Project Seduction

by Tatiana March

  "I don't like this gun,” Georgina complained.

  He stared at her, fighting to keep his temper in check. “What is there to like or dislike?"

  "I don't like the way it bucked in my hand when I pressed the button, and I don't like the way it looks. All black and lethal. Can I try the other one?"

  "You haven't even fired a single shot yet."

  "I don't have to fire it to know that I don't like it."

  "Jesus.” He yanked the weapon from her hand, pushed the safety on, and ejected the clip. Then he thought better of it. “Stand back. Stay behind me.” He rammed the clip back, engaged it, turned off the safety and blasted thirteen rounds into the head of the cardboard man at the end of the lane.

  "Way to go, buddy,” someone shouted from the next lane. “They should make the targets woman-shaped."

  * * * *

  Georgina glared at the partition that stood between them and the lane on their left. The dividing wall didn't go all the way up to the ceiling. She wanted to toss something over the top, something dirty and smelly and slimy. Then she shrieked and jumped in the air, because the loud-mouthed man in the next lane had tossed something over the wall at her.

  Rick's hand came down soothingly over her arm. “It was just an empty shell,” he told her. “They bounce around a bit.” He ejected the clip and handed it to her. “Can you put that on the table next to the case?"

  "There's a trashcan in the corner,” she said. “We can dump it there."

  He gave her grin. “The clips are not disposable. They are thirty bucks apiece. They are refilled, and used over and over again."

  "Oh? On the telly they just chuck them over their shoulder."

  He pointed at the empty clip. “That's on TV. Anyway, you couldn't chuck this. It's a police clip."

  "What does that mean?"

  "It holds thirteen rounds. Civilian clips hold ten. In most states it's illegal to possess a police clip unless you're in law enforcement."

  "Oh? Why's that?"

  "It's nice if the good guys have a few shots left after the bad guys have run out."

  Georgina found the smile that accompanied the explanation somewhat condescending, but she allowed him his little jibe. “Can I see the other gun?” she asked.

  She could tell that Rick was about to roll his eyes, but thought better of it and stopped himself just in time. “Sure,” he said through clenched teeth. “Let's find out if you like that one better."

  Georgina watched Rick as he went over to the shelf at the end of the lane and put the first gun away in the plastic case. His movements were smooth and confident. Today he wore dark grey combat pants rather than jeans. The pockets on the side of his thighs were dragged down with the weight of the boxes of bullets.

  When he strode back, he held a slightly larger gun. It was in shiny silver, instead of matte black.

  "Oh yes,” she said breezily. “This one is a lot better."

  He cocked an eyebrow at her, but refrained from commenting. “This one is a revolver. A Smith and Wesson 357 Magnum, to be precise.” He opened his fist to reveal a palm covered in bullets. “There's no clip. The ammo goes into the cylinder."

  "Are those the bullets?” She peered into his hand. “My, they're pretty."

  "Pretty.” Rick looked down at his hand and pulled a face. “Haven't heard that before."

  "They are. The way they are all golden, with a copper tip. Just like jewelry made out of two-tone yellow and red gold."

  "It's not gold, it's composite, but the tip is copper. You can get lead-tipped cartridges as well, but people who work in law enforcement use these, or hollow-tips. These are called full metal jackets."

  "Oh? She smiled up at him. I thought that's something you wear."

  "Nope.” He smiled back at her. “It's ammo."

  "Why do you prefer these? Is it just because they're pretty, or are they better in some way?” She picked up one of the bullets and held it between her thumb and forefinger, admiring the sleek design.

  "Lead is poisonous. It can seep in through your skin. If you handle a lot of ammo, like cops do, you want to avoid lead."

  Georgina dropped the bullet back in his palm and reached over to run her finger along the barrel of the gun. “I like this one. Show me how to put in the bullets."

  His eyes followed her finger and there was a moment of silence. Then he cleared his throat and carried on talking. “The proper term is cartridges, or rounds. Just the tip is the bullet. The rest is the shell casing. It holds the charge and the primer. Those explode and make the bullet fly off at an enormous speed."

