“I did ask her,” Gary said, sounding hurt. “You know how she is though. She’s an overachiever and would do anything for her clients. I told her I sent her the wrong information and we would take care of that part, and she went out of her way to let me know she would be happy to take care of all of the audit. The more I talked, the worse it got. It’s the reason you hired her, right? Her sterling fucking above and beyond, best in the business reputation? Well, now it bit us in
the ass.”
“No, Gary, it bit you in the ass,” Decker said. “It cost me. It cost me a headache, and now I have to find a new secretary, someone with a pulse and just enough smarts to follow directions. Thanks to your blunder, my former secretary no longer has those qualifications. You still didn’t answer my question about what the fuck you were thinking shooting at Ms. Rochat? You’ll have to forgive me for not following your logic leap.”
“Diamond and me, we were trying to scare her, make her know she shouldn’t talk.”
“She can’t talk about what she doesn’t know, and she wouldn’t have had any reason to think there was something wrong. I’ve seen those books of yours. You have enough fucking coded James Bond shit in there to confuse me, and I know what I’m looking at. Now we’re left with a few options: waiting and hoping, stealing that file back, or finishing the job you started.”
“Steal? What about the cops? And just for the record, I wasn’t trying to kill her. I was aiming for the window. I’m not a monster, and I’m not stupid. I do run your businesses pretty well.”
“So not stupid, or a monster, but what about when I need you to be both?” Decker laughed, enjoying Gary’s discomfort. “There’s plenty of other scum that would take your place, Gary. You’re a monster if I tell you to be, and you’re stupid if I say you are. As for the cops, I’ve told you before, the cops aren’t a problem. They can be handled. What concerns me is Holt Lasher.”
“The bounty hunter? Why would she care about us?”
“Well, you shot at her too. That would piss me off. I reached out to her. If we could bring her into the fold, this idiotic move of yours would prove to be a stroke of genius.”
“I’m not worried about some wannabe cop chasing down jaywalkers,” Gary said. “Why would you want her on board?”
“Do you know how old Ms. Lasher was when she tracked down her first criminal?” Gary shook his head and Decker continued. “She was eighteen. A year earlier, she witnessed a murder, and the authorities said they couldn’t touch the guy, that witness protection was the only way to go. She refused, and as a teenager, she tracked down one of the FBI’s ten most wanted men so she wouldn’t have to live in witness protection. She finds people no one else can find. Does that sound like it isn’t a problem? On top of that, she is ambitious, ruthless in her pursuit of fugitives, and has a fine business mind. She and I could go far together.”
“Can’t we just kill her? You said the cops aren’t a problem. You seem to know everything about her, so let’s just drive over to her house and shoot her. You’ve got plenty of business mind on your own.”
Decker smacked Gary in the head. “You’ve been watching too many movies, and I’m beginning to question your assertion of intelligence. That kind of dumb thinking got us in this mess. We’re not the mob. We don’t go around killing unnecessarily. That draws unwanted attention. But if the time comes and I ask you to kill someone, use a rifle. Shotguns are for deer. Only the vice president uses them to shoot people.”
Chapter Three
Isabelle closed the front door as the last of the police officers returned to their cars. She wasn’t used to having large groups of people in her home, and having strangers poking around her life was uncomfortable. Despite the reassurance and safety they provided, she wasn’t sorry to see them go.
The officers had been thorough, but she knew there was little they could do. No shotgun shells had been left behind, and there were no footprints on the concrete in the alley outside her fence. They had taken great pains with a pile of old mattresses, long abandoned and probably what the shooter had stood on, but no one was particularly optimistic they would discover the assailant’s identity. They had asked a million questions about her life and people she knew. Had anyone ever said, “Oh yes, I know who might want to kill me,” when the police asked? Surely, that only happened in movies. She assured them it must have to do with the bounty hunter and bail jumper who had landed in her pool seconds before the shooting. Obviously.
The anger and lust that had carried her through her earlier encounter with Holt Lasher were long gone. Sadness and fear replaced them, and every shadow in the backyard looked like a masked gunman, every car backfire was an attack missile aimed for her head. She slid the door open and ventured onto her back deck. Her personal Eden had become a war zone.
She shuddered as she saw the buckshot in her siding. The repairs wouldn’t start until Monday, an eternity away when there were bullet holes in her house. Once the siding was fixed, she hoped she could get on with her life. This house had been her home for five years, and she didn’t want one incident, quite outside her control, to ruin her sense of peace every time she opened the door.
Deciding there was nothing better to distract her than the pile of work she brought home with her for the weekend, she closed and locked the back door and plopped down at her desk in her cozy office next to the living room. Sitting down, however, provided a jolt of arousal, one that shot through her too quickly to chase away. It was an annoyingly pleasant reminder that she was feeling vulnerable because a criminally sexy woman had decided to get shot at while taking a dip in her pool. It irritated her that Holt hadn’t stuck around. She had figured she would come off like a crazy woman to the police, talking about a bounty hunter with a stupid name. The police, however, had surprised her when they had practically bowed at her feet just for mentioning Holt Lasher. They said they knew where to find her and would stop by her office the next day.
