When a Man Loves a Weapon Read online

  Then he lifted off her for a moment, a brief heartbeat of loss and cold, and just as suddenly, he was there again, having stripped off his shorts, and he lay down beside her, his blue eyes dark, serious. He seemed lost in the curves of her hip, the angle of her knee, studying her as if all the answers lay there, in the bend of her elbow or the place where he knew she was ticklish just beneath her ear. His face was all confidence and darkness, and she’d seen that hunger before on card sharks in a room full of thieves, a look that was patience and determination and secrets, his fingers sliding with knowledge and skill and when she moved to touch him, he stilled her with a shhhhhh.

  “Let me,” he whispered, and then he took his ever-loving time about it, ’til she felt taut and aching and scattered all at the same time, cards spread on the table, play me.

  There may have been whimpering. Possibly a little begging.

  Okay, a lot of begging, and she tried to urge him to move faster, but he was ruthless, and he shut her up with an entire repertoire of kisses that tilted her world, and she shuddered beneath his utter control just as—

  —his cell phone rang. The Bureau calling. She recognized, and loathed, the specific “urgent” ring tone he’d assigned so that he’d know the difference between pure administrative crap that could wait and the life-threatening other crap that could not. She’d itched many times to pick up that damned tyrant of a phone and “accidentally” lose it in the garbage disposal, but the freaky thing was so sophisticated, she wouldn’t be a bit surprised if it not only resurrected itself, but videotaped her and ran and tattled.

  He kissed her and she forgot about the phone for a second, or ten, and then it stopped ringing. He took his time at the corner of her mouth, braced on one elbow, leaning over her, his other hand playing intricate patterns, weaving through her long hair, its dark, rich browns like dark coffee against her ivory no-tan-for-you-this-summer skin.

  The phone rang again. The damned thing went everywhere with him. Even to this barn behind the tiny house he’d found out in the middle of nowhere, south Louisiana. The frayed old house, worn at the edges like her favorite boots, tossed almost absently beneath great sprawling trees on acres of land—land bordered by a massive swamp that spilled into an enormous lake. Another ring. They were at the end of the world out here, somewhere back in primordial time, in the Mesozoic era, if she could judge by the size of the damned alligators she’d seen when he’d taken her on a boat ride to show her the property boundaries.

  He tried to ignore the call, his hand guiding her into turning toward him, bringing her back to him as he hung onto his control, trying to keep them right there, in that moment, just them together, no duty intruding, but the phone kept shrilling, echoing off the barn walls, and Trevor sighed, touching his forehead to her own as she flopped her arms out against the mat, resigning herself.

  “Sonofabitch,” he muttered, knowing he had to answer.

  He was supposed to be on leave for another two weeks. The damned FBI had called him every single day. Sometimes, several times a day. She didn’t know what exactly he did, but he was assigned to freaking south Louisiana. How busy could they possibly be?

  He rolled off her and crossed the sparring ring to grab the phone, and she listened to his very brief, tense side of the conversation.

  “What?” he asked. Then, “No, it’s—”

  He stood, back rigid, muscles granite. Silent. There was a stillness to him that made her very very nervous, as if he were a predator about to spring, and she held her breath. “I’ll be there,” he said, then snapped his phone shut.

  He didn’t tell her what the call was about, and Bobbie Faye knew better than to ask, but it fucking killed her. Fucking FBI and fucking missions and fucking going away and he’d only be leaving right now if it was bad. And didn’t that response have all the maturity of a rabid teenager. Gah.

  She stood in the empty living room of this tiny house he’d bought . . . they’d bought, she corrected herself, as he packed his overnight bag. He had a “go bag” in the bedroom for emergencies—extra clothes, phone, boots, and enough survival crap to make a Sherpa orgasmic, but this bag had more civilized stuff, like his shaving kit, nice jeans, and shirts. She didn’t even want to know what was in the hanging bag draped over the card table they used as a dining set.

