Straight Shooter

by Samantha Keith

  “That’s so young.”

  She nodded. “I met Dani when I was nine. I’d just arrived at my fourth foster home in two years and decided to set fire to their porch. I climbed the tree to watch the commotion and Dani climbed up out of nowhere. She sat right next to me and we were best friends after that.”

  “And the foster parents?”

  Fondness danced in her eyes. “Are saints. They saw the fire as a cry for help and never gave up on me. They adopted me a year later.”

  Relief uncoiled the hard knot of pain in his chest.

  She turned to survey the living room and her shoulders perked up. “Is there a pool?”

  He took the change of subject as a sign that she was done talking about her childhood, and led her out to the tiny backyard. A small pool ate up half the space. The other half sported a hammock and lounge chairs.

  “I can’t believe you haven’t been here in ten years.”

  He walked to one of the trees, pulled off an orange, and tossed it to Priss. She caught it against her chest in one hand. Her sweet tea sloshed but didn’t spill.

  “Sorry,” he said, grinning at her surprise.

  She lifted the fruit to her nose and inhaled. “Ah, this smells delicious. I could live here.” She nestled into one of the chairs, set her tea down on the glass patio table, and began peeling the orange. “You’re undercover, though. Isn’t it risky to use a personal property?” She pulled off a wedge and handed it to him and he took the seat adjacent to her.

  He popped it into his mouth, and its tangy citrus flavor was followed by sweetness. “Nah. My cousin owns this place now. He grew up down the road, so it made sense that the property went to him. It’s a vacation rental now, something my grandma would’ve hated, but we get to use it whenever we want.”

  The sun moved from behind a cloud and beamed at her face. She squinted but didn’t block the rays. “Who’s we?”

  “My parents and my other cousin, Ciara.”

  Priss nodded and stretched out her legs.

  He inched his chair closer. “Now that you know everything about me, it’s only fair you share something about you.”

  Her eyes turned to cool amber, and she slid another piece of orange between her lips. Her tongue flashed as she ate the fruit, and his dick thrummed against his shorts. The breeze picked up, moving pale tendrils of hair around her cheeks. She swept them to the side and kept her gaze averted, seemingly deciding if or how much she should share.

  Disappointment pulled at his heart. The federal agent part of him wanted to know more about the elusive criminal, but the other part, the part that buzzed to life when she touched him, wanted something much more dangerous.

  Her trust.

  “What is it you want to know?” The simple question was like a dangling carrot in the face of a pathetic rabbit.

  I want to know everything.

  “Whatever you want to tell me.”

  She shrugged. Some of the light had vanished from her eyes, and remorse for making her so somber stabbed him in the chest.

  “I don’t want to talk about my childhood.”

  He shrugged. “That’s fine.”

  “Or any job details that you could use against me later.” One side of her mouth hooked into a grin, but truth weighed down her words.

  “No problem.”

  She puckered her lips. “That doesn’t leave much.”

  “Tell me something you’ve always wanted. Something you think you can’t have.”

  Her face fell. She fingered the material of her dress at her thigh, her eyes downcast. Where the hell had that question come from? Maybe it was because he knew she longed for things. Parents. Family. You didn’t come from a rough childhood and not crave human contact. He was pushing her, and if he were smart, he’d shut down the conversation, get her ass on a flight home, and—

  “Kids.” The word came out on a strangled breath. The depths of her eyes turned to liquid, and those damn tears shone in the corners again. The sadness etched on her delicate features tore at his solar plexus.

  Kids. Years ago, he’d dreamed of having two or three kids running around. Now, at thirty-four years old, it was the furthest thing from his mind. The right woman hadn’t come along, and the relationships that had resulted from the occasional date never lasted more than a few weeks. He pictured Peyton with a baby on her hip and a swollen belly and a smile tickled his mouth. Maybe they’d have her hair, the golden streaks among the strawberry tones rivaled the yellow of the sun.

  “Kids would look good on you.”

  She beamed. “Thanks. Maybe one day.” A beat passed. Then Peyton took a swig of tea and straightened in her seat, alerting him that the conversation was over. “Where do we go from here?”

  He forced down a gulp of the sugary drink as his throat tightened. He ached to throw everything else away and get lost in conversation with her. She studied him from across the table, her eyes large and wary, the tendrils of her hair looped into curls around her slim shoulders, which were accentuated by the thin straps of her dress. Her full, pink lips tucked into the corners of her mouth, and desire warmed his abdomen again. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, flashing her golden-tinted thigh, and every male hormone in his body sprang to attention.

  God, she was beautiful. Sexy. Smart. And he needed her more than he needed his next breath.

  Damn, he was stupid. Could he be losing touch with reality? There was absolutely not a single good thing that could come from him having sex with Peyton Risk. Except, of course, burying his throbbing shaft inside her.

  Tension clogged his throat. He dug his fingers into the neckline of his shirt and pulled it away from his neck.

  Peyton’s eyebrow wriggled. “Well?”

  “You tell me who you’re working for.”

  Her smile flashed wide and painfully fake. “Not a chance.”

  He leaned forward and pressed his fingertips to her knee. Her supple skin called him to explore, but he didn’t budge. “I want to help you, to protect you. But I can’t do that if you’re protecting someone else. Who hired you? What do they want from Moretti?”

  She leaned forward, pressing her forearms to her knees and bringing her nose an inch from his. Gone was the intimacy, the spark, and everything light from her now-menacing yellow irises.

  “I don’t see how that would help. Beanie’s the one who wants to kill me, not the people who hired me.”

  “It all fits together, Priss. One giant puzzle that needs all the little pieces to make sense.”

  Seconds ticked by, and her stare moved from his eyes to his mouth, where it lingered. He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. But every atom in his body demanded that he press his mouth to hers.

  “I’ll think about it.” She leaned back in her seat, and he stopped himself from reaching forward and dragging her closer. “In the meantime, I want you to answer some questions for me.”

  “Like?”

  “Like what were you doing at my hotel, Agent Callahan?”

  CHAPTER 12

  Well, shit. She had him there. Satisfaction thickened the air around her.

  Rhett didn’t pull back. Nor did he touch her, even though her knee sat scant inches from his fingers. He hadn’t lied to her yet, and he wasn’t about to start now. She wouldn’t like what he had to say, but being an agent was in his blood. It didn’t matter that she was friends with Serena and Dani—he had an obligation to find out what she was involved in.

  He worked his gaze over her face and rubbed his fingers together. “I was checking up on you.” He let the words hang sheepishly.

  Her eyebrows stretched up her forehead and irritation flared her nostrils. “Why?”

  He shrugged. “I figured you’d either go after Moretti again, despite your promise not to, or someone would force you to get whatever they’d hired you to get in the first place.”

  “Hmm. Well, you were wrong.”

  “Whoever hired you isn’t upset you couldn’t follow through with the job?” Disbelief dr
agged out his words. If he wasn’t careful, he’d fall into interrogator mode.

  She glanced at the table then looked back at his face. He hated it when she lied—or was about to. She rocked her ankle from side to side on the patio. “No. I mean, I haven’t talked to him yet, so—”

  “Who’s him?”

  Firming her arms across her chest, she tilted her head. “I’m not a rat. Sorry.”

  Frustration rattled through him. He couldn’t pussyfoot around this. Jackson wanted an informant inside Moretti’s team in five days. If he didn’t get it—or something concrete—he’d get blown off the case. Hell, he’d probably get desk duty for three months. Like he’d said to Priss, it was all one big puzzle. Every piece mattered, especially the one she was holding so close to her chest.

  He needed a different angle. He eased away from her, stretched his legs out in front of him, and folded his arms over his chest, matching her pose. He stared at her face and didn’t flinch. “Beanie found you pretty easy, wouldn’t you say?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “Quicker than I gave him credit for.”

  “He knows your name.”

  The delicate skin of her throat bobbed. “Maybe. Or perhaps he followed you.” Her head jerked an inch, and accusation filled her words.

