Renner (In the Company of Snipers Book 19)

by Irish Winters

  Jed stretched out his hand and this time, Renner accepted it. Lois sniffed. Some former Marine in the room gave a grunt of approval. Might’ve been Alex. Or Mark, Zack, Taylor, Gabe, Maverick or—hell, it could’ve been Kelsey. She’d been sounding more and more like a Devil Dog lately.

  “Hey, everyone, I’ve got French toast, eggnog, and homemade applesauce,” she chimed in. “It’s in the kitchen if you’re hungry.”

  “And bacon,” Alex added. “Peppered and regular. Grab your kids. Let’s eat.”

  Renner found himself caught in a friendly tide of guy hugs, wifely hugs, and one very tight strangling hug from Kelsey. “Thanks for keeping my secrets,” she whispered in his ear, “but I told Alex everