Hot Pursuit

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “He’s ten months old,” she told the gunman, too, because beneath the swastika tattoo, despite the drug-rotted teeth, he was a person who’d once been as small as Ash. He’d once been held in his own mother’s loving arms, where she’d kissed the top of his downy, sweet-smelling head.

  And despite her years of hard-earned knowledge which told her that, by pulling that weapon, he’d lost his identity and had, in fact, become the target, the part of her who was now Ash’s mother had to try to reach out to him.

  But he wouldn’t hear her, or he couldn’t, or he heard her and he didn’t care, so she drew her own weapon—faster and in better control because her brain wasn’t stuttering from alcohol and God knows what else.

  Her brain was, however, fatigued from too many midnight feedings, from the strain of restricting her own diet in a hit-or-miss attempt to ease her baby’s relentless gas and give them all a chance to sleep through the night. Her brain was fuzzy from the off-the-charts splatter of her still seesawing hormone levels, from Sam’s wary confusion when she—usually more stoic than his teammates from his Navy SEAL days—simply couldn’t not cry.

  Because even the joy was exhaustingly overwhelming. Watching Sam with Ash—holding their baby in his big arms, singing to their son as he adeptly changed his diapers, or even asleep on the couch with Ash on his chest—the TV light from a muted football game flickering across them both …

  This current Troubleshooters assignment was supposed to be an easy one. It was a favor, really—providing additional bodyguard assistance to the team safeguarding actor Robin Cassidy’s appearance at a movie premiere while his husband, her very good friend Jules, was stuck back East.

  It seemed provident: a simple assignment for her and Sam’s first full night—ever—with both of them working and away from Ash.

  Taking down an assailant who was armed with a Nambu pistol on the sidewalk in front of Mann’s Chinese Theatre was the last thing she’d expected to be doing tonight.

  And her finger was already tightening on her trigger before the trivial-seeming fact that this was a Nambu flashed through her head again, along with the thought that getting bullets for that thing would had to have been a bitch and a half.

  Did they even make them anymore?

  The collector he’d stolen the weapon from might’ve had some.

  But what brain-shredded druggie, having broken into some rich guy’s house, would know that the pretty, shiny handgun that he’d grabbed from the display case before he fled would need bullets that you couldn’t possibly score at the nearest Wal-Mart? Bullets that you might actually need to time travel back to the 1940s to buy?

  Odds were that this Nambu had no rounds in its chamber, that it was just a prop—and that this ornate man’s true motive here was suicide by celebrity bodyguard.

  And regardless of who she was—mother or wife or second in command of Troubleshooters Incorporated, the top personal security firm in the United States of America—Alyssa knew that taking this bozo down with no shots fired might not be quicker, but it would be cleaner, on so many levels.

  So she launched herself at him. Goal one: get that weapon out of his hands, in case she was wrong about the bullets thing. A well-aimed kick did just that, spinning him away from her, his hand outstretched as he started to scramble after the pistol.

  She was still moving and she used her momentum to block his path, her own force pushing her almost past him, so she spun again as he now grabbed for her, clutching at the front of her shirt. But she brought her right elbow up and back, putting all of her strength into a blow that connected squarely with the side of his head.

  He lost his grip on her and went down, and, as she continued the turn, she saw Sam, heading back toward her, not even slowing as he bent and scooped up the Nambu, as he raced to her aid.

  But she was still spinning from that elbow blast and she used the full force of the muscles in her left leg—a leg that had helped carry a very healthy nine-pound baby to term—and she kayoed the attacker with a solid kick to the chin.

  He was down, he was done, but her training had been instilled in her—it wasn’t over until the perp was cuffed and searched for additional weapons.

  So Alyssa put the safety back on her sidearm and holstered it even as she pushed the man flat, her knee hard in the middle of his back, his cheek against Ginger Rogers’ ridiculously tiny handprints, as she reached into her back pocket for one of the plastic restraints that Troubleshooters Incorporated operatives carried on every bodyguard assignment. She cuffed him quickly, easily, before Sam reached her side.

