Staying Cool
Page 4
"Mess? Not to worry," Coleman said. "Idiot fat boy here will be happy enough to clean up." He made a come-hither gesture with his extended hand, the gun rock steady in the other. His voice cracked ice, he added, "The journal. Now."
Gina sighed, arched a brow. "If you insist."
In the next second, Gina took a step toward Coleman, let the cash bundles fall to the floor, and in the split second that Coleman's eyes dropped, she threw the journal at his face.
The woman was damn hard on books!
Within that same second, Bogdan, with the grace and speed of a hundred-pound cheetah, moved toward Gina, and put his bulk between her and—
Coleman fired. Twice.
Gina went down.
Bogdan spun away from Coleman and went down on top of her, covering her like an outsized tarp.
Patrick hit the floor, rolled, grabbed the Glock, and tackled Coleman at the knees. Before Coleman hit the floor, his forehead slammed into the edge of the fridge. Instant blood river. Running down his face, it was a perfect match for his red PJs. Out cold.
A moan came from behind him.
Patrick ripped the Smith & Wesson from Coleman's limp hand and scrambled across the floor. "Gina. Gina! Are you okay?"
Her voice was muffled, "...will be when you get Igor off me."
Bogdan got to his feet. "Not Igor."
"Jesus." The guy's shirt was blood-soaked. Gina!
Kneeling beside her, Patrick looked her over. Blood everywhere. He scanned for the source, started unbuttoning her blouse. "Where are you hit?"
She batted his hands away. "I'm not." She pushed him aside and jumped to her feet. "But he is." She bolted to a towel rack near the sink. In the next second, she was holding a towel to the Bog's side.
"He needs a doctor," Patrick said. Easy enough diagnosis, considering the blood seeping through his sausage-sized fingers.
"You're right. Hold the towel. Press hard."
While Patrick followed orders, Gina pressed a number into her cell phone. "Tanner. It's done. I've got Coleman and the journal. I've also got a man down—" She listened. "Yes. Security's off. No problem. We'll wait—" She nodded. "Five minutes then. Bottom of the driveway." She clicked OFF and looked at Patrick. "Tanner wants us out of here in five. Says he'll take it from here."
"He's got a plan?" A major cleanup operation, he hoped, of the blood and slugs now forming part of the decor in Coleman's kitchen. In a matter of seconds, they'd created a CSI playground.
"Tanner always has a plan." She replaced his hand with hers on the towel he was still holding to the Bog's side. Then she slowly pulled it away from the wound. The guy winced but didn't make a sound.
Gina looked at the wound, then back at him. "What do you think?"
"I think he'll live—just needs some stitches. But it looks far enough away from any main organs."
She nodded, got a fresh towel, and put it over the wound. "Keep the pressure on this," she said to Bogdan. "Can you do that?"
"Yes." He covered the towel with one giant hand.
When her hands were free, Gina put them on her hips, and looked up at Bogdan. Way up. "You saved my life. Why?"
"Him," he gestured toward the heap on the floor that was Coleman. "Bad guy. I don't like. You, okay lady."
"That's good to hear, Igor—"
"Name not—"
She smiled. "I know." With that, she got on her toes, grabbed his huge head, pulled it down, and planted a kiss on his unpretty mug. "Thank you."
The big guy blinked like someone had turned a strobe on him.
Patrick knew the feeling. And to get past it, he rummaged through the kitchen drawers. He found some twine and did a quick job of trussing up Coleman. "If he tries to get up, Bog, sit on him."
He nodded.
Gina scooped up the money from the floor—God knows how many thousands, but a hell of a lot more than the twenty grand Bogdan had bargained for. "Take this." She stuffed packets into his pockets, into his hand. "Go home and see your mother."
Standing back from him, she added, "Patrick and I have to go. There are some men coming. Good guys. You can trust them. They'll get you to a doctor—and out of the country. Just do what they say."
When Bogdan nodded again, she turned to Patrick.
"Let's go."
Chapter 9
Patrick wanted to meet this Tanner guy, but it didn't happen. All he saw was a hand emerge from a limo parked on the street at the bottom of the driveway. Gina put the journal in the hand, said a few words he couldn't hear, the window went up, and the limo drove off all sleek and silent.
Game over. Definitely over for Coleman.
Patrick spotted six shadowy figures making their way up the driveway to the main house. The cleanup crew. Tanner was nothing if not effective.
Gina came back to where he was standing under a dripping chestnut tree. She stood in front of him, but said nothing.
He pointed in the direction of his Ford half a block away. "Where to?"
She chewed on her lip for a time, then said, "Your place?"
He nodded, and they walked without touching toward his car.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
"Good. It's all good."
"Your brother?"