  “I doubt it. I can spot a tail a mile away, and I was at your hotel two hours before you came running out. He wouldn’t have waited around that long. Plus, he had your cell phone in his possession on Moretti’s yacht. You don’t think he could have extracted information from it?”

  Color seeped away from her cheeks.

  “With the cops Moretti has on his payroll, judges as well, tracking your credit card records would have been a cinch.”

  She shrugged. “What the hell is your point? He found me. There’s nothing I can do about that now.”

  “But there is, Priss. Do you think he’s going to stop looking for you? Hell, there’s probably someone stationed at your place in San Diego right now just waiting for you to walk in the door. The way I see it, you’ve got two choices: Work with me or against me.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Good grief. You must think I’m stupid.”

  He loosened his jaw. “You’re the farthest thing from stupid. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I can carry out my case without your help.”

  “Except I have to implicate my friends and business associates to do it.” Her voice rose in challenge. “You and I are a lot alike, Rhett. For every devoted bone in your body, I have two. You’re on the straight-and-narrow path and I’m on a rough, jagged one, and I never, ever, stray from my path. Just like you wouldn’t.”

  Her words sunk in, followed by searing disappointment. He couldn’t argue with that. But her words carried far more weight than their obvious meaning. She wasn’t just highlighting her resistance to collaborating with him—she was pointing out the distance between their worlds. She was on the other side of the tracks, and if he was smart, he wouldn’t forget that.

  But Christ, why did she have to be so stubborn? Just because she’d had a rough upbringing didn’t mean she couldn’t change her life. He opened his mouth but was interrupted by a ringing phone.

  Peyton jumped up. “That’s me, one sec.” She stormed inside the house, pushed the sliding glass door shut behind her, but it didn’t close all the way. Her dress sashayed around her thighs, dragging his attention to the contours of her hips and ass. She reached the kitchen island, opened her purse, and pressed her phone to her ear.

  “Hey,” she said. “Yeah, it’s me. Where were you?” Her gaze locked on him through the door, and then she turned her back, once again stirring forbidden images of what lay beyond that light material.

  He had it bad. Never had he lusted after a woman so intensely that it occupied every cognizant thought. He had to force all sexual desire from his brain and try to pick up on something from her call. Thanks to his grandmother’s small main floor and the open glass door, Peyton’s voice carried.

  And he wasn’t enough of a gentleman to give her privacy.

  “No, it’s fine. Everything is . . . fine.” Her voice dropped low, and she mumbled something inaudible. “I’m tied up right now, but give me until tonight.”

  A beat passed.

  “It’s complicated. I’ll text you.” She pulled the phone from her ear, and the position of her shoulders told him she was sending whoever had called a text message—probably to warn them about him.

  He got up, slipped through the door, and inched his bare feet across the hardwood floor. He closed the distance between them, but she whirled around as soon as he got within arm’s reach.

  He clamped his hand over her phone, covering the screen, but didn’t yank it away. He was pushing boundaries, but what was he supposed to do? Sit there and twiddle his thumbs while she went about her business in front of his face?

  Anger flashed in her eyes. “What are you doing?” She tugged on the device, but he didn’t break his hold.

  “Giving you the chance to come clean before I make the decision for you.”

  “Go to hell,” she spat.

  He wrestled the phone from her grip and spun out of her reach.

  “Stop! You’re violating my privacy.” Her fingertips latched onto his shoulder as he tapped the Messages icon. She slid between the island and his body and swept her free hand around the back of his neck. He lifted his gaze enough to see the searing heat in her eyes.

  Then she rose onto tiptoes and pressed her mouth to his. Numbing shock paralyzed him. Her lips, as soft as cashmere, moved over his. Her tongue touched his teeth and he opened his mouth, allowing her entry. His body vibrated with the need to take over the kiss. Her hand moved from his shoulder and slid down his arm. He cupped the back of her head and relinquished the phone to circle his arm around the small of her back.

