Instead of answering he asked, “How about Jackson Hunter or Paul Ingersall?”
She shook her head. “No.”
Ky nodded. Rising, he told her, “I think we’re finished here, Miss Laine. We have your contact information. We’ll call when we’re done with the memory card.”
“I can’t have it now?”
The childlike whine in her husky voice reminded him of his nieces and nephews when they didn’t get their way.
“We haven’t finished with it yet. But I assure you, I’ll get it back to you.”
“When?”
“As I’ve said, when we’re finished with it.”
“This blows.” She frowned and crossed her arms in front of her again, this time her hands were fisted.
It wouldn’t have surprised him if she stomped her foot next. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his card. “These are my contact numbers. If you don’t hear from me in a few days, feel free to call.”
“A few days?” she cried. “That’s a lifetime to someone on a publishing deadline. I have a lot of work on that card and it needs to be uploaded and edited.”
“A few days are all we need.”
She mumbled something he couldn’t hear and didn’t think he wanted to, figuring it was something derogatory about himself. Ky made arrangements for an agent to drive her home and then watched as she was escorted out of the office.
“Hell hath no fury.” Jon chuckled.
“The quote pertains to a woman scorned.”
“Scorned or not, she’s one seriously pissed but fine-looking female.”
Ky agreed, on both counts. “Come on. We’ve got work to do.”
* * *
Gemma let herself into her condo, threw her keys down on the entrance table, toed off her shoes, and then plopped down onto her couch.
“Jerk.” She rubbed her tired eyes with the heels of her palms and dropped her chin to her chest. “Special Agent Jerk.”
Seething, she thought about all the shots she’d taken before the shooting. Pictures she now couldn’t work on. An entire day’s filming, shot. Literally. Shot to hell.
And there were some great images in the batch, too. The toddler twins running down the street with their parents laughingly chasing after them; the tiny, elderly woman carrying her equally frail Pomeranian; the Asian shopkeeper sweeping outside her grocery store, an e-cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth.
All pictures she knew would be perfect for the book. Only now she had to wait for them to be returned. And if there was one thing Gemma Laine hated, it was waiting.
That, and arrogant special agents.
She blew out a breath, her bangs dancing up off her forehead. Since seven o’clock that morning, she’d been walking around Manhattan, looking for inspiration. She hadn’t stopped to eat or drink before the shooting, and waiting at FBI headquarters had chewed up another few hours with nothing in her system. A loud growl snarled up from her empty stomach and echoed in the apartment.
A quick inventory of the refrigerator reminded her she’d wanted to stop at the local grocery today when she’d finished working. All that stared back at her from the cool interior was a pint of skim milk, a few bottles of beer from the last time her sister and brother-in-law had visited, and three eggs.
“Oh, well. An omelet it is.”
She put the frying pan her sister had given her for Christmas on the stovetop and turned the coil to medium heat. She’d never be the chef Kandy was, but she knew the basics for making a great breakfast. After whisking the eggs with some of the milk, she added a sprinkling of black pepper and nutmeg to the mix.
When the pan was the perfect temperature and she was about to pour in the eggs, the doorbell rang.
Since she lived in a doorman-controlled condo and all her family were well known to the man on duty, she assumed it was one of them. Without looking through the peephole, she opened the door. Her smile died in an instant.
“Scream and I’ll shoot,” a man holding a gun aimed at her face declared.
Gemma’s first instinct was to run. She pulled back, using the door as armor and pushed. Her intruder pushed right back, knocking her to the floor when the force of the door smashed into her. Flat on her butt, she crab crawled backward and tried to stand while the man flew into the apartment, banged the door shut and was on her in a second.
He grabbed a fist full of her hair and pulled her up by it.
Tears of pain sprang into her eyes. She ignored them, slipping into full defense mode. She flattened one of her hands over the one he had on her hair, pushed down and twisted, turning to face him as she’d been taught to do. If she stood upright she knew she’d be taller than he was, so she stayed stooped. He was attempting to yank on her hair again, but Gemma pulled her other hand back and, opening the web between her thumb and index finger wide, shot her hand out like a snake, striking him with the “V” straight in the throat.
The hit had its intended effect. He let go of her hair and staggered backward, one of his hands flying to his gullet. Gemma took a split second to stand tall, stepped one foot behind her and then, raising her opposite leg, kicked him full force straight in the chest with the ball of her foot, knocking him back. The gun dropped from his hand and she ran to it, but he reached out and grabbed her leg, jerking her down hard to the floor. Gemma felt her knee splinter into the hardwood floor and she recoiled into a fetal position from the impact. With his advantage, the intruder jumped over her, grabbed the gun and pointed it straight at her face again.
“Bitch! I should kill you now.” His neck was bright red from her strike, his voice raspy and raw like sandpaper gliding along fresh-cut wood.
“What do you want?” The gun bobbed up and down in his hand as she stared down its barrel.
“Where is it?”
“What?”
“The camera you were using today.”
His eyes flicked around the living room and then back to her, the gun still pointed straight at her face. “Where is it?” he repeated.
“I don’t have it. The police took it.” She rubbed her knee, gauging if she’d be able to stand on it. It wasn’t broken, but she’d landed hard.
“Try again. I watched you leave the FBI building. You had it in your hands. Now stop wasting my time and give it to me.”
Gemma quickly ran through all her options. Her knee was pounding, she had a lethal weapon pointed at her face and she was on the floor flat on her butt: a very bad position to deal from. Her gaze swept from the gun to the man’s face, memorizing it, detail by detail.
“It’s in the kitchen,” she told him, rolling over and trying to rise up on her uninjured leg.
“Get it. Now.”
“My knee is blown,” she told him, standing upright on her good foot. “I can’t move fast.”
To prove her point she tried to walk and hobbled, almost going down to the floor again.
Her intruder swore. “Forget it. I’ll get it.” He turned his head, the gun still directed at her. “In here?”
“It’s on the table.”
He never moved from her sight as he went into the kitchen. Gemma took the few moments to think what to do.
With the camera in his hand, he popped the back open and asked, “Where’s the memory card?”
“The