Eric (In the Company of Snipers Book 15)

by Irish Winters

  He tipped her chin up with two fingers, his eyes soft and hazy. “Oh, no. I’ve just made you the sweetest flower in the garden. Look at your competition, young lady.” He turned her to face the hall where couples stood talking, goblets in their hands. Not a single gown sported wings, which proved her point, didn’t it? “I can’t go in looking like this.” Can I?

  “Trust me on this, Shea,” Murphy whispered in her ear. “You’re the woman people will want to be seen with tonight. They’re watching us now. Shall we give them something to talk about?”

  Murphy certainly knew know how to make an entrance. Sweeping her onto the dance floor, his hand dropped naturally to her hip, his other clasping hers as they swirled to the sedate rhythm of whatever waltz the string quartet was playing. The energy in the room seemed to change in an instant. More couples took to the floor, but her panic flared. Shea had no way to know who was who behind the masks. How could she get close to Carlson in this crazy get-up?

  Until a man’s hand clamped Murphy’s tuxedoed shoulder and put a stop to their dance steps. Shea turned to the only man in the place arrogant enough to think he didn’t need a mask. “May I cut in?” Hugh Carlson asked, bowing at his waist in a courtly gesture.

  Rolling his eyes like a perturbed husband, Murphy didn’t spare the megalomaniac a glance. “No. You may not. For hell’s sake, Carlson, this is my wife, not some party girl you can hire for the night. Take off.” Growling, he whisked Shea back into the crowd, chuckling and not a bit winded. “The bastard sure thinks he can take what he wants, doesn’t he?”

  “Wasn’t that the idea?” Shea asked, her toes nicely warmed in those six-inch heels while she kept up with Murphy’s sure footing. The man could’ve given Fred Astaire a run for his money as gracefully as he worked the floor. Covert operators. Who knew?

  “Don’t worry. He’s had his eye on you since we started the ball rolling. He’ll be back. Count on it.”

  Shea followed Murphy’s lead and acted the part of a young wife enamored with her older husband. He was easy to like. Debonair. Gentlemanly and courteous to a fault. It was no wonder Moira loved him.

  They laughed. They danced. When the musical number ended, he held her fingers in his hand as they made their way to the nearest empty table. “I’m going for beer. Sparkling water for you?”

  “Yes, please,” she whispered, her throat dry and her lips parched. Nervous or not, she’d needed that energetic dance to get her head in the game. It was almost fun.

  Tapping her acrylic nails on the tabletop, she scanned the room, half-expecting Carlson to make another move. Instead, an elegant man of shorter stature and the caramel-colored complexion of the Mideast slid onto the chair directly next to hers. A gold mask lifted as he reached for her hand and lifted it to his lips.

  Her lungs failed. Her throat clamped shut. Basheer Bagani.

  “I’ve looked for you,” he whispered in an all too familiar voice. “My little rabbit thought she could run from me, and I wouldn’t come after her?”

  Shea tried to swallow. Tried to think. “H-how…?” crawled off her tongue.

  “Tsk, tsk, Shea Reynolds, or is it Hollister now? You move on quickly, but like you, I have my ways.” He gripped her hand tighter. Hollister was the alias Murphy had registered under. Interesting. On top of her other problems, Shea was now an oil heiress.

  “You gave it a good try, though. You almost fooled me. If not for Mr. Carlson’s obsession with that buffoon, Finn Powers, I wouldn’t have found you. I must say, I find that an interesting puzzle. Are you and Mr. Powers related?”

  Jerking her fingers from Bagani’s slimy grip, Shea shifted the Walther to her lap. There she was, caught between two killers, one who’d been searching for Shea Reynolds and had found her, the other still hunting poor Finn. Whatever happened next would be up to her.

  Going for broke, she offered her left hand, palm up on the table. Inviting Bagani to take hold one more time. If he dared.

  He did, but he’d no sooner latched onto her fingers, when his eyeballs fell for her oceanfront property, the perfect distraction. It gave her the few seconds she needed to make her point. Or points. By the time his eyeballs jerked back to her face, the Waltham was pressed to his crotch, and her trigger-finger twitched to blow Basheer Bagani’s balls into the lovely decorated ceiling.