  She wanted to hit something, but there was nothing to hit, kick, throw, slam, or smash. She glanced around at the emptiness: white walls, white trim, no furniture, not a single item, no rugs, just hardwood floors in desperate need of repair and refinishing. She toed one of the warped boards.

  “We’ll sand that when I get back,” he said, a little too chipper for anyone talking about a home improvement project.

  She threw him a skeptical glance. “Can you imagine me holding onto one of those big floor sanders? We’ll be lucky if I don’t take out a couple of walls with that thing.”

  “I plan on aiming you at the two we need to take out anyway.”

  “Very economical of you.”

  “Just wait ’til you see how we remove the tile in the kitchen.”

  He looked oddly happy at the thought. The man was clearly a masochist. Of course, that explained an awful lot about their relationship.

  “You’re just trying to con me into thinking you need more power tools,” she said.

  “I’m adding it to the vows—love, honor, and router, ’til death do us part.”

  “You just made a hand tool sound dirty.”

  “Good to know,” he said, grinning.

  There was phenomenal woodwork for such a tiny house, and she focused on the Craftsman-styled shelves at the other end of the living room. They were empty, like the rest of the place. A couple of shelves had gone missing and someone had let their kid paste all sorts of stickers on the inside of the bottom cabinet. She had expected the big bad federal agent to scoff at the blasphemy of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles rubbed to a mottled gray pattern on “quality woodwork,” but he’d squatted in front of that cabinet and smiled as he traced Michaelangelo (he laughed when she knew the name) and said, “This stays, when we refinish. People were happy here. They were a family here.”

  She still, a month later, couldn’t figure out how in the hell he’d found this property, especially at a price they could afford. He couldn’t have created a more private home if he’d carved the place out of the swamp himself. He’d found it after she’d gotten out of the hospital—he hated the vulnerability of her trailer. Too many prying neighbors, too easy to rip the door open, too hard to protect. Hard to be a federal agent with just anyone able to tiptoe up to the trailer, unobserved, and overhear everything through the too-thin walls. She’d sold the trailer and most of her stuff to afford her half of the down payment, and they’d only just moved in a couple of weeks ago. There were a few boxes—very few—to unpack. She had almost nothing left from when they’d met and her trailer had flooded (and then fallen over, and then ripped in half) and he’d moved around so much, he hadn’t bothered to ever accumulate things.

  He put two folded t-shirts on top of a photo. He’d packed the snapshot Ce Ce had taken of the two of them the day she’d first said yes. Bobbie Faye hadn’t even realized he’d had a copy made. And it was framed. When had he done that? Did a man really need a photo if he was only going to be gone a short while? She inhaled, sharply, and had to turn away from the satchel, look away from his own too-serious face. She practically vibrated in place. He thought he was distracting her with the remodeling talk, but she wasn’t fooled.

  She wanted to know what that call was about.

  By the time she was seven, she’d been the kind of kid who’d unwrapped her presents before Christmas, played with them each night, and then rewrapped them before her mom realized what she’d done. How on earth did anyone else actually wait? And it didn’t matter what the hell was inside the box. It could be bricks. It only mattered that she didn’t know what was inside the box.

  She should ask Trevor about that call.

  No. T
hat would be wrong. And immature.

  Maybe she could hint? She could definitely hint. He’d feel guilty about leaving, and he’d probably tell her something to make her feel better. She could adopt a puppy-dog pathetic schmoopy-face but she wouldn’t be playing fair. Right? Right. But really, hinting wasn’t all that bad.

  “Shut up.”

  Dammit, that was out loud.

  Trevor glanced her direction as she sighed. “I’m not sure what’s scarier, Sundance. That you argue with yourself, or that you lose the arguments.”

  She would have answered, but instead, she just stood there in the empty living room, fiddling with the ring on her left hand, staring at the socks that she’d given him that he was about to put in his bag. She skirted the edge of such a deep well of emotion, it threatened her, an abyss. Questions logjammed inside her throat: Is this dangerous? Will you be gone long? How do you know if you’ll be safe? How am I supposed to just stand here and say good-bye?

  How could she give him anything less?