"Tanner has a line on Safi. Once he lets her know Coleman's been neutralized, and the Ravens have the journal, Marco will call."
In the short time it took to drive to his apartment, there was no more conversation. Gina spent the ride staring out the window, as far away from him as she could get in the front seat of a car.
She looked beat. No surprise. It was long past four in the morning.
At the bottom of the stairs leading to his place, which were on the outside of the old, two-story building, she took his hand. They climbed together.
Once inside, he flipped on a single lamp, then asked, "Hungry? Want a drink? What?"
"Sleep. I want sleep." She met his eyes. "Preferably with you."
Something crumbled inside his chest. "Probably not a good idea."
"Just sleep, Patrick. It wouldn't be the first time we've... just slept with each other."
"Yeah, but it's been a long time. And right now I'm not up for a character test." He nodded to one of two doors in his small apartment. "That way lies a bed. Take it. I'll take the sofa."
She stared at him a long time, then gave him the barest hint of a smile. "I could change your mind."
He thought about that. "You could. But you won't." He jerked his head toward the second door. "That's the bathroom. You can get at it from the bedroom too. I'm going for a walk." He felt as much like heading out into the rain and wind as downing a razor-laced vodka martini, but if he didn't get out of here, he'd explode. Heading out the door, he thought this had to be where the expression "cock-of-the walk" originated—from a guy and his untrustworthy dick, walking away from trouble.
He gave her half an hour, and when he got back, the lamp was still on. The living room was empty. Heart-in-mouth—thinking she was gone—he checked the bedroom.
Gina lay sprawled across his bed on her stomach, wearing one of his T-shirts. Her ridiculous blond hair covered her face and one arm dangled over the edge of the bed. All he could do was stand there and listen to her deep, slow breathing. Like a song, it was. It took a minute or two—or five—before he managed to turn away and close the door behind him. He did some deep breathing and shoved the heels of his hands against his burning eyes.
Fuck if his damn heart didn't hurt like a wounded beast.
Patrick had never expected to feel this way about a woman, and he'd surely never expected to love someone who didn't love him back.
* * *
A feeble sun woke the world the next morning, and Gina woke with it. Her next sensory perception was the smell of coffee. But, as drawn to it as she was, that coffee meant Patrick was up—and she wasn't sure she was ready to face him. She owed him the truth, about a lot of things, and she had no idea where to start.
Patrick had changed.
He was cool, reserved, and he'd turned her down—twice. He wasn't going to make this easy for her. Not that she blamed him.
Damn! She had some serious groveling to do, so she'd best get started.
She shoved her hair off her face, stood, and straightened her shoulders. First, the bathroom, some splashes of cold water—then Patrick. When she stepped into the main room—the apartment was compact, kitchen at one end, living room at the other—Patrick's back was to her. Although she was barefoot and hadn't made a sound, he turned to her immediately. His expression was sober, so sober it stopped her where she stood.
"Sleep okay?" he asked.
"Uh-huh."
"Good." He turned back to the cupboards and took out a box of cereal.
She had to smile. "Cocoa Puffs. Some things don't change."
"And some things do." He set the box on the table, dug out a couple of bowls, some milk, and two spoons. Then he put a steaming cup of coffee on the table. "Sit," he said. His words an echo of her own from just a few hours ago.
She sat, picked up the coffee, and drank. While she looked for a place to start, Patrick ate Cocoa Puffs.
He stopped long enough to ask, "So... when did you learn to crack a safe?"
Okay... She set her coffee down, but kept her hands around it. As anchors went, it was all she had. "When I was fifteen. My dad was in the security business." She took a breath. "On both sides of the law. He started as a locksmith, purely legit. Saw more money on the other side and went for it. That got him ten years, and eventually a job with the FBI as their go-to guy."
"Interesting career path. Where is he now?"
"London. Doing some consulting for MI5."
Silence.
Gina gulped down some air. "Dad taught me well and when Marco started working for the Raven Force, he mentioned my, uh, skill to Tanner Cross. It's what got my foot in the door." She stopped. "That and my time with the CIA."
Patrick, who'd given up on his Cocoa Puffs, picked up his coffee. "How long were you with them?"
"Four years."
"And when we met?"
Her heart pounded a couple of good ones, then stalled. "I was with Raven Force. Between engagements. I didn't expect I'd— I didn't expect... you. You were—"
Silence.
"What was I, Gina?"
Misery pooled like bad soup in her gut. "I don't know. Back then, I only knew what you were supposed to be."
She couldn't sit still anymore, so she got up. So did Patrick, but while he said nothing, his eyes held a thousand questions.
"You were supposed to be a distraction. A good-looking guy who knew his way around the bedroom. A guy I could have a few laughs with, and walk away from when I had to."