  Oh, look. Cherubs with tiny little arrows. Wonder if they’re as good a shot as I am. Of course, at this range…

  He stiffened, but she wouldn’t release her death grip on his fingers. Her warrior-self was back and pissed at being hunted by one too many jerks at the same time in the same freaking country!

  “Basheer,” she gushed. “So nice to see you again. It’s been ages.” Who’s the victim now, you jerk?

  Murphy returned with their drinks, but he froze six feet behind Bagani, his eyes wide as he took in the scene.

  “Murphy, my love. Come join us,” she said with enthusiasm. “There’s someone I’ve wanted you to meet for the lonnnnnnnnnnngest time.” Right before I neuter him.

  Mr. I’m-Above-The-Law Bagani paled. Right there on the spot, he turned into a pasty white guy with black buggy eyes and a nervous tick in his right cheek. Possibly a nervous dick in his pants, too. His gold mask fell to the floor. He stood the very real chance of never being long again.

  Murphy set the drinks at the edge of the table, but scanned the crowd instead of sitting. “You got your silencer on, dear?” he asked quietly out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Didn’t think I’d need it tonight, what with the dance and the music and all,” Shea purred, not sure where all this bravado had come from, but willing to go with the flow. “But now I wish I did. Sit with us, honey. Basheer has something he’d like to tell you.” She sent him a flirty chin nod, the kind a wife sends a husband who’s on board with her game plan.

  Murphy sat facing the nervous Arab. “Would that be the story of how he got you into his bed?”

  Bagani’s eyeballs darted to Shea. “I did? What? Who me? No. Never! I would nev—”

  “Cut the bullshit,” she spat. “You did abduct me, and you will do it to other vulnerable women the first chance you get, but that’s not the story I want to hear tonight. Why’d you pay an assassin to kill my friends?”

  “I what?” he choked. Sweat dripped at his temples. His upper lip glistened with it.

  Murphy tilted into Bagani. “You heard the lady. Talk. Maybe she’ll go easy on you.”

  “But I… I…”

  “Tell me who killed Phoenix and Gordie?” Shea asked, digging the tip of the pistol into his crotch a little deeper. “He’s your man, isn’t he, the guy in the black robe with a scimitar? You sent him to kill me. He works for you, right?”

  “Me, me, m-me?” Bagani seemed to be climbing the musical scale, only he’d gotten stuck on do-re-me, me, me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Yes, I followed Carlson’s men from Amsterdam to here, but only to find you. Then I followed the other guy on the motorcycle, the one with the girl, but just because they were chasing him. I swear. I speak the truth. But you…” His brows clashed over his accusation. “You stole from me. In my country…!”

  Murphy folded his arms over his chest as he leaned back, grousing, “Here we go.”

  “That was you on the motorcycle?” Shea meant to stay on the subject. “You were the guy shooting at us?”

  He shook his head. “No, I was shooting at… wait. You were the woman on the back of that bike?”

  “You shoot at all random people on bikes?” she volleyed back at him.

  “Yes, I mean, no.” Bagani ran his fingers over his black eyebrows. “I tracked Mr. Carlson’s men to that bed and breakfast, but when I got there, they were already chasing some guy on a motorcycle, and they were shooting at him. I knew they wanted Powers, and I knew that somehow Powers and you were connected, so I followed. Once we hit the stone fences, I finally had the upper hand. It was an honest mistake. I wasn’t shooting at you, only at the bike’s tires. I thought�
�”

  “You thought you could terrorize me all over again.” Shea stabbed that Walther in as close and personal as she dared. “You have the nerve to accuse me of theft after what you’ve done to all those other women, you creep. After what you were going to do to me!”

  Suddenly shaking in his fine linen trousers, Bagani whined, “Puh-puh-puleeeeze, don’t shoot me. My father will be so—”

  “You tied me to your bed,” she hissed. “You’re right, I stole from you, and I will again until you come forward and admit what a pig you are. I’ll drain your accounts until you name every last woman you’ve raped or tortured with those disgusting toys of yours. Deal?” Another dig, and she was surprised at how powerful turning the tables on this creep made her feel.

  Bagani’s eyes hit the table as his head bobbed. “A confession. Yes, yes. I can do that.” He lifted his left hand, for what that was worth. “I swear.”

  But Shea knew exactly what that left hand was used for in most Mideastern countries. She called his bluff. “Will you look at this liar, Murph? He can’t tell the truth to save his life. I think it’s time to get real.”