  Hell, she was probably a bigger risk for him. She’d been in the middle of so many disasters that various state agencies now tracked her, and he’d helped her survive the last two. Which had put his life at risk.

  He glanced up when she didn’t answer, and stopped his packing to pull her to him. She tried to memorize everything: the cut of the black t-shirt against his biceps, the faded scar just under his eye, the brush of his hair against her cheek, the smell of his skin and soap and something that was always reminiscent of the fresh, earthy scent after a rain. The stubble from his chin scratched against her temple, reminding her of just how rough he’d appeared, all edgy and darkness, the first day she’d met him. When she’d sort of taken him hostage. And she remembered that she’d learned that he’d worked undercover as a mercenary for many, many months. Oh, fuck.

  “Months?” she asked, finally focusing on the one possibility that was driving a spike through her.

  “No. Not at all. I’m not going to be long.” He massaged the tension out of her shoulders. “Couple of days. Probably not even that, but worst-case scenario, three. I’ll be fine. I’ve done a lot more dangerous things, including running around exploding silos with you.”

  “Oh, good, that’s a calming image to leave me with, thank you.”

  He kissed her temple as he held her. “Seriously. This won’t be bad.”

  “Yeah, because good luck has always worked out for me.”

  “You don’t have anything to worry about. Except the sander I’ve reserved for next week.”

  “I’ve changed my mind. You’re not a masochist. You’re a sadist.”

  “Meanwhile,” he said, ignoring her, “pick a damned date.”

  “See? Entirely my point.”

  “I’m serious.”

  She couldn’t afford a wedding yet. She’d sold everything she could sell for her half of the house down payment. It wasn’t fair or right to make him pay for everything. Why in the hell couldn’t he see that?

  “Maybe when I get—” overlapped, because he already knew the argument, with him saying:

  “It’s my wedding, too, I’ll pay—”

  Someone hammered on the door, and they both stopped abruptly as Trevor winced.

  Wait. He winced. The man had stood in front of loaded guns without so much as a flicker of concern, and now he winced?

  “Damn, he’s early.”

  “He?” she asked, but Trevor had already crossed to the door.

  A disheveled man loitered on their doorstep. Slightly shorter than Trevor, he had gray eyes and salt-and-pepper hair, half of which stood on end as though he’d run his hands through it and it had decided, fuck it, I’ll just stand up straight and be done with it. Bobbie Faye placed him as slightly older than Trevor’s thirty-seven, though that was probably deceiving since it was the color of the hair and the lines around his eyes that gave that impression. The rest of him seemed fit enough. It was hard to tell beneath the wrinkles in the khakis and the ugliest, stained, green and yellow plaid shirt she’d ever laid eyes on.

  “Bobbie Faye Sumrall,” Trevor said, by way of introduction, “this is Berneke Rilestone. Riles for short.”

  The man stared at her as he rocked on his heels, an odd self-satisfied expression canting across his bland face . . . she might have thought him the average good-ol’-boy since having a couple of loose screws seemed to be a prerequisite. But oh, he was smug about something, all cat-swimming-in-the-cream smug, and it set her on edge. Maybe it was his violently clashing attire that implied a future when he went batshit psycho and people interviewed the neighbors, who would call him “colorful” and “interesting.” Or maybe it was because there was something bleak and confrontational that hovered in the air around him, like too much garlic after a heavy meal. Trevor had mentioned Riles in the context of Spec Ops friends, and since everything they’d done had been pretty much classified, she’d never heard much more than a few bar stories.

  She’d never gotten to meet an actual friend of Trevor’s. Other agents, sure. Sometimes in the context of almost blowing them up, which did not put her in the “must have” for the Christmas party invites, she knew. His military buddies were spread out over the world. His family—geez, just the thought of having to meet them one day—well, she just wouldn’t think about that. Now, however, an actual friend had shown up, and her nerves swamped her, her pulse raced. Hell, she’d had a calmer time dealing that day when the bear was intent on making her its midday snack.

  Sonofabitch. Trevor did not want to do this. He didn’t want her to meet Riles this way.