  "Was that the stuff that was raining over the wall?"

  "Yeah. That was the empty shells. A semi-automatic needs to eject them to get the next round into the chamber. With the revolver, the used shells stay inside and you have to eject them afterward."

  "I want to try this one. Show me."

  With a flick of his wrist, Rick flipped out the cylinder. He showed her how to slot the cartridges in one by one. Then he showed her how to twist the cylinder back in place.

  "This is a double action revolver. That means that when you pull the trigger, it will first cock the hammer, and then fire the round. You have to pull the trigger quite hard."

  "Will I have to spin the cylinder for the next shot?"

  "No. That happens automatically."

  "Is the safety on?"

  "It's on.” He stepped close behind her, and moved her arms to point at the ground in front of her. “Remember not to point at your feet.” He reached out to the weapon she was holding and pushed the safety catch off. “You're ready to fire."

  Georgina held the gun in both hands and raised her arms. Rick stood right behind her, just as she'd imagined. She could feel the heat of his body against hers. The noise of the steady little explosions from the other lanes appeared to fade away.

  "Can you see the little raised sight at the far end of the barrel? There's a little notch in it?"

  She nodded. Her hair caught the side of his face, that's how close he was.

  "There's a little bead at the near end. Look down the barrel and line up the two."

  "Okay.” She could see what he meant.

  "Now aim at the target. Aim a little higher than you want to hit, because gravity will drop the bullet a fraction during flight."

  She looked down the barrel of the gun at the cardboard man. “I can't do it,” she said, lowering the gun. “I can't shoot at a target shaped like a human."

  His arm flashed out and pulled hers up. “I told you not to point at your feet."

  "Sorry.” She shifted her stance and looked at him over her shoulder. “I want one of those targets with concentric circles."

  "It's going to take at least ten minutes for me to go and find you one."

  "Will you do it? Please?"

  A shout came from the next lane. “I've got a spare. If you take the weapon out of her hands, I'll bring it over."

  "All right, buddy,” Rick yelled back. He took the revolver from Georgina's hands and pushed the safety back on.

  "How can he eavesdrop?” Georgina fumed. “Why isn't he wearing ear mufflers?"

  A wiry man with thinning brown hair appeared through the back. “Darlin', I'm eavesdropping because every now and then I need a reminder why I'm a bachelor."

  Rick laughed. Georgina glared at them both. The man from the neighboring lane handed a cardboard target to Rick.

  "Perhaps I've changed my mind,” Georgina said, staring at the man. “Perhaps I'd prefer a human shaped target after all."

  The man ignored her and shook his head at Rick. “Good luck, pal. I bet she's a handful."

  "There are compensations,” Rick said.

  The man turned his attention to Georgina. She felt her blood boil at the way his eyes roamed up and down her body. Then he winked at Rick. “I bet,” he said.

  She was just about to make her move, when Rick's arm shot out to block her way. The wiry man saluted them and walked off.

&nb
sp; "You traitor,” Georgina fumed at Rick. “You were collaborating."

  "Simmer down. The guy did us a favor. It would take me ten minutes to walk out to the reception and get you a different target,” Rick said as he released her. Georgina spent the few moments that it took for him to switch the targets trying to calm down.

  "Ready?” Rick said. He handed the revolver to her.

  She snatched it out of his hands.

  "Remember not to point at your feet after you take the safety off."

  Ignoring him, she switched the safety catch to ‘off’ position. She lined up the barrel, aiming a little higher than the black circle at the centre of the target. Then she squeezed the trigger. Her grip flinched a little when the hammer cocked. She aimed again and continued to press the trigger, until the gun exploded in her hands with a deafening noise.

  "Let's see what you got,” Rick said. Georgina hadn't even realized that he hadn't resumed his intimate stance behind her. Instead, he stood a little to one side, looking through a pair of binoculars.

