Kitabı oku: «Wild Ways», sayfa 2

Rafe sighed. Maybe he was losing his touch. Maybe it was time to find a new line of work, because nothing about this whole case had come even close to going the way he’d planned it.

“Okay, okay,” he growled, planting both hands flat on the floor where the bartender could see them. “Where’s the guy who was shooting at me?”

“Down,” the bartender said succinctly. “Bleeding all over my floor. You going to pay to have that cleaned up?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll pay, I’ll pay.” Rafe swore under his breath again. “I’m going to get up now, so keep your finger off that damn trigger.”

“Just don’t give me no reason to do otherwise,” the bartender rumbled. “Come up slow. That skinny little runt down there beside you have a gun?”

“N-no,” Reggie stammered. “I—I’m an accountant.”

Rafe didn’t see where that made a difference, but it seemed to satisfy the bartender, who motioned Reggie up with the barrel of the shotgun. Honey Divine was still wriggling and swearing underneath him, and Rafe eased himself off her gingerly, wondering how long it would take the bruises on his ribs to fade.

The bartender was watching him intently, and Rafe got up slowly, hands well outstretched, giving the man no reason to feel threatened. “I’m a cop,” he lied. “ID in my hip pocket.”

The bartender gestured with the shotgun. “Get it out. Slow.”

Rafe reached behind him and under the jacket slowly. The Taurus brushed his fingertips but he left it there, easing his wallet from his jeans pocket instead. He held it up, then flipped it open and tossed it onto the nearest upright table. The bartender picked it up, read it, looked at the ID picture and then at Rafe, then nodded after a moment and lowered the shotgun. “Nevada? You’re a long way from home.”

“Special assignment,” Rafe lied without missing a beat. According to that forged ID he was with the sheriff’s department.

“And this guy?” The gun barrel gestured toward the salesman. He was sitting on the floor looking rumpled and sullen, clutching his upper arm with his hand. Blood trickled through his fingers.

“No damn idea,” Rafe replied quite honestly. He gave the man a long, hard look, running the bland features through a mental mug book. Nothing. Whoever the guy was, he was new to the equation.

The bartender grunted. “So he just started shooting at you for no reason at all, is that what you’re saying?”

“He wasn’t shooting at me, he was shooting at him.” Rafe nodded toward Reggie, who was still sitting on the floor looking shaken and pale.

“And you decided to do your civic duty and stop it.”

The bartender sounded skeptical and bored with the whole thing, and Rafe sighed again, deciding it was time for a bit of embroidery. “I was sent here to bring this man back to Nevada.” He gave Reggie another nod. “There’s a warrant out on him. Fraud and embezzlement.”

The bartender grunted again. “What did he do?”

“Scammed a whole lot of little old ladies out of their life savings.”

Reggie gave an indignant yelp of protest.

“Which doesn’t explain why someone was trying to kill him.”

“If someone scammed your old granny out of her life savings, wouldn’t you be out for blood?” It sounded so plausible, Rafe almost believed it himself.

“That’s absolutely preposterous!” Honey Divine had managed to catch her breath finally and was sitting flat on her bottom on the floor, glaring through tangles of hair, one shoulder distractingly bare. She pulled the sweater up impatiently, then shoved the mound of blond hair out of her eyes. “Mr. Dawes has done no such thing!”

The bartender lifted an eyebrow. “And you are…?”

“Special Agent Mary Margaret Kavanagh,” she enunciated very clearly into the expectant silence. Her hair had tipped over one eye again and she gave it a shove, then swore with unladylike exasperation and reached up and pulled it off entirely.

“He scalped her!” The drunk at the bar—who apparently hadn’t moved throughout the entire melee—stared at her in stupefaction. “The Indian scalped her!”

Rafe gave the man an evil glare that made him recoil, and the bartender just snapped, “Shut up, Claude,” without even turning around. But even he seemed taken aback at the sight of a woman sitting on his barroom floor with her hair in her hand. “Special…what?”

She gave her head a shake and her own hair—masses of it, tangled and as red as a fire engine—tumbled around her face. Then she got to her feet, teetering a trifle unsteadily on those four-inch heels, retrieved her small handbag and rummaged through it. “Special Agent Kavanagh,” she repeated impatiently. “And Mr. Dawes is in my custody.” She found what she was looking for and pulled it out, walking across to hand it to the bartender. “You can call the number there on my ID and confirm it.”