"I see." He was still, the only movement in the room his chest rising and falling.
She shook her head. "No. No, you don't see, because you can't. You can't see the lies I told myself about how easy it would be, how I'd get over you. Eventually stop thinking about you 24/7. You can't see that I loved you—because I didn't know until I was a world away from you. Until I knew there was no way back. I'd have to admit to all my lies, and I was too much the coward for that." She paced a couple of steps. "And there was still my job. You were a cop. Not only does Raven Force not always do things by the book—" Briefly, she shut her eyes. "It was a job that would never let me be what you want."
"And what might that 'want' have been?" The gleam in his eyes was oddly speculative.
"Come on, Patrick! Sure you were cop—but you're a traditional guy. You wanted to come home at night, have a beer, a nice dinner, have some kids, maybe a new station wagon every five years."
He cringed visibly. "I hate station wagons, I don't drink, and dinner is what restaurants are for." He stopped. "But, yes, to the kids. A boy and a girl, if you'd be kind enough."
She gaped at him. Well and truly gaped. He was smiling. "Have you been listening to me? At all?"
"Every word, love. Every word. But the only ones that count said something about you being in love with me. I figure we can pick things up from there." He covered the distance between them in three long strides, took her in his arms, and carried her to the bedroom. He plunked her unceremoniously on the bed and peeled off his shirt. The next second he was all over her, kissing her senseless, and making Cocoa Puffs of her few remaining brain cells.
"Wait!" She shoved him back—but not too far back. "Why aren't you a cop anymore?"
He kissed her where her neck met her shoulder. "I quit. I decided I don't much like guns and such—especially when they're pointed at me."
"You quit." She digested that; then, taken over by unstoppable female curiosity, asked, "Then what do you do—other than tail unsuspecting citizens?"
"It's this way, you see." He leaned close and kissed her ear. "After you left, and with me feeling so down, I decided I'd best take up with my second love."
"Which is?"
"I write books, about sex, murder, and general mayhem." He ran a finger from the pulse in her throat down to her belly. "And it seems I've found my perfect heroine."
"Books," she repeated, oddly not surprised.
"And can you believe they pay me for it—or will in couple of months when the first in the series comes out?"
"And that makes you happy? Writing books?"
"Ecstatic." He brushed his lips over hers. So soft. Her lungs imploded.
"Say it, Patrick. I want to hear it."
He stopped his kissing and took her face in his hands. Looking into her eyes, his own soft as moonlight, he said, "I love you, Gina. I always will."
She closed her eyes, savored the words. "And I love you, Patrick Byrne." But there was one last flutter of worry. "What I do—my job—are you okay with it?"
He cocked his head, frowned slightly. "Will there be station wagons?"
She laughed. "No."
He smiled. "Then we're good to go."
The End
Page forward for a note from EC Sheedy
A Note from EC Sheedy
Dear Reader,
Thank you for buying and reading this story. I sincerely hope you enjoyed STAYING COOL, and if you did, you'll watch for my other e-titles. :-)
Now Available:
ONE TOUGH COOKIE: A contemporary romance set on Spain's magical Costa del Sol and featuring a heroine resolutely determined to be financially, emotionally, and physically independent. She wants no man—until she meets Mister Wrong.
OVERKILL: The first in a series of short stories and novelettes featuring the Raven Force, a privately funded group of covert agents who work against the illegal arms/drug trade. Ravens cover the globe to get the job done—and to fall in love.
CALIFORNIA MAN: A romance set on an idyllic Pacific Northwest island, it tells the story of a timid, reclusive island woman who meets a golden California man—a man determined to calm her fears and gain her love.
MAN FOR THE MORNING: A single mother gets a break from her busy responsible life with a trip to Paris. Open-hearted, open-minded to all that life has to offer in the City of Light, she meets a man her polar opposite.
LOVE LETTERS, INC.: A clever and funny tech writer moonlights writing love letters for the "dating impaired" and ends up with love being returned to sender.
Happy reading!
Warm Wishes,
EC Sheedy
EC Sheedy who also writes as Carole Dean, lives in British Columbia. She is an island dweller—and loves it. Every morning she wakes to the ever changing sound and colors of the ocean outside her window. Whatever its mood, summer calm or winter storm, she finds it the perfect background for writing romance. She lives with her husband of many years and a Rhodesian Ridgeback who has convinced them both he is a person in dog's clothing.
For more about EC Sheedy and to see some views from her window, visit EC's webpage www.ecsheedy.com
Or follow her on Twitter @EC_Sheedy
To contact EC Sheedy, email: ecsheedy@ecsheedy.com
Table of Contents
Cover
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
A Note from EC Sheedy
Meet the Author