could do? On the grand scale of the many colorful things he’d been called in his lifetime,
kidnapper
was just about the least insulting.

“Okay, fine. You don’t kiss kidnappers. Just sit the hell down.”

She opened her mouth to object again.

“
Now
. Before I change my mind.”

Thankfully, she crossed her arms over her abdomen and stalked wordlessly to the bed. She was still wearing her high heels so her shapely backside twitched enticingly back and forth in her short, sexy dress.

Which almost made him careless. She was about to sit down by the pillows. And the nightstand.

“Wait! Not there,” he barked. He pointed again at the foot of the bed. “There.”

She hesitated and her nostrils flared just enough to confirm his suspicion before she primly sat where he’d directed.

“All right, where is it?” he asked.

“Where’s what?”

“The weapon.”

Her chin lifted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But her eyes told a different story. They flicked ever so briefly toward the upper end of the bed.

Nice try.
With grim efficiency he searched the contents of the nightstand. He didn’t find any guns, knives, or mace in the cubby or the small drawer.

He did, however, find a box of condoms. And a bottle of mint-flavored massage oil.

Fuck.
He
really
did not want to know that.

He gritted his teeth and slammed the drawer shut with a spike of angry regret for what he might have been enjoying had the stars been aligned differently and he weren’t such an unlucky son of a bitch. And kept searching.

There was a loaded Beretta between the mattress and box spring. And a stiletto in a sheath that had been taped to the back of the headboard.

Okay, then. Not as harmless as she looked.

He hiked his brows at her.

Her cheeks glowed bright scarlet but her chin rose even higher. “A woman has a right to defend herself. No telling what kind of pervert will push his way into her bedroom.”

He gave her a strained smile. “True enough.”

Putting both the Beretta and stiletto in his jacket pocket, he slipped it off and folded it before setting it on the nightstand. He kept the SIG in its holster under his arm, but unbuttoned and slowly rolled up his sleeves. She watched him nervously. Then he pulled a pair of handcuffs from his back pants pocket.

She sucked in a breath when she saw them. And in a flash scrambled across the bed to get away. He caught her by the ankle, narrowly avoiding a vicious kick in the face from her other high heel, which he swiftly ripped off and threw to the floor along with its mate.

“Goddamn it!” he growled, using all his strength to flip her and pull her back to the center of the bed. By now she was using fists, too.

“Let me
go
!”

Jesus.
The woman had some excellent defense moves.

“Then stop hitting me!”

With difficulty, he released her ankles and grabbed her wrists between kicks and punches, launched himself on top of her, and pinned her down with his body. With her arms held above her head, she could only wriggle ineffectually under him.

“Better?” he ground out.

“No!”

He quickly realized he’d made a tactical error. A
big
one.

Her shawl had come off in the struggle, and her strapless bodice had shifted down to the brink of being . . . way too distracting. Her already short hem had crept high up her thighs.

She was wearing stockings. Silky ones. The kind with lace tops that stayed up by themselves.

He stifled a groan and took a deep, cleansing breath. “How many times do I have to tell you, I’m
not
going to hurt you?”

She didn’t look convinced. In truth, she looked plain terrified. And about to cry. Tears swam in her eyes, threatening to spill out the corners. Which did the trick, yanking him back from the verge of doing something really stupid.

Like trying to kiss her again.

God, what was
wrong
with him?

He did not
do
teary-eyed women. Hell, he did not do women at
all
. And
this
was exactly why. They turned him all inside out and totally robbed him of his brain cells.

Clamping his jaw tightly, he reached down to retrieve the handcuffs and snapped one cuff onto her wrist. The other cuff he fastened with a
snick
to his own.

Giving her a warning glare, he rolled off and lay panting on the bed by her side, scowling at the ceiling.

Apparently that surprised her, too. Hell, he was just full of surprises.

Turning her head on the pillow, she stared at him anxiously. He kept his eyes firmly on the plaster overhead.

It was crisscrossed with cracks. Like the scars on his leg and back. There was a spiderweb wafting back and forth in one corner.

At length, she finally asked, her voice a thready murmur, “You’re not going to rape me?”

He tried really hard to be angry that she could believe that of him, but couldn’t quite muster the will. He gritted his teeth. “I.
Don’t.
Rape. Women.” He emphasized each word so she’d get it once and for all.

After a few seconds she said, “Are you going to rob me?”

He counted to ten. Twice. “No.”

There was another pause before she whispered, “Kill me?”

God
damn
it!

“
No!
” He wanted to scream it at her, but managed to contain himself to a low roar.

There was an even longer pause. “Then why are you doing this to me?”

There you go. Another reason he didn’t do women. It was
aaallways
about them.

He squeezed his eyes shut and took another deep, calming breath. “I just wanted to fuck you, okay?
Willingly.
Is that so hard to understand? And in the process, find a place to lie low for a day or two. That’s it. Sex and a bed. Nothing sinister.”

She sniffed and he heard her swallow. “Why?”

“Why do you think? Jesus freaking Christ, woman, you’re a walking hard-on in that dress. And frankly, you seemed more than interested.”

She swallowed again, this time more heavily. “I,
um
, meant . . . why do you need to lie low for a day or two?” He could swear there was embarrassment in her voice.

He cracked his eyelids and turned to look at her. Sure enough, her cheeks were bright red again. Hell, maybe she didn’t like crude language. Or maybe she was truly clueless and in denial about where that kiss had been leading.

At least she wasn’t crying anymore.

“You’re holding me against my will,” she said archly when he didn’t answer right away. “I think I deserve an explanation.”

Possibly. Especially if he wanted her on his side before he lost control of himself and the situation. He glanced at the clock and briefly debated what to tell her. How much of the truth. Not about him, but the other thing. Because too much truth could put her in danger. Which was the last thing he wanted.