  He was pissed—at her as well as at the gunman. Alyssa could read his familiar body language even out of the corner of her eye. And the crowd that had been stunned into both stillness and silence—it had all happened so fast, she was certain that most of the people hadn’t even seen the assailant’s gun—suddenly seemed to exhale, in unison.

  “Crowd control,” she curtly ordered her husband, who understood and made the weapon vanish. No point waving it around and starting a panic-induced stampede.

  But it was then, as she was glancing up at Sam, her knee still pressing the gunman down, that again, almost as one, the paparazzi part of the crowd reacted.

  There had to be a hundred cameras out there, and it seemed as if all of their flashes went off within the span of a few blinding seconds. But it didn’t let up, it just kept coming—a barrage of flashing lights, along with a roar of questions.

  “Who are you?” Ah, how quickly they forget—thank God.

  “How long have you worked security for Robin Cassidy?”

  “Alyssa Locke! Are you back to working with the FBI?” Obviously, they hadn’t all forgotten—not that it really mattered. Her picture had been splashed around enough in the past few years—thank you, Robin—that it wouldn’t take a good reporter more than a few minutes surfing the net to identify her. And also to confirm that, no, she wasn’t back with the Bureau.

  “How do you spell your name?”

  “Ms. Locke, have you determined the identity of the man with the gun?”

  The word gun seemed to reverberate with a ripple, out through the throng, and as distant sirens grew louder, Alyssa finished patting down the addict—careful of potential stray needles—and, failing to find a wallet or anything at all in his pockets, stood up.

  And the volley of flashes exploded again.

  How did Jules and Robin live with this, day in and day out? Twenty seconds in, and it was already stale.

  And oh. Great. The son of a bitch had ripped her blouse—one of the few she had that was both dressy enough for this type of event and roomy enough to wear over her still-super-sized baby boobs. She quickly covered herself by buttoning her suit jacket, which, with her blouse hanging open, made her look like the Cleavage Queen, and … oh. Extra great. The adrenaline or the exertion or maybe just the sheer inconvenience of the situation was causing her to leak.

  The irony being that, after all these months of breast-feeding, she still sometimes struggled to relax enough to allow her milk to let down. Apparently she was going about it all wrong. No need for the soft lights and rocking chair. She just needed to throw down and kick someone’s ass first.

  Questions were still being shouted, to her, at her, so she folded her arms across her chest and raised her voice to be heard over them as she addressed the crowd. “Everything’s under control. I’m going to ask you to clear a path for the police.” She turned to Sam, lowered her voice. “Can you take it from here?”

  He nodded as he looked at her, his gaze skimming down her and sharpening as he tried to see inside of her head. “You hurt?”

  “No.” But she was already moving toward the theater doors. “I’m fine.”

  But this was Sam, and he knew something wasn’t right. Something besides the relentless questions and photographs, that is—which always pissed her off. He must’ve gotten on his radio and called Annie, because she came out of the theater, passing Alyssa, moving fast toward the sidewa
lk where Sam had possession of the perp.

  And sure enough, Alyssa was barely into the theater’s ladies’ room, taking her place on the perpetual and slow-moving line, when her husband pushed open the door and followed her inside.

  He was stunningly attractive tonight, dressed as he was in a dark suit and tie, with his sun-streaked brown hair tied neatly back for the occasion. His well-tailored jacket and pants made his shoulders look extra broad, his trim waist and hips extra slim, and his legs extra long. All that, plus blue eyes in a ruggedly handsome face that telegraphed both his intelligence and wicked sense of humor-even when, like now, he wasn’t smiling—made the other women gaze at him with interest.

  They weren’t staring because he’d dared to enter this bathroom—that was no big deal. This was, after all, Hollywood. No, they were staring because they hoped that he’d come in search of them.