  "I'll be damned,” he said. He stared at her in amazement as he lowered the binoculars. “You scored a bull's eye."

  "I was aiming at the bull's eye,” Georgina said in a frosty tone. “Why should it be such a surprise that I managed to do exactly what I intended to do."

  "A handful, pal. No question about it,” shouted the man over the wall.

  "Oh, shut up,” Georgina yelled.

  Rick leapt forward and grabbed her arm. “For God's sake, Georgina. I told you not to point a loaded gun at your feet."

  She rammed her elbow into his abdomen until he let go. Then she raised her arms and fired another five shots into the little black circle at the centre of the target.

  * * * *

  Three hours later they set off on their way home. Georgina leaned back in the passenger seat and sulked. Why, why, why was she such a slave to her obsessive nature? The instant Rick had started lecturing to her about weapons and shooting, her brain had switched gears. She had ignored him as a man, instead concentrating on soaking up information. Listening and absorbing, like a dry sponge.

  And Rick had been no help at all. After he witnessed her unexpected talent for marksmanship, he accepted her interest as genuine. He poured out facts and data, until her head reeled.

  Her secret agenda had collapsed. In the beginning, she had dropped a few things on the floor and bent over to pick them up. Then she forgot to keep doing it.

  Rick's reaction when she ran her fingers along the barrel of the gun had been like she'd pressed a magic button. Heat had flooded into those dark eyes, and his body had stiffened. Georgina shook her head in disbelief. Did every elongated object represent a phallic symbol to a man? Were there no limits to the male vanity that identified everything potent with personal virility?

  Even that useful discovery she had failed to put to good use, although it was not as though there hadn't been ample opportunity. After they went out to a nearby burger-bar to grab a quick lunch, for which she had insisted on paying, they had returned for another hour at the range.

  The high heels of her strappy sandals kicked against the truck's floor in frustration.

  Georgina Coleman rarely failed to follow through with an established plan, but today would be one of those shameful occasions. Instead of seducing Rick Matisse, she had got him turning her into a bloody Annie Oakley.

  Rick drove in silence along the crowded Interstate 5, keeping to the speed limit. The mental debate going on inside his head consumed what energy he had left from dealing with the busy Saturday afternoon traffic.

  The bitter conclusion he came to was that sometimes a man had no choice but to walk away from temptation. Rick had never had any trouble controlling his weight. For the first time in his life he felt sympathy for all those unlucky men who needed to diet.

  To see a table laden with delicacies—to look, to smell, to touch—and then walk away without tasting. That was what drove a sane man crazy. Or sent him down the path of drowning himself inside a bottle.

  He had never before spent time with a woman like Georgina. Her razor-sharp mind absorbed and dissected every fact, and filed it away in some logical storage system where it integrated with every other fact and could be retrieved at random.

  A total contrast to that was her child-like joy at mastering a new skill. She leapt up and down and clapped her hands, and she beamed at him with that megawatt smile of hers.

  A smile he'd never really seen until today.

  And her body, so compact and perfect inside that shrunken-up outfit. It was a mystery to him how a woman could be so skinny in places, yet at the same time so soft and rounded in other places.

  The temptation overwhelmed him, but he had to resist, because there was Angelina to consider.

  His world had changed when Angelina came into his life.

  He was a father. He had responsibilities. His Saturday nights were spent trying to understand homework almost beyond his skill, and reading books about troubled children from dysfunctional backgrounds.

  He could barely remember when he'd last had a woman.

  Well, he could, if he was prepared to admit it to himself. It was that brunette from Traffic after the precinct Holiday Party last year. He'd brought her over, both of them drunk as newts. One of her false eyelashes had come off when she'd gone down on him. It had scared the hell out of him the following morning, making him think he'd picked up some sort of exotic intimate infestation.

  Angelina had been away on a school trip that weekend. It was the first and last time he'd brought a woman home since the day his daughter came to live with him.