  Murphy grunted. “Damn it, wife, I told you to never leave home without your silencer. Now things are gonna get ugleeeeeeee.”

  Shea could’ve kissed him for playing along.

  “No!” Bagani shoved away from the table, his eyes wide-open. “I’ll leave and you’ll never see me again.”

  Only Murphy wasn’t playing. Crossing his arms with his elbows on the table, he faced the Arab. “You see, Bagani, that’s just not good enough. I know my wife…” He winked at Shea, and coyly, she mouthed a kiss back at him, “and she’s hurting for all those missing women you’ve left in your wake. Understand? She’s got enough evidence to put you away for life. Now either I let her rip you a new one—and trust me, she’ll do it—or…” His head lifted as his gaze shifted over Bagani’s shoulder. “Hello, officers.”

  Retracting her weapon, Shea concealed it back in her purse as three beefy Irish police officers materialized behind the Arab. “Would this be the one, Murphy?” the closest officer asked.

  “Yes, this is Basheer Bagani, the man you’ve been looking for. He’s all yours. Thanks for following up with me.”

  “But, but… I have diplomatic immunity!” the arrogant playboy declared, his shoes barely scuffing the polished wooden floor with the police helping him walk like they were. He managed to twist his neck around as he bellowed, “I will be back!”

  Murphy pursed his lips and let out a soft whistle. “No, you won’t. Trust me on that one. Not where you’re going.”

  The drama proved too much. Shea turned to J. E. L. L. O. Right there on the table. She laid her sweaty forehead on her trembling, folded arms. Didn’t it figure? Her wings started fluttering.

  Her husband-for-the-night cupped her quaking shoulder. “My hell, Shea,” he whispered. “Does Eric know you’ve got the makings of a good operator?”

  She peered up at Murphy, needing to throw up. “Is everyone looking at me?”

  “Only because you’re a celebrity now.” Murphy scanned the dance floor. “Sit up straight. Relax. Throw me one of those screw-the-world smiles. Come on. You can do it.”

  Okay then. Still trembling, Shea tossed her head back and laughed. It almost worked, but the pitch sounded tight and strained. Trying once more, she threw her soul into this crazy masquerade as if Murphy had just told a funny joke.

  Playing along, he tugged her close enough for a kiss to her forehead. “I knew you could do it.”

  “You’ve got actual evidence on Bagani?” she whispered into his chin. Please, tell me you do.

  “No, but I’ve got enough questions for the Garda Síochána to keep him in a holding cell for a couple days until I get the evidence,” he breathed in her hair. “Don’t worry. Bagani has everything to lose, Shea. Not you.”

  “But those were the police.” Would they now think to investigate her? What a mess!

  “Forget about it. The night’s young, Mrs. Hollister. Let’s dance those wings off.”

  Exhaling a deep breath, Shea nodded. “First, how do I stop them?” The fluttering behind her back was driving her crazy.

  “Just hit the button. You’ve got all the power in the palm of your hand, remember?”

  No, she hadn’t remembered anything, and the remote control wasn’t handy anymore. But it was in her purse, right beside the Walther. Done and done. The fluttering ceased, but then her heart kicked in. Talk about jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire.

  “I see your father has grown tired of the nightlife,” Hugh Carlson said, his voice honeyed and insulting.

  Shea held perfectly still as he approached from behind her. He needed to think she was just some young, addle-brained starlet with a daddy complex. Lowering her lashes, she let Murphy take the lead, but gripped her tiny purse—the one with a big boom—just in case.

  Releasing her, Murphy tipped back in his seat. “What do you want, Carlson?” he asked with a twist, making Carlson’s name sound insignificant.

  “Murphy Hollister, I presume,” Carlson drawled Murphy’s fake-name-for-the-night with as much disgust. “Out of your element, aren’t you? Shouldn’t you be back in your Texas oil fields instead of dancing?”

  Murphy scoffed, his arms crossed over his chest and his chin stuck forward. “Just because you own half the world doesn’t mean you own me. And I’m her husband. Not her father.” He tipped his beer to her. “Shea, darlin’, this big mouth’s Hugh Carlson. You might’ve heard his name mentioned once or twice on the news.”