Rafe looked at her, narrow-eyed. “If you’re FBI, lady, I’m Clark Kent.”

“I’m not FBI,” she said crisply. “I’m with a special agency that specializes in—” She stopped and glared at him. “Who did you say you were?”

Rafe paused very slightly, selecting and rejecting a dozen explanations in the space of a heartbeat, trying to fix on the one that would get him out of here with the least amount of trouble and explanation. Government agent. Just his damn luck. What the hell else could go wrong today?

“His ID makes him for a Nevada cop,” the bartender spoke up.

“I doubt that.” She looked at Rafe evenly. “I’d be very surprised if you’re in law enforcement, Mr….?”

Again, he thought it through. “Blackhorse,” he replied after a moment, deciding this much truth couldn’t get him into too much trouble. “Rafe Blackhorse.”

“And you’re obviously not drunk.”

Rafe managed a tight smile. “Wallpaper.”

“Excuse me?”

“People see a drunk Indian, they don’t see him at all. He blends into the scenery, like wallpaper. It makes for good…camouflage.”

“That’s very cynical, Mr. Blackhorse.”

Rafe smiled coolly. “Just experience, Agent Kavanagh.”

Her eyes narrowed very slightly. “You’re the man who’s been following us.”

Reggie Dawes made a gurgling sound.

“That’s right,” Rafe said after a split second, deciding to stick to the truth as far as he could. It was hard to concentrate, with those aquamarine eyes locked on his, but he forced himself to hold her gaze. “I’m taking Dawes back to Nevada.”

Another gurgle from Dawes.

The woman simply smiled. “I don’t know what the Nevada sheriff’s department wants with Mr. Dawes, but they’ll have to take it up with the Justice Department.”

“Tony sent him,” Dawes piped up from somewhere behind Rafe. “And this guy over here…this guy’s from Atlantic City.”

Special Agent Mary Margaret Kavanagh said a word that Rafe was pretty sure wasn’t in any special agent manual. She stepped by him and walked across to where Dawes was peering down at the salesman from a safe distance.

“His name’s Pags Pagliano, and he’s muscle for the Atlantic City operation.”

“One of Gus Stepino’s men?”

Dawes nodded, Adam’s apple bobbing wildly. He was pale and damp, and he swallowed audibly. “Th-that means he got tired of waiting for Tony to take care of it and sent his own guy after me.”

“Terrific.” Kavanagh did not look happy.

And Rafe had to sympathize. If Stepino’s men got Dawes first, he was out a cool thirty grand.

“We’re leaving,” she said abruptly. “Now.”

“Not with Dawes, you’re not,” Rafe told her flatly.

Kavanagh looked around at him coolly and opened her mouth to reply when Dawes stepped in front of her. “W-what about Charlie?”

The salesman—Pagliano—snorted. “Don’t hold your breath waiting for him to turn up, Reggie.”

“You killed him?” Dawes’s voice ended on a squeak.

Pagliano just smiled a feral little smile. “Your best friend sold you out. Three grand, Reggie. That’s all you’re worth, can you believe it?” The smile widened. “Gus would have paid ten times that, but Charlie’s such a moron he only asked for three.” He gave another snort and shook his head in disgust. “Moron.”

Dawes looked sick. “I don’t believe you. Charlie wouldn’t do that.”

“How do you think I found you so quick? You think I stumbled into this little rat hole out here in Nowhere, North Dakota, by accident?” His tone made it clear he didn’t think Charlie Oakes was the only moron of his acquaintance.

Kavanagh had gone a shade or two paler herself, and Rafe wondered how long she’d been on the job. First solo case, maybe. Which could mean she would be easy to bluff, if he played his cards right. But it could also mean she might not bluff at all, too worried about getting it right, about making points with her boss, to risk messing up. He swore, using another word or two that wouldn’t show up in any government manual.

“Well, Agent Kavanagh,” he said carelessly, “I’ll leave Pagliano in your capable hands while I get Dawes back to—”

“Not on your life.” She turned those amazing aquamarine eyes onto him again. “I don’t know who you are, Mr. Blackhorse, but I doubt very much you have ever worked for Nevada law enforcement. And you’re not taking Reggie Dawes anywhere.”

“You don’t think he’s a cop?” The bartender swung the barrel of the shotgun almost casually toward Rafe.

“I’d be very surprised, but I’ll let your sheriff sort it out. Tell him we’ll be in contact.”

The bartender blinked. “Where are you going to be?”