  But he couldn’t tell her what was going on.

  And it was all fucking compounded by the fact that he hadn’t finished installing the surveillance equipment. The closing of this house, the move—all in the last month—fixing a few minor repairs before they moved in. He thought he’d have more time. Hell, he’d hoped to never have to do this—to leave without knowing for sure he’d make it back.

  She pasted on a big smile, stepped out with her hand thrust forward, tougher than she thought she was, braver, too, and said, “Hi, Riles. It’s great to meet you.”

  Riles, the bastard, didn’t shake her hand. Instead, he glanced at her with a quick appraisal, and then back to Trevor. “You didn’t tell Nutcakes here, did you?”

  She stiffened, her wide smiling gaze downshifting into incredulous mode and Trevor shook his head at Riles. “Quit being an ass. And I was getting to that part.”

  “Why,” she asked, enunciating the words carefully, dropping her hand to her side, “are you and the walking pile of laundry talking about me as if I’m not here?” She focused on Trevor and he could practically see the adrenaline pump into her system. “Tell. Me. What?”

  Trevor crossed back to her and gave her a direct you’re not going to argue with this look. “Riles is a very good friend of mine. He’s going to hang here while I’m gone, just to make sure everything stays safe and calm.”

  She blinked. Waiting for the punch line. Then he saw the moment she realized he was serious. “You . . . got me . . . a baby-sitter?”

  “No,” he said, carefully. “Think of Riles as a bodyguard. A watchdog.”

  “Woof,” his friend said in a deep baritone.

  Trevor slanted an aggravated glance at Riles. “You’re not helping.”

  Riles beamed, his hands shoved in his khakis as he rocked on his heels, clearly enjoying the moment. “Hey, I’m not the idiot who decided to marry a woman with a basket full of crazy.”

  Trevor put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. It was a warning move, and Riles knew it. Bobbie Faye’s glance bounced back and forth between the friends as Trevor said, “Insult her again and I’ll let her shoot you.”

  Riles hmphed, condescending, not the least bit intimidated, and Trevor noted how Bobbie Faye sized up exactly where she could put a bullet that would wound but not permanently damage him. If Riles was lucky.

  “She’s a better shot than you, you ass, so quit provoki
ng her.”

  Riles’s eyes narrowed, clearly questioning Trevor, and Trevor nodded—Riles had been his sniper in Afghanistan and there really weren’t that many people alive better than Riles, and Riles knew it.

  Which made Riles reassess Bobbie Faye, his expression grinding into a combination of curiosity and disgust, which Trevor knew his fiancée read as clearly as he did.

  “I don’t know what your problem is with me,” she said to Riles, then lower, almost as an afterthought, “although it is Tuesday.”

  Trevor glanced at her, confused.

  She shrugged. “Sometimes that’s all it takes. Meanwhile, you had better be kidding about this.”

  “Not even close.” The empty room amplified her breathing. Or maybe that rushing sound was her rising blood pressure. He was leaning toward the latter as her expression tilted into oh fuck no.

  “I have had my fill of being watched.” Especially by him. He had surveilled her for the better part of a year before they met (while he was undercover). She still wasn’t happy about the fact that he’d had the chance to know her intimately before they’d ever gotten together.

  “I need you to do this.” His warm hands held her as he ducked his head a bit to meet her gaze. If he’d had time, he’d have gotten the surveillance equipment set up and she’d have had time to fully recover and he’d have made sure she was at fighting strength and shooting without hesitation and . . . fuck it, he was kidding himself. Even if he’d had months to prepare, he wouldn’t want to do this. Hated leaving her more than he could tell her. He would have thought he wouldn’t do this even under gunpoint.

  Well, this mission was officially the gunpoint of the FBI saying, “You Will Come.” He had no choice, especially considering what and who they were tracking.

  “I thought you said this job isn’t dangerous.”

  “Not to me. Not right now. And I need to keep it that way. I’m asking you to trust me.”

  “I’m fine.”

  He arched an eyebrow. She was far from fine and she knew he knew it.