  She didn’t protest. Instead, she slid her arms around his neck, drawing him close and gluing her pelvis to his thigh. Her belly pressed against his cock, sending the blood from his head to his swollen member and rendering his senses fuzzy. Her scent, a floral smell he couldn’t put his finger on, surrounded him, invading his nostrils. The sweet taste of orange slices touched his taste buds as her tongue slipped over his. The front of his pants cut off the circulation to his dick. If he didn’t get her naked, he’d burst.

  He gripped the thin material of her dress in his fist at her back and broke the contact of their mouths to nuzzle the column of her neck.

  “Ah,” she cried, as her back bent over his arm. Her legs swept around his waist and she reached back to place the phone on the kitchen counter. He deposited her on the tiled surface, sprawling her on her back. If she was uncomfortable, she didn’t protest. She brought her fingers to his shoulders and her nails pierced through his T-shirt. “More,” she said on a gasp.

  He dragged his teeth over her collarbone to the indent at her throat. The swell of her cleavage touched his chin, calling him.

  Buzz, buzz, buzz

  The vibration in his back pocket made him jerk. He stared down at Peyton, her cheeks bright red, her lips swollen and wet and her eyelids heavy.

  The buzzing continued. He cursed, dug into his back pocket, and read the screen: Eric.

  He gritted his teeth. “I have to get this.”

  Peyton sobered and shoved at his chest. “Of course. Get off me so I can get down.” Her words came out sharp, but hurt rode beneath them. She wiggled her knees down his sides and he helped her to the ground. She straightened her dress and waved him off. “Go. I’m fine.”

  An apology burned his tongue, but he couldn’t form the words. He wasn’t sorry about the kiss. He swiped to answer. “Rhett speaking.”

  “Can you talk? I’ve got that info you wanted.”

  “One sec.”

  Peyton adjusted the front of her dress, pulling the material above the top button together at the base of her throat. Some of the color had left her face, but a rosy blush still tinted her cheeks. He held up a finger and turned to the still-open glass door.
He shut it behind him and then dropped into the chair. His nerve endings tingled with pent-up desire and his balls ached.

  And sonofabitch, the little heathen had taken back her phone. He was a grown man who’d been thrown off by a kiss. An earth-shattering, erotic, blue-ball-inducing kiss. What was he, fifteen? Geez.

  “Go.” The syllable came out ragged.

  “You sound like you just ran ten blocks. You’re huffing and puffing in my ear and it’s making me uncomfortable.”

  “Shut up and give me the info, Eric.”

  Eric mumbled something under his breath, and it was a damn good thing Rhett wasn’t able to catch it because he wasn’t in the mood to hold back his temper.

  “That guy you wanted me to look into, Max Burton, he’s living in Key West, just as you suspected.”

  Rhett straightened. He’d asked Eric that morning to dig into the criminal’s background on a whim after he’d learned Peyton’s name on the yacht and remembered her being associated with the known thief. After spending most of the night tossing and turning and thinking about Peyton, he’d asked Milo for Max’s last name. Milo had been reluctant to give it to him, but when Rhett stressed it held an important key to his case, his old friend had caved.

  “Where?”

  As Eric rattled off the address, awareness pushed away the lusty fog that had coated Rhett’s brain.

  Max lived only a few blocks from Peyton’s hotel. There was no way in hell that was a coincidence.

  He lifted his gaze to the glass door. Until he could get through to her that he wasn’t her enemy, he couldn’t do anything stupid.

  Too bad she had him by the balls.

  * * *

  Peyton took one shallow breath after another, but her deprived lungs wouldn’t let her catch her breath. Kissing Rhett had been nothing more than desperate times calling for desperate measures. Except the scalding heat of his tongue gliding over hers had captured her breath—and her sanity. He’d picked her up and plopped her on the counter, ready to do god knows what, and she hadn’t minded one bit. As a matter of fact, when he’d moved his mouth down her throat and his hands had been positioned to rip off her dress, she’d been ready. Which would have been incredibly stupid of her, since Jenny Carter’s address still sat nestled in the cup of her bra.