“En route to Washington.” She shoved her ID back into her handbag, then pulled out a business card and a pen and started writing something on the back of the card. “When the sheriff gets here, have him call this man at this number. He’ll verify everything I’ve told you and will arrange for someone to come out and collect Pagliano. He can deal with Mr. Blackhorse then. And call an ambulance for Mr. Pagliano, will you? I’d like him alive when we try him for attempted murder.”

Rafe managed not to swear out loud. So much for wondering what else could go wrong. “Look, honey, this isn’t—”

“Special Agent Kavanagh,” she said crisply. “Honey Divine is Mr. Dawes’s wife.”

“That’s not what—” He caught himself. Just about the last thing he needed right now was a lecture on political correctness.

“Hold it!” The bartender’s voice rattled a nearby tray of glasses. “Nobody’s goin’ nowhere till Sheriff Haney gets here. I’ll let him figure out which of you’s telling the truth and which ain’t.”

“Oh, for—” Kavanagh caught herself, eyes glittering with subdued anger. “All right. Fine. Have it your way.”

Rafe eased his breath out on a long, weary sigh, thinking of his thirty thousand dollars winging its way south even as he was standing there. It had sounded like easy money—once.

Chapter 2

It took pretty much the whole day and a multitude of lengthy phone calls to convince Sheriff Dobbes Haney that she wasn’t kidnapping Reggie, that the Beretta in her handbag was registered, and that she wasn’t wanted on a half-dozen warrants for who knows what kind of mayhem. And that Special Agent Mary Margaret Kavanagh was, indeed, exactly who she said she was. He didn’t seem happy about it. And after the last phone call, this one to Virginia, during which he seemed to do more listening than talking, he was even less so. But he did finally tell her she was free to go about her business. Suggesting—strongly—that she do whatever it was Special Agents from unspecified offices in Virginia do outside his jurisdiction.

That was fine by Meg. She couldn’t get far enough away fast enough.

But by then it had been almost eight o’clock, too late to do anything but drive to the nearest town big enough to have an airport of any size and wait for the earliest flight eastbound.

Which was why she was sitting in a cheap motel room at a little after midnight, listening to Reggie brush his teeth in the bathroom between their connecting rooms and wondering what in heaven’s name she was doing with her life.

Maybe her sister was right, and this obsession about finding Bobby’s killer was getting out of hand. She could be married right now. Was supposed to be married right now. Living in Marblehead in a big overwrought Tudor, discussing lawns with the landscaping people and wallpaper with the interior decorator and choosing names for their first child. If she’d married six months ago, as planned, this would be a suite at a luxurious hotel, not a ratty room in the Dewdrop Inn. And the man brushing his teeth in the bathroom wouldn’t be a skinny little accountant for the mob, but Royce Bennett Packard of Packard Industries.

Meg closed her eyes and tried to conjure up the image of Royce brushing his teeth, to no avail. Did Royce brush his teeth? She imagined he must, they were such perfect teeth. Like everything about Royce—the country club tan, the health club physique, the gentleman’s club portfolio. Not a hair, a molar or an investment out of place.

She wondered, very idly, what he would have thought if he’d seen her today. Not just the spandex and the wig and the four-inch heels—those would have rendered him speechless on the spot. But the rest of it: her lying flat on her belly on a barroom floor in the middle of a gunfight, a fifteen-round semiautomatic Beretta pistol in her handbag and a hundred and eighty pounds of good-looking Nevada cop on top of her.

Not pleased, she decided. Royce’s vision of the future Mrs. Packard did not include guns, bullets or cops of any variety.

And then, to her annoyance, she found herself thinking about that good-looking Nevada cop. If that’s what he was—the cop part, not the good-looking part. As skeptical as she was about the first, the second was beyond argument.

The last she’d seen of Rafe Blackhorse, Haney had told him to park himself in a chair and wait, and Blackhorse had done just that. He’d apparently spent the afternoon asleep in a wooden chair that he’d tipped back against the wall in the booking room, long legs stretched out, booted feet resting comfortably on a desk, ankles crossed, looking as relaxed as a cat.

“Miss Kavanagh?”

Meg looked up as Reggie poked his head hesitantly into her room.

“My pajamas are in my other suitcase, and it’s in the car.”

“Forget it, Reggie. You’re not setting foot outside this motel until tomorrow morning.”

He managed to look both contrite and indignant. “But I always sleep in pajamas.”