  Carlson lowered into the seat next to her. The one Bagani had just vacated. “A beautiful name, Shea. Irish, isn’t it?”

  She faced him, her chin on her palm, mostly to keep her head from shaking. Aiming for disinterest, she traced the tip of her finger over the embossed design of the tablecloth. “Hugh Carlson, huh?” she deadpanned like a spoiled millennial would. “What do you want?”

  It would’ve worked, but the man had the most incredible eyes. Gunmetal blue, his pupils dilated. This couldn’t be the same guy who’d threatened Gordie. Up close, Carlson looked perfect in his trim, black tux, but the men’s cologne he wore couldn’t disguise the rank smell of the crimes she’d witnessed. And I’m supposed to dance and flirt with you?

  A smile tweaked the corners of his lips. Probably botoxed. He had that too-good-to-be-true, airbrushed persona of a male-model. Tanned. Trimmed. Shaved and suave. Evil as sin.

  Tenting his fingers to the table, he leaned in her direction. “I’d like one dance with the most enchanting woman on the floor,” he whispered, as if Murphy was no longer there. “That’s all I ask. Your husband looks a little, shall we say, winded?” Carlson offered his hand, palm up. His fingers curled, beckoning her to join him.

  Shea shook her head, wishing Murphy would jump back into the conversation and tell this player where to go. But he didn’t, because this was the reason she was here, to bait Carlson.

  “Oh, hell,” Murphy grumbled. “One dance. What will it hurt? Run along. Kick up your heels while I take a break.”

  Shea turned on him, hoping the pounding beat in her chest didn’t show through her eyes. “But honey, I came with you.” And I don’t want to be alone with this creep.

  “And you’ll be leaving with me, too, young lady,” Murphy grumped at her. “Now go. Let me drink my Guinness and rest my dogs a spell. Then I’ll be the one keeping you up all night for a change.” He dismissed her as if he were old, grumpy, and winded.

  Shit. Shit. Shit!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Reluctantly, Shea lifted her red clad butt from her chair, going for aloof and regal instead of frightened and cowardly. “Let’s have that dance then.”

  A mouthful of perfect, straight teeth gleamed back at her. Carlson moved in, his fingers quickly splayed at the exposed small of her back, too close to her ass. “You won’t regret it.”

  I already do. Shea shivered the moment he made contac
t. No man had touched her there except Eric. Even Murphy had been careful while they’d danced. Reaching behind her, Shea latched onto Carlson’s wrist and moved his palm up higher. “Why, Mr. Carlson, you’re very fresh.”

  He seemed deaf, but then his gaze was fastened to her plumped-up Jessica Rabbit boobs. No. Chance. In. Hell.

  Unfortunately, the music kicked into a tango, her least favorite dance with a stranger. Had he somehow orchestrated this number? She knew the steps and the sizzle intended to go with them. The slow. The quick. The intimate way the dance partners’ bodies were supposed to turn into each other with the heated tempo. But it should be Eric dancing this intimate, prelude-to-sex dance with her. It should be his knee between her legs. Not Hugh Carlson’s!

  “Can you feel the down beat?” he whispered hotly in her ear.

  Not like I can feel the Waltham in the clutch at my wrist.

  Distancing herself, Shea endured. The dance kept her close to Carlson’s chest and against his muscular thighs, but her heart was one floor up with Eric. This masquerade ball felt very much like another betrayal.

  “The tango is full of passion. It’s primitive and wildly erotic. Hedonistic. Wouldn’t you agree?” Carlson rasped, using all the right words. Still getting nowhere.

  Shea turned her cheek to his lips, agreeing to nothing but this one dance. How she regretted coming up with this idea!

  Carlson crouched just before he latched onto her waist and lifted her over his head, his hands sliding up her ribs until his thumbs anchored under her breasts.

  Put me down, her heart cried. Shea gulped, feeling more like a tender morsel for a hungry lion than a dance partner. Taking a chance, she activated the tiny remote she’d kept in her palm. Her wings fluttered, turning her into a fairy. The attention they garnered didn’t dissuade Carlson in the least. Instead, the other dancers stilled and clapped. Some idiot wolf-whistled. The room darkened as a spotlight sought them out. So not what she was going for.

  Carlson’s smile turned dark and haughty. His brow lifted as if he thought she was teasing him. As if!