  “Security,” he told the waiting women. “Let’s move this line outside.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Alyssa told them, told Sam. “You should be with Robin. This could’ve been a diversion—”

  “He’s secure,” Sam said. “Ric and Jones have him in a safe room. They’re locked down.” He stepped closer, lowered his voice, his concern radiating off of him. “Lys, if you’re hurt—”

  “I’m not,” she said, lowering her voice, too, and pulling him back out into the lobby, because some of the women were acting as if their private conversation were the pre-show, “I’m just…” She uncrossed her arms to show him her shirt, and fabulous. She didn’t have to bother to open her jacket. She’d leaked clear through it.

  “Holy shit.” Sam laughed and took her hand, pulling her toward a uniformed usher—complete with hat—who was standing guard at a cordoned-off stairway.

  “Not. Funny,” she said, even though she recognized that it was both funny and pathetic. She’d brought a change of shirt, but not a second jacket.

  “Yeah, it is when you think about it.” Sam held the barrier open for her, and led her up the stairs. “You’re like the ultimate woman—a badass Madonna. Locked and loaded with a baby at your breast. That’s my idea of the feminine ideal, by the way. It totally works for me.”

  “Good thing.”

  He still had her by the hand and he pulled her down an empty corridor, where all the doors—three of them—were tightly closed.

  “And I gotta confess,” he added, “that your new bra that you flashed at everyone out there? The one that’s gonna show up on page three of the National Voice and every other tabloid rag in the country … ? It works for me, too.”

  She laughed at that. She’d gone to the store, Ash in tow, to pick up some sturdy ones that were designed to contain the problem which she was currently experiencing. But this one all but had a neon arrow pointing to it, with loopy flashing letters saying Sam will love this! Buy it now! Red and lacy, with panties to match, it left very little to the imagination.

  No doubt about it, her husband did love lingerie, and she’d put it on this evening for the occasion—this, their first night away from Ashton. Of course, with all the parties Robin was attending after the movie premiere, Alyssa hadn’t been scheduled to show it to Sam until well after 0300.

  He stopped her now in the privacy of the empty hallway and tugged gently at the lapel of her jacket. “C’mon. Lemme see if you’re gonna need a tetanus booster. If Swastika Boy scratched you bad enough—”

  “I’m fine,” she said again, but she knew only one surefire way to alleviate his concern. She opened her jacket.

  “Fine,” he repeated, his voice even huskier as he let his gaze turn hot, as he smiled at her, “is an understatement.”

  “We’re working,” she reminded him. She needed to find a bathroom with some privacy where she could get cleaned up and change her shirt, and yet… She didn’t feel compelled to refasten her jacket, particularly when he ran one finger lightly along the edge of the bra in question. “We need to check in with Ric.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, although it was clear he wasn’t listening.

  “Roger.” She used his given name. Sam was just a Navy SEAL nickname that had stuck. “Focus.”

  “I find,” he murmured, as he moved in even closer, wrapping his arm around her waist, “that I’m intensely focused.”

  Oh, yes he most certainly was. And, God, how was it, after all these years, that this man still had the power to make her heart beat harder and her mouth go dry?

  He knew it, too—she could see that as well, gleaming in his eyes as he leaned down and kissed her—a silent promise that their baby-free night was going to be a memorable one. But then he pulled her in even more tightly, in an embrace that wasn’t entirely about keeping her up all night.

  And it was only then, as he held her like that, that he whispered, “Jesus, you scared the shit out of me down there.”

  “I’m sorry.” Alyssa knew from experience how hard it was to do what Sam had done—to run away from, instead of toward, the action. She knew that the adrenaline that had coursed through his system was probably still making his hands shake—it was actually far easier to be the one under direct attack than to have to watch it happen to someone you loved.