“Well, you’re not sleeping in pajamas tonight.”

“But—”

“Reggie, we nearly got killed this afternoon because of you, so I’m not feeling as generous as I could be, all right? No pajamas.”

“It’s not my fault we nearly got killed,” he said prissily. “You are supposed to be protecting me, after all. It was up to you to—”

“All right!” Meg threw her hands up to stop him. “All right, I’ll get your pajamas!” She got to her feet and grabbed the car keys from the nightstand, then paused and turned back to the bed and dug the Beretta from under the pillow. She tucked it into the back waistband of her jeans and headed for the door, jabbing her finger at Reggie as she walked by him. “You sit down and stay out of trouble. I’ve told the manager if he puts through any calls from either of these rooms without my go-ahead, I’ll have his head on a plate. So don’t even think about trying to contact Honey. And I’ll be just outside, so there’s no point in trying to make a run for it.”

He looked hurt. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“In a pig’s eye you wouldn’t,” she replied uncharitably. “I wish you’d get it into your head that Spence O’Dell is your only hope of getting out of this alive, Reggie. But if you make another run for it, he’ll let Stepino kill you just on principle and make his case some other way.”

Leaving him standing there to mull this over, she turned off the lights both inside and outside the room, then pulled open the door and stepped out into the cold North Dakota night. She closed the door behind her and stepped well away from it, tucking herself into the shadows under the open stairway to the second story. There were a handful of cars in the parking lot and she scanned the dimly lit area for movement.

She’d been careful when she’d found this place, doubling back a couple of times, keeping Reggie out of sight when she’d registered and telling the manager she was traveling with her senile old aunt, which explained the no-phone rule. She’d taken every precaution in the book, but she was still jumpy as she eyed the parked cars.

Pagliano had almost gotten them that afternoon because she’d been careless. That wouldn’t happen again, but Pagliano wouldn’t be the only hired gun out here on Reggie’s trail. Gus Stepino obviously figured that Tony Ruffio and his hired gun weren’t up to the job and was taking care of it himself. So odds were there were others out here hunting for Dawes, all working independently, all stone killers, all very, very good at what they did.

She, on the other hand, had the requisite month of generic agency training under her belt, plus another month of field agent training done on the sly and without O’Dell’s knowledge. Had this been an authorized assignment, she would be out here with no less than six months of special training behind her, and she sure wouldn’t be alone. She would be with at least two others, relegated to fetching coffee and standing guard while learning everything she could.

If she didn’t get herself or anyone else killed after a few of those jobs, and if O’Dell was in an expansive mood, she might then be assigned as second agent on a case, working closely with a mentor who would be testing her every step of the way, watching for weakness, for flaws, for anything that could be a problem. And after maybe a year of that, if she was very good and very lucky and was still alive and still interested, she might get assigned a solo job.

Might, because regardless of how good she was, she was still a woman. And O’Dell didn’t like women field agents.

There had been two in twenty years. Now there were none. And O’Dell made no bones about the fact that he intended to keep it that way.

Which was why she was out there half trained and without a clue, determined to prove she could handle the job if it killed her.

Bad choice of words. Meg shook her head and gave the parking lot another searching look, then walked across to her rental, wishing she had eyes in the back of her head. No wonder Bobby used to be so darned jumpy when he was home. Now and again she had walked up on him without warning and he’d nearly leapt out of his own skin, hand going instinctively to where his gun would be had their father allowed them in the house. Now Bobby was dead, and she was the one leaping at shadows. Little wonder everyone wished she would marry Royce Packard and concentrate on charity luncheons and babies.

She unlocked the trunk of the car and raised the lid. Reggie’s suitcase had slid toward the back and she couldn’t reach it without practically crawling in after it. She rested one knee on the bumper and leaned way forward, balanced precariously on her belly and one braced arm, wondering for the umpty-millionth time why everyone in her family had inherited their father’s height except her. Bobby used to say it was because she was the youngest and by the time she was born, all the tall genes had been used up. And Maureen always said—

“That’s one hell of a tantalizing view, Special Agent Mary Margaret Kavanagh. But if I were one of Stepino’s men, you’d be as dead as last night’s halibut.”

For his pains, Rafe damn near lost her.

One instant she was teetering over the lip of the car trunk, rounded little bottom upthrust and perfectly showcased by the loving caress of soft denim and moonlight. And in the next, she’d shot off sideways, moving faster than he’d ever seen a woman move.