Isabelle wished Holt were there now. She didn’t know whether she would strangle her or kiss her, but she was sure either would make her feel better.
“Did Lois Lane have to put up with this?” Isabelle asked her reflection in the darkened computer screen. “Lusting after some stupid superhero trying to save the world? At least Holt wasn’t wearing tights.” Revisiting what Holt had been wearing when Isabelle met her set off a new pang of arousal. “Oh, honestly,” Isabelle chastised her reflection. “Pull yourself together.”
She picked up the file for one of her most boring clients, Decker Pence. He was a local well-respected businessman. He owned a methadone clinic, a pizza joint, a gas station, and a sub shop. His financial records had always been impeccably organized, and she felt a little guilty charging him for her services. The man barely needed an accountant. He had a bookkeeper who took care of the daily transactions of his businesses. She largely filed his taxes and advised him on more complicated issues. Every year, she offered a lesser package of services, more commensurate with what she actually did for him, but he refused. He always said she was the best in the state and he was willing to pay for that. He explained that she was on retainer and if anything ever happened, he wanted her available. Now he was being audited and, somewhat strangely, his bookkeeper hadn’t immediately sent over all his business files. Wasn’t this the kind of big thing he paid her to be available for? She made a mental note to speak with Mr. Pence as soon as she returned to the office.
Armed with work to do, Isabelle tried her best to forget bounty hunters, masked figures, and shotguns. She hoped digging through line after line of business transactions would help calm her. She quickly looked over the business records for Mr. Pence. The first three looked as they always did, organized and profitable. When she got to the methadone clinic, however, she burst out laughing. His secretary had sent a file she needed for part of the audit, but she hadn’t had a chance to open it until now. The methadone clinic wasn’t part of her initial request, but after speaking with Mr. Pence’s bookkeeper, she had
agreed to handle a larger part of the audit for him.
As with the other business, it looked neat and well documented, but as far as she could tell, the file was a record for a combination bubble factory/circus/professional sports team. Despite the absurdity, a niggling feeling, one she couldn’t pull forward, dug at the back of her mind. Something seemed off. She drummed her fingers on the desk, willing herself to see what had caught her attention. She tried writing it off as anxiety after her stressful day, but the feeling wouldn’t go away.
Isabelle’s focus was so complete as she stared at the computer screen that she screamed at the sound of a gentle tapping on the glass of her back door.
Her instincts screamed for her to sprint to the living room and dive behind the couch, but she was also tired of feeling like a helpless victim. She settled for shaking legs, rapid breathing, and a death grip on the edge of her desk. But she forced herself to remain calm.
When no shotgun blast immediately disrupted the night and a second gentle knock sounded at the door, she steeled herself, took a deep breath, and boldly poked her head around the corner. When she saw the scruffy hair, baggy jeans, heavy boots, and clean, dry, white T-shirt, her heart leapt into her throat. She had no idea why the sight of Holt was so comforting; she didn’t even know her, but after endless police questions and reports, feeling afraid, drained, and aroused, the living reminder of the kiss they shared was wonderful. An apology from Holt would go a long way to making Isabelle feel more comfortable. She needed to know the buckshot was meant for Holt.
“I have a front door you know,” Isabelle said as she opened the door to a sexy creature with a stunning grin. She hoped it wasn’t obvious how badly her legs were still shaking.
“Couldn’t figure out which house was yours from the front. Never been invited in, after all.”
Isabelle hesitated before resigning herself to welcoming trouble into her house. “Consider yourself invited,” she said, stepping aside. “If you have any weapons, after the excitement, I don’t want them in my house. Check them at the door. How did you get into my backyard, by the way? The side gates are locked.”
“I got in your yard the same way I left it earlier. Over the fence. And no weapons,” Holt said as she stepped inside. “I don’t carry a gun, but if you’d like to search me just in case, I would be very cooperative.”
Isabelle was tempted. She really wanted to see that tattoo she’d glimpsed through Holt’s wet T-shirt. If possible, she was even sexier in dry clothes. They outlined Holt’s frame so magnificently, Isabelle figured her pants were the only place she would be able to hide a gun, and a concealed weapon was probably much safer than Holt Lasher without her pants.
“You’re a bounty hunter and you don’t carry a gun? How do you shoot the bad guys?”
“Bring them in dead or alive really had its heyday in the Wild West. Today, the emphasis is really more on alive,” Holt said, looking over every inch of Isabelle’s home.
“But what about when they shoot at you? You could shoot back then, right?” Isabelle wasn’t totally comfortable with Holt’s scrutiny of her home. It made her feel vulnerable, something she’d had enough of today. She glanced around, trying to see what Holt saw.
“Sure, I could shoot back, if I had a gun, which I don’t.” Holt seemed to be enjoying herself.
“Wait, you could have shot back at the guy today. You could have stopped him. If you had a gun, he wouldn’t have gotten away.” She stopped before adding, “And I wouldn’t have to be so terrified being home alone tonight.” Her legs were no longer shaking, and the anger from earlier in the day bubbled back to the surface, a much more comfortable emotion than fear.