  “It’s stupid,” he admitted as he pulled back to rest his forehead against hers. “But it’s even harder now that Ash is in the picture. I’m not the only one who loses if—”

  “It goes both ways,” she reminded him.

  “I know,” he said, but he didn’t sound completely convinced.

  A door opened behind them, and she pulled out of his arms and buttoned her jacket.

  “There you are,” Robin said. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Alyssa told him—it was her refrain for the evening. “His weapon wasn’t loaded, it was no big deal.”

  “Yeah,” Sam said with a laugh, as he followed her into the office where Ric and Jones were keeping Robin safe, “right. No big deal.”

  But she knew he didn’t mean that, either.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  Sam was out of practice.

  Or, rather, he’d had a little too much practice, over the past ten months, in the time-honored art of the quickie.

  But tonight Ash wasn’t here to interrupt, as Sam tugged the last little bit of red satin and lace down his impossibly beautiful wife’s long legs, as he kissed her and licked her and took his sweet time, as she dug her fingers into his hair and breathed his name in her musical voice, as he kissed her and kissed her and kissed her.

  “Please,” she was saying, “please,” so he slid inside of her but he needed to take a minute—a momentary time out—to put himself back into the game, to remember the way they used to do this, but she was moving beneath him and he’d never been good at denying her that which she so clearly wanted.

  Instead, he started sweating and his arms were shaking, but he was determined not to waste this opportunity. God only knew the next time they’d have a baby-free night. Which was not to say that they wouldn’t have sex until then—and lots of it—because they would and they did.

  Alyssa was completely up for grabbing some serious happy-fun whenever and wherever the opportunity arose, and in fact was often the instigator of the two-minute orgasm quick-fest. Over the past ten months, they’d had a lot of incredibly hot, over-too-fast sex in the bathroom, in the kitchen, on the stairs going up to the second floor, even out in the garage. She’d waylaid him more than once—pun intended—when he was taking out the trash.

  They’d gotten it on at all times of day, all over their house—with the exception of here, in their bed, at night.

  For some reason, it seemed that whenever they went into their bedroom and closed the door, Ashton would wake up and cry. And okay, he knew that that wasn’t true. But what was true was that Sam would spend the entire time thinking that any minute the baby was going to start to wail. Either that, or before he even made it into bed, Alyssa would fall into an exhausted sleep—which kind of killed the mood.

  I
n truth, he was beyond grateful that this woman that he loved more than life was both enthusiastic and creative when it came to getting it on. But he realized now, as he took his sweet time making love to her, that there was something that he missed almost as much as slowly sliding inside her, against her, body to body, skin to skin, her mouth soft and warm against his as she gasped her pleasure. …

  He missed lying with their bodies still entangled, their hearts beating together, her breath warm against his neck as she sighed with contentment, the flutter of her eyelashes against his cheek, the soft rumble of her rich laughter as she felt him start to harden, again, inside of her, because he could … not… get enough … of her …

  “Ah, God, Lys,” he breathed, and she opened her eyes to look up at him. She was the love of his heart, his true partner in both work and life, and the idea of losing her to the violence of the world they lived in scared the living shit out of him.

  But her smile lit her eyes, her face, and he pushed the darkness away and let himself grin back at her like the damn fool that he was. This moment—now—was perfect, and he wasn’t going to let his fears interfere.

  Especially since it was only 2100. This perfect night was still ridiculously young.

  “Thank you for talking Robin into going home early,” she whispered as she moved beneath him, and the sublime magic of the fact that she was doing that and thanking him for the opportunity was not lost on him.

  Convincing Robin to call it a night hadn’t taken much effort. Just a few well-chosen words, and the actor—a good friend to them both—had understood completely that Sam needed to take Alyssa home. Not wanted—needed. Regardless of her “piece of cake” attitude toward her takedown of the gunman, regardless of her “I’m fine” pronouncements, Robin knew that Sam had to be in a safe place with her, with his arms tightly around her, for a good, oh, ten or so hours.