True Shot

by Joyce Lamb

  “Yes. I’m scheduled to land in Fort Myers in about two hours. I’ll get into Lake Avalon an hour or so after that and call you then.”

  “I hope I’ll have good news for you, sir. Fly safe.”

  He snapped the phone closed and clamped it in his fist until his knuckles started to ache. He should have mobilized the troops and gotten to Lake Avalon sooner. If only he’d known for sure that Samantha would go there.

  He just hadn’t expected her to jeopardize her beloved family.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Sam yawned as Mac scrolled through the channels on the Accord’s stereo. He stopped on a station playing soothing piano music.

  Nice, she thought, and closed her eyes, falling quickly into that twilight moment between consciousness and sleep . . .

  She stalked past the receptionist’s desk, swatting away the grasping hands of the bastard’s top-heavy, redheaded secretary, and shoved open his fancy office door. The slimy lawyer swiveled toward her, away from the massive window behind his desk that displayed an incongruously sunny day. Not the kind of day a nineteen-year-old girl should lose her just-found biological father, even if he hadn’t been the perfect man she’d hoped. Everything she’d gone through to find him . . . and it was for nothing. Nothing.

  “You killed him.” Her voice was shrill, hysterical. “You killed my father.”

  The receptionist grabbed at her sleeve all over again, and Sam shook her off, shooting a don’t-fuck-with-me glare into the other woman’s alarmed features. “Back off!”

  Robert Radnor rose to his feet with a creak of expensive leather. He appeared no more perturbed than if the prosecution had just yelled “Objection!” during an airtight case. “It’s all right, Heather. Could you close the door on your way out?”

  Heather hightailed it out of there fast as Sam advanced on Radnor, the slam of the office door a vague echo in her roaring ears.

  “How many people did you buy off to avoid charges?” she asked through her teeth. She hoped the microphone she’d taped under her shirt would pick up more than the wild pounding of her heart. The cops wouldn’t do their jobs, so she would do it for them. And she had protection this time. The small gun her father had given her last month rested cold and hard against her lower back, where she’d tucked it in the waistband of her jeans. Just in case he wasn’t afraid.

  “I didn’t have to buy off anybody,” he said, grinning in all his straight-white-teeth, spray-tanned, expensive-suited glory. “I’m a well-known, well-respected lawyer in this town, and you and your daddy are obviously trailer trash out to get rich quick by blackmailing upstanding folks. Law enforcement around here knows the score.”

  She clenched her fists. “I saw it happen. I saw you kill him.”

  “And you think the cops give a good goddamn what some two-bit whore has to say? Your daddy came at me with a knife. I defended myself.”

  “There was no knife!”

  He gave an expansive shrug. “Cops investigated and cleared me. What can you do?”

  “It was only money to you. You didn’t have to kill him.”

  “Your daddy fucked with the wrong man, little lady. It’s not my fault he had a soft skull.”

  She lunged at him, intent on making him hurt for what he’d done. And as he laughed, he caught her wrists to stop her from slapping him, and she flew right into his head.

  “You went too far with my girl.”

  I almost laugh at the red-faced sorry excuse for a pimp. Went too far? Didn’t go far enough. I’m keeping my calm, though. This asshole has no idea that he and his whore are trying to blackmail the wrong guy.

  “She made an offer then refused to carry through with it. I was just trying to keep the little whore honest.” I cut my gaze toward the tramp in question. She’s huddling in the corner. Pathetic and traumatized. Eye already sporting a shiner. I should have hit her harder, the bitch. And copped more than a feel afterward.

  Mr. Pimp Blackmailer takes a step toward me, tries to intimidate me into backing away. But I stay put, the messed bed at my back. The room smells like bleach and cigarettes. And my hard-on has wilted. I glance at her again and wish to God she’d gotten that lush mouth on my dick before this asshole busted in. Jeeee-sus, she was hotter than a firecracker ten minutes ago. Right before she started her I-changed-my-mind shit.