He caught her, but not without effort, and he swore savagely at himself as he fought her up against the side of the car, where she couldn’t turn on him. Mistakes like that could get a man real dead, and he didn’t like what it said about his concentration. This whole job had been a series of mistakes from beginning to end, and if he ever got Dawes to Las Vegas and got his thirty grand, he was going to call it quits for a while, because he was by God losing his touch.

Kavanagh was struggling like a tiger, but he had the advantage of surprise, weight and height, and she wasn’t getting very far. He’d wedged her against the side of the car where she had no room to fight, and had shoved one foot between hers and forced her legs apart. He’d pressed his forearm diagonally across her chest, holding her against the car, and had wrapped his hand around her throat so she was instinctively focused on prying his fingers away from her windpipe instead of trying to claw his eyes out, which he suspected would be her first choice if he gave her time to think about it.

She was panting for breath and he could feel her heart pounding against his arm, the pulse in her throat racing under his fingers. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he told her quietly. “Quit fighting and I’ll let you go.”

The moonlight made her eyes glitter and he nearly smiled at the ferocious anger in them. “You’re outgunned, honey. Give it up. I caught you fair and square.”

She gave another furious wriggle and he just leaned against her slightly, rocking his left thigh against her pelvis so she was pinned against the car. He smiled down into her eyes. “You’re the most fun I’ve had standing up in a long time, Irish. Keep wiggling around like that and we could be well on our way to a second date before we’ve even traded phone numbers.”

She went as still as stone. And as pliant. Every inch of her—and there weren’t that many—was nearly vibrating with outrage, and again he found himself nearly overwhelmed with the urge to laugh.

“Let. Go. Of. Me.” The words held raw fury, but she had stopped wiggling around, to his faint regret. She was standing very still now, eyes snapping with rage, all fear long gone. “If you don’t let me go, you’re going to spend the rest of your eternal life in the worst, rat-infested prison in—”

“Where’s your gun?” he interrupted calmly.

She stopped in midthreat. “What?”

“Gun. Beretta, if I overheard Haney right. Where is it?”

“Inside.”

But she said it a bit too quickly, and he just smiled down at her tolerantly. “I don’t think so, Irish.” Slowly, he ran his free hand down her flank, fingertips brushing hot, bare flesh where her sweatshirt had ridden up. It made his belly tighten and he smiled as he moved his hand down her stomach and thigh, back up again.

She wasn’t hiding anything in those jeans but a well-placed dimple or two, he was already sure of that. He settled his hand on her bare waist, wondering if he wasn’t perhaps enjoying this just a little too much, and ran the flat of his palm up and around her rib cage. Her skin was hot velvet and she started to fight, then thought better of it and went still again, small chin set with anger.

The gun was in the small of her back, the metal warm to his touch, and he eased it free of her waistband. “Okay,” he told her agreeably as he eased his weight away from her. “I’m going to let you go, and I don’t want you doing anything reckless. I don’t want to hurt you, but I’m sure not going to stand here and let you try to rip out my eyeballs, either.”

She smiled malevolently. “It wasn’t your eyeballs I was thinking of ripping out, Mr. Blackhorse.”

In spite of himself, he gave a snort of laughter. “You’ve got brass ones, lady, I’ll give you that much. But I’ll still break your arm if you try anything stupid.”

He could see her thinking it over, testing the threat for truth, anger and resentment warring with good sense. He held her there a moment or two longer, until he could tell by her eyes that good sense was winning, then he released her abruptly and stepped well back, bracing himself.

There was a heartbeat of time when Meg actually contemplated going for him. But she took a deep, ragged breath of cold air instead and forced herself to stay where she was, her desire to maim him for life counterbalanced by an equally strong desire to stay alive. There was something about the cool watchfulness in those dark eyes that made her think his threat to break her arm wasn’t entirely idle.

So she satisfied herself with swearing at him instead, calling him a couple of choice things, not surprised when he didn’t turn a hair. By the look of him, he’d been called worse over the years. She tugged her sweatshirt down and combed her hair back with her fingers, praying he couldn’t see how badly her hands were shaking. “Was there a point to this exercise, or is being obnoxious something you do for fun?”

To her annoyance, he just grinned lazily. “Well, I can’t say it hasn’t been fun.” The grin widened suggestively and he let his gaze rove from hair to ankle and slowly back up again. Then his eyes met hers, cool again. “But, yeah, there’s a point. I want Dawes.”

