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