  He points a shaking finger at my nose. “I’ve got pictures of what you just tried to do to my little girl. You want to keep them out of the newspapers and your wife’s mailbox, you’ll fork over ten grand. Get it?”

  He turns his back on me—moron—to try to comfort the whimpering whore in the corner. Looks to me like he showed up late for his role.

  “You okay, Sammie?”

  “You’ve been drinking,” she says. Accusing. Voice cracking.

  “I know. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  “He hit me. And tried to—tried to—”

  “Don’t worry, Sammie. Everything will be fine.”

  “You said we were going to expose him as the predator he is, not blackmail him.”

  “We can do more with money. You’ll see.”

  “I want to go home. Back to Lake Avalon.”

  “We’ll talk later, okay? Let’s get out of here. Mr. Radnor has a lot to think about.”

  I’ve thought about it. I’m not paying this prick jack shit. He’s going down.

  I grab the creaky old wooden desk chair and crack it over his head.

  She lets loose a shocked squeak of despair as he crumples on top of her. “Dad!”

  While she starts to scream and push at his unmoving body, I walk out without looking back. Maybe the headache from the chair will make the con artist think twice before he puts his kid on the line for a shakedown again.

  When she snapped out of the past, gasping, Radnor’s hand was under her shirt, cupping her breast with a smooth, hot hand. He’d backed her against the wall while she’d been gone and now canted his pelvis so he could rub his growing erection against her hip.

  “Don’t!” She shoved at his chest, whipping her head to the side to avoid his questing lips. “Help! Somebody help!”

  He laughed. “No one’s going to save you this time, Sammie. It’s just you and me finishing what we started.”

  Fury that he used her father’s nickname for her burned through the center of her chest, and she wriggled her hands between them to push against his chest. “Get off me.”

  “You know you want it. That’s why you came back. You were just as frustrated as I was that Daddy interrupted us.”

  He leaned against her resistance, his greater weight pinning her, and bracketed her throat with a strong hand, cutting off her air. “Daddy’s not here to interrupt this time. Don’t worry, Sammie, I’ll make it worth your time.”

  He released her throat and kissed her, lips grinding against her already bruised mouth, teeth cracking against hers. As she struggled for air, his hands grasped her hips, jerked her against him, and his breathing went fast and shallow. “Oh, yeah, keep wiggling like that. That’s exactly the way I like it.”

  She tried to reach the gun digging into her back, but he had her plastered so tight against the wall she couldn’t maneuver her fingers around the grip. His teeth sank into the flesh where her neck and shoulder met. She gasped and struggled harder. He responded by using one hand to fumble at the fastener on her jeans.

  The shift in how he held her let her heave her hips forward. The move put space between her back and the wall but also bumped her body more intimately against him.

  He laughed low, his breath hot against her throat. “Oh, yeah, you’re getting into it now, aren’t you? Christ, you’re unfuckingbelievably hot. Keep moving just . . . like . . . that.”

  Her fingers grasped the cold grip of the gun just as he shoved his hand down, into the front of her jeans. She cried out, a sob catching hard in her throat.

  The gun popped free of her waistband, and she managed to angle it toward him with one hand at her side, the po
sition awkward. He pressed harder against her, leaning his weight in to secure her while he undid his pants.

  She cocked the gun.

  He stilled at the clicking sound, pulled back. “What—Shit!”

  He let go of her to make a grab for the gun.

  She pulled the trigger.

  Sam woke to the slowing motion of the car as it banked into a turn and bumped over a few potholes. She kept her eyes closed and breathing even, the sound of the gunshot echoing in her ears while her heart hammered against her ribs. It took her several moments to breathe through the fear, to remind herself that she was safe, with Mac, and Robert Radnor couldn’t hurt her anymore. Or anyone.

  And now she knew that Flinn Ford had trapped her.