“Maybe,” Holt said, “or I could have killed him and then we’d never know why he was shooting at us, or I could have hit someone innocent in the alley, or the bullet could have ricocheted and hit you, or me, or Peanut. I don’t like guns.” Holt’s eyes looked haunted and empty, Isabelle fleetingly noticed before her anger took over once again.
“Shooting at us? They weren’t shooting at me. No one shoots at accountants. They shoot at bounty hunters.”
“Why would anyone shoot at a bounty hunter?”
Isabelle glared at Holt, who seemed immune to her anger. Isabelle looked over the strong body in front of her. When their eyes met, Holt winked. Isabelle closed the distance between them, grabbed Holt’s face, and kissed her roughly. Before Holt could deepen the kiss, Isabelle pulled away and slapped her sharply across the left cheek. Holt grinned even wider, seemingly immune to pain as well as anger.
“Feel better?”
“Not at all.” Isabelle felt wretched. She had never had the impulse to strike out at another person, not since she left home. If she was scared before, she was terrified now, and buckshot had nothing to do with it. “I’m so sorry. You didn’t even flinch. I’ve been slapped. It hurts, and you didn’t even flinch.” In the moment, both kissing and slapping Holt had seemed like perfectly reasonable reactions. How could she have let herself get so out of control?
“You’ve got decent power, but believe it or not, I’ve been hit harder in the face. I think I’ll survive. How about we call it even for my scaring you so badly by knocking on your back door? Is there anything I can do about the person who has slapped you? I don’t like the sound of that at all.”
Isabelle shook her head, part rejection of Holt’s request, part shame. She couldn’t talk about her past with Holt, a stranger who thus far had brought nothing but trouble to her life. She wanted to blame the slap on the stress of the day, her out of control emotions, but those were the excuses she always heard when it happened to her.
Holt seemed to accept her unwillingness to open up. “An accountant, huh?” Holt looked skeptical. “For the mob? CIA? Save the Whale Society?”
“The what? No, I’m an accountant for normal, boring, rich people. I’m not a criminal.” Isabelle was angry at Holt again, for not apologizing, for asking her stupid questions, and for looking so hot she was having trouble remembering to be angry.
“Neither am I.”
“Oh, right, I forgot. You catch criminals, except the one that shot at you today. That one you let scamper away.” Isabelle stared at Holt’s mouth and thought about kissing her. She chastised herself yet again. The woman in front of her was a bounty hunter, she was dangerous, and she was a jerk. If she wasn’t a jerk, she would have come here and done the right thing. She would have made Isabelle feel better. She would have checked on her sooner. Hell, she wouldn’t have disappeared in the first place.
It looked like it took a great deal of effort on Holt’s part not to bite Isabelle’s head off. Her eyes were razor sharp. She took a couple deep breaths before speaking again. Suddenly, Isabelle was nervous. Holt looked like she could be terrifying when angry, yet Isabelle had just slapped her and Holt had smiled in response. Either she had a very tight grip on her temper, or she was more even-keeled than she looked at the moment. In the past, when Isabelle had seen this potential for anger, she had always pulled away. Her normally nonviolent and peaceful nature came from her upbringing. Although she was nervous, Isabelle wasn’t frightened of Holt, even with the potential for anger, and that surprised her. Holt was intimidating but also a bit sexy in her powerful emotions. Isabelle didn’t know her enough to base this on anything but gut feeling, but Holt seemed like the type who used her power for good and not evil. Something Isabelle found very alluring.
Despite all that, she was still angry at Holt for the earlier gunfire and that Holt had yet to apologize. “You sit your ass on my couch like a civilized person and apologize for getting me shot at or you can leave.”
“Apologize? For getting you shot at? What if you got me shot at?”
“We could play what if all day. What if you weren’t a bounty hunter? What if I was a firefighter? What if we’d never met? I didn’t get you shot at. I don’t have stalker ex-girlfriends, creepy people at the gym, or at work. I have boring clients who make lots and lots of money and don�
��t do anything illegal.” Even as she was saying that, the same niggling feeling she had had looking over Decker Pence’s file returned. “You are an asshole for coming here and trying to blame this on me. I’m tired, I’m a little panicky, and I’m done with you asking dumb questions and scaring me more. I’m sorry for slapping you and for kissing you. Now it’s your turn. Either apologize and give me some peace or go to hell.” Isabelle suddenly felt exhausted.
Holt looked taken aback. “I’m sorry we got shot at today, and I’m really sorry that you’re so afraid. I promise you’ll be safe tonight. I have a whole crew of people that work for me, and I have to pay them even if they sit in the office and play poker, so I was going to have them move their card game to your neighborhood tonight. No one in or out without our knowing about it. And definitely no shotguns.”
Holt was hard to figure out. Isabelle thought the security detail sounded like blissful overkill, but Holt’s apology was lacking. “Not good enough,” Isabelle said, pointing to the door.
Holt held out a business card, which Isabelle took and dropped in the trash. Holt fished it out and strode to the kitchen. She secured the card to the fridge with a smiling whale magnet. “Save the Whale Society, I knew it. Call me if you need anything, anything at all. And my crew will be around tonight so try and get some sleep. Your neighborhood will be the safest in the state.”
The Chase Page 3