Meg just stared at him. Then she snorted. “Yeah, well, I want world peace and a cure for cancer, Mr. Blackhorse, but I don’t see them happening tonight, either. Reggie Dawes is in my custody. If you want him, you’re going to have to take your turn. You can put in a request with my boss and maybe in fifty years—when we’re through with him—you can take him back to wherever it is you’re from.”

“Nevada.”

“Whatever.” She put her hand out. “My weapon, please.”

His smile was pleasant. “I don’t think so. Not until I have Dawes.”

“You’re not getting Dawes.”

“Yep.” He shoved her Beretta into his belt. “I am.” Then he turned and walked toward the motel room door.

Short of bringing him down with a volley of bad language, there was nothing Meg could do but scramble after him. He turned the knob and shoved the door open, and Meg found herself holding her breath, but Reggie was nowhere to be seen and the connecting door between the rooms was closed. Blackhorse stepped inside and Meg came in on his heels, not giving him a chance to lock her out.

Think! Damn it, no agent of O’Dell’s would just stand by and let this happen. Then again, no agent of O’Dell’s would have been caught as easily as she’d been, either.

“Where were you hiding?” she asked very casually, her mind going like a windmill. “Just for future reference.”

“Halfway up the stairs,” he said just as casually, giving the room a quick but thorough glance. “You’re new at this secret agent stuff, aren’t you?”

“What makes you think that?” Her voice was sharper than she’d intended.

“No other explanation for why you’re still alive.”

“I stayed one step ahead of you for a week,” she said with annoyance. “So I can’t be that bad.”

“I didn’t say you were bad.” His gaze held hers momentarily. “Just inexperienced. You looked around you out there, but you never looked up. I was right above you the whole time. If I’d been on Stepino’s payroll, I’d have taken you out with one shot to the head.”

Meg swallowed, knowing he was right but resenting the fact that he took it so matter-of-factly. I am inexperienced, she felt like shouting at him. So give me a break! Let me take Reggie back to the people who want him so my boss will let me be one of his agents and I can find out who killed my brother!

Did any of O’Dell’s agents get what they wanted by bursting into tears when things got tough?

The thought almost made her laugh. O’Dell’s agents, to a man, were walking advertisements for testosterone and macho heroics. Bullets and balls, the old agency joke went.

“So, where is the little guy?”

“He’s not here,” Meg said instantly, praying that Reggie was listening from the other room and had the sense to hide. “I’m not as inexperienced as you seem to think I am. Reggie’s in a safe place. Sorry to have led you on this wild-goose chase, but that was the point.” She smiled ingenuously, praying he took the bait.

And for a moment she thought he might. He glanced around the room again, frowning now, looking undecided. Then he shook his head. “No, I don’t think so, Special Agent Mary Margaret Kavanagh—that’s a hell of a mouthful, by the way. Mind if I just call you Irish for short?”

He was prowling now, peering in the closet, behind the drapes, glancing around at her now and again as though not entirely sure she wasn’t going to haul out a Mack Ten and start blasting away at him. Meg watched him silently, heart hammering against her ribs as she strolled casually toward the table where her handbag lay.

“You wouldn’t let the little weasel out of your sight, for one thing,” Blackhorse was saying. “And for another, I was on your tail ten minutes after you left Haney’s office, and you came straight here.”

“You weren’t on my tail.”

He just shrugged. “You were good, I’ll give you credit. Better than most, in fact. If you don’t get yourself killed before you get some experience under your belt, you’ll be pretty damn good.”

“I am pretty damn good.”

“You’re not bad.” He smiled as he said it, swinging his head around to look at her. His gaze drifted to her handbag, maybe three feet away now. “You wouldn’t have another gun in that thing, would you?”

Meg let her eyes widen with innocence. “Of course not.”

He laughed. “I’ll tell you one thing for nothing, Irish—you can’t lie for spit. That’s something you’re going to have to work on if you want to be successful at this secret agent business.”

“Will you stop calling me a secret agent!” Trying to distract him from the handbag, she strode across the room angrily. “I’m a government agent! Law enforcement of sorts. Or at least a lot closer to it than you are.”

“Uh-huh.” He didn’t seem impressed. “Well, let’s see what you’ve got in here.” Still keeping an eye on her, he grabbed her bag and upended it over the bed. A variety of things spilled across the faded bedspread, but the thing both of them looked at for a silent moment was the small, satin-blue Targa semiautomatic pistol.