  Yes, she’d killed Radnor. But she hadn’t planned to kill him. She’d planned to get his confession on tape and see justice done. She’d brought the gun for protection. A foolish, grief-stricken girl who’d stopped thinking clearly the moment her world imploded right on top of her. Flinn had taken advantage of her confusion and fear.

  But, thank God, oh, thank God, she wasn’t the coldblooded killer Flinn had led her to believe. At least, not that time. Who knew what she’d done since?

  I want to go home.

  She still wanted to go home. The thought of it both excited and terrified her. What if her family couldn’t handle what she’d become? What if she couldn’t handle what she’d become?

  “Sam? Hey, Sam.”

  She opened her eyes to the artificial light of parking lot lamps and blinked several times, surprised to realize the car had stopped.

  “Over here.”

  Even in the dim light with his features in shadow, she felt the warmth of well-being at knowing it was Mac who sat next to her. “Hi.”

  “You okay? You were sleeping pretty deeply the past hour.”

  “Did I snore?”

  “Can’t you see my ears bleeding from all the noise? Sheesh.”

  Smiling wider—he had such a knack for lightening the weight of her dread—she pushed away the lingering effects of the latest flashback and looked around. “Are we there?”

  “Yep, we’re in St. Pete. I thought we’d grab some dinner before checking in at the hotel since Charlie and Alex aren’t due until morning. I’m starving. What about you?”

  She nodded. “I could eat.”

  “Are you okay with seafood?”

  “Hello, grew up in Florida.”

  “Hey, I grew up in Philly, and cheesesteaks aren’t on my list of favorites.”

  As they walked across the parking lot, the breeze blowing off the gulf was cool and salty. Being out of the car, breathing in fresh air, felt great. And as they walked side by side to the restaurant door, she smiled some at the foolish hope that Mac would take her hand. When he didn’t, she admonished herself for the disappointment. Knowing him, he kept his hand to himself to avoid sending her careening through his memories.

  She reached out and caught his fingers with hers, bracing herself mentally for whatever might telegraph itself from his past. Nothing did, and she let her shoulders relax, smiling at the pleased look Mac cast her way as he snugged her hand more firmly into the heat of his.

  Her curiosity about his thoughts got the best of her, and she tried a quick trip into what he was thinking. Just for a second.

  Nothing.

  Odd, she thought. When she’d slipped into his head when they were snuggled up together, she’d barely had to think about it. If she couldn’t control it at will, how could she rely on it to do the job of a government spy? Was there a trick to her ability, a way to trigger it other than simply by touch? Or maybe her handlers had used drugs in some way to enhance her ability. She thought of the patch she’d pulled off her hip. Maybe that was its purpose.

  Mac opened the restaurant door for her, and she preceded him inside. The décor was standard for a seafood joint: Fake fish, netting and life rings draped the dark wood paneling, and a lobster tank occupied a section of the entryway.

  All was fine until the faint fishy smell reached her nose. Nausea immediately followed, and she turned toward Mac. “I’m sorry, but this isn’t going to work for me.”

  He didn’t question her—she probably looked as green as she felt—just grabbed her hand and pulled her back outside. The fresh air helped push back the nausea as he led her back to the car. Once she was settled in the passenger seat, and Mac was behind the wheel again, he asked, “What was that about? It didn’t smell that bad.”

  “I don’t know. Guess my stomach is just sensitive.” She wondered whether removing the mysterious patch had screwed up her body’s chemistry.

  “Sam?”

  “Uh . . . I don’t know.”

  “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  Busted. How did he do that? Wasn’t she supposed to be the one with psychic abilities? She cast him a small, chagrined smile. “I might have removed one of those patches, like what smokers wear when they’re trying to quit.”

  “So you’re a smoker?”

  “I don’t think so. I had a flashback of Flinn Ford checking it. I highly doubt he’d be that interested if it were a nicotine patch.”

  “So it was for something else. Jesus, Sam, why didn’t you tell me? If something had happened to you, I wouldn’t have known what to do.”