  And now, Angelina wanted to be friends with Georgina. That meant he had to stay away from her. Otherwise, things would get messy. He'd be polite, he'd be friendly, but he'd keep his distance.

  Nothing else would work, because in his opinion, men and women couldn't be ‘just friends'. The sex thing always got in the way.

  Well, perhaps they could, he corrected himself, if the woman wasn't attractive. That ruled out Georgina.

  He glanced over to her, sitting so close beside him. Then he let out one long slow sigh of regret, and concentrated on weaving the truck through the traffic

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Seven

  The following Tuesday, after a workday that stretched from seven in the morning to nine in the evening, Georgina and Annabel walked the three blocks from the bank to the nearest bar. They settled in one of the tiny booths crammed between the wall and the horseshoe shaped counter.

  They both liked the place, despite the shabby interior and the overdone nautical theme. A plastic fish with British banknotes stuck in its gills hung on a driftwood plaque over the front door. Ornate letters carved into the timber spelled out the name ‘Squids Inn'.

  By eleven o'clock, they'd finished eating. A tall waitress in white bell-bottoms and a striped fisherman's jersey stacked up the empty dishes and carried them away, fighting her way through the throng at the bar.

  "Annie, how exactly would you define a date?” Georgina asked. She masked her embarrassment by raising her glass, and taking a long sip.

  Annabel gave her a startled look. “A date? You don't know what a date is?"

  "We don't really use the term in England. At least didn't when I was young. You either were going out with someone, which implied continuity, or you were not. A date sounds like something in between."

  Annabel jutted out her chin and blew a strand of hair out of her eyes. A red flush brightened her cheeks, and her eyes couldn't focus. Georgina had only drunk two glasses of wine. Her concern had grown into alarm when Annabel ordered another bottle after they finished the first.

  "There's a broad definition, and there's specifics,” Annabel declared, her voice a little too loud.

  Georgina hushed her. “I've never seen you get drunk before. Is something wrong?"

  "That's because you've known me less than a year.” Annabel hoisted a brimming glass up for a t
oast. Then she leaned back, and downed the wine in a few gulps.

  Georgina laid a hand over Annabel's arm to stop her from reaching for the bottle again. “What's that supposed to mean?"

  "A date is a social activity between two people who're meant to be attracted to each other. Only some of them are not. Some of them are chasing money.” Annabel shook off Georgina's hand and picked up the bottle to refill her glass. “That was the general definition. Do you want to hear the specifics?"

  "What's wrong, Annie?"

  "There are three specific aspects. One, the guy picks you up and brings you home. Two, he pays. Three, you kiss him good night. If you don't score three out of three, you didn't have a date. You just hung out."

  "Oh,” Georgina was distracted for a moment.

  Annabel set her glass down and narrowed her eyes at Georgina. “Is this to do with your stupid project?"

  Georgina pulled a face.

  Annabel spread her hands, palms up. The gesture sent her swaying, but she regained her balance. Her hair fell into her eyes as she flopped back against the padded bench. “So, how's it going?"

  Georgina grimaced again.

  Annabel leaned forward, beaming. “You know the four sweetest words in the English language?"

  Georgina shrugged. “I don” know. Something about everlasting love?"

  "Hell, no,” Annabel slurred. “They are ‘I told you so'."

  Georgina burst into laughter. Then she dropped her gaze to her glass and swirled the contents. “All right, so it's not going well. I don't mind admitting that.” Her jaw tightened and she looked up at Annabel. “But you're wrong if you think I'm giving up. I'm a couple of weeks behind schedule. That's all. I'll catch up."

  Annabel shook her head. “I don't give a rat's ass. The guy's probably a bastard anyway. Most men are."

  Georgina reached out and grabbed her friend's wrist. “Annie, what's wrong? Talk to me."

  Annabel twisted her arm free and raised her hand for another mouthful of wine. She tipped her head back and drained the glass. “It's my wedding anniversary today. I always get drunk on my wedding anniversary.” She managed a shaky smile. “There's no other way to celebrate the day that ruined your life."