  “To be fair, I’ve just told you, and you still won’t know what to do if something happens.”

  “Well, yes, that’s true. But I could have at least alerted ER staff to the existence of the patch if . . . well, shit. What else could it have been for? Birth control maybe?”

  She hadn’t thought about that. And it would make sense during a mission in which taking a daily pill would be inconvenient. Of course, that assumed she was sexually active enough to require constant birth control. Was that possible? Did she have a lover she didn’t even remember? And here she sat, falling for Mac Hunter . . . no, wait . . . really? She was falling for Mac?

  “Sam?”

  She glanced at him, startled by the intensity of his stare. “I’m sorry. What?”

  “Could the patch have been for birth control?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Have you felt different since you took it off?”

  She debated lying then wondered why she should. She trusted Mac with her life. “My empathy seems to be behaving differently.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s less . . . immediate.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Before, I could get right into another person’s head and know what they were thinking then and there. Now, I don’t think I can.”

  Without a word, he grasped her hand, folding it between both of his, and watched her face.

  Her stomach tensed at the warmth of his large hands engulfing hers, the depth of emotion in his eyes as he peered at her. Her pulse kicked up a notch. She liked his face. His angular jaw and a day’s growth of beard—even the sharpness of his concern—did nothing to temper the kindness evident in his features. She sensed that he was unlike any man she’d ever known.

  “ Anything?”

  She laughed under her breath. She’d been so distracted by her reactions to him that she’d missed anything that her empathy might have picked up. She focused now, and her heart rate started to skitter, because while she didn’t land in his head, she felt the heat rise between their hands. When his thumb shifted over the inside of her wrist in a light caress, she drew in a fast, surprised breath.

  He suddenly let her go and smoothed both of his palms over the thighs of his jeans as though he didn’t know what to do with them now. His chuckle sounded strained. “If you’d been in my head right now, we’d both be blushing furiously. So I think it’s safe to assume that you can’t log in at will.”

  “Log in?” she asked, lips quirking.

  “Well, that’s kind of how it works, right? When you make contact, it’s like you’re logging in to someone else’s memories.”

  “I suppose so. I hadn’t tho
ught of it that way.”

  “You must know how to search, too, since you used the ability in your spy life.”

  “Like on the Web?”

  “Sure. I mean, what good is being psychic to earn a living if you can’t direct your gift in a way that gets you the information you want?”

  She thought of her biological father and how he’d used her ability to get information so he could try to blackmail Robert Radnor. Flinn Ford had used her the same way. Did she actually do anything with her ability that was for the benefit of decent people?

  “Sam?”

  She met Mac’s eyes in the light from the parking lot lamps. “I’m sorry. What?”

  “What’s the matter?”

  He could read her so well, in the dark and without one ounce of psychic ability. After only a few days. It made her heart ache to realize that as soon as everything returned to the status quo—if it did—she would lose him. No way would a man as kind and decent as Mac Hunter want a life with a woman like her, a spy who helped blackmail people.

  He reached out and tucked stray hair behind her ear with exceedingly gentle fingers. “Talk to me, Sam.”

  She closed her eyes, savoring his tender touch for as long as she’d have it.

  “Could you be pregnant?” he asked gently.

  And like that, her reverie crashed and burned. Not that it was an out-there question. Her brain had been doing a fine job of shying away from the thought ever since she’d tapped into his memory of her descent into amnesia.

  Flinn impregnated a fellow N3 operative . . .

  It certainly wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that he’d used her in the same way. Right this minute, she could be serving as the vessel for Flinn Ford’s science experiment.

  “I know it’s not my place—”

  “I’m not feeling sick anymore,” she cut in, deciding to declare the discussion over without saying so. She just didn’t have the fortitude right now to go there. “Can we find some dinner? Something not seafood.”

  Mac paused a moment, obviously not satisfied with her response. But he must have come to the conclusion that feeding her was more important than talking, because he started the car. “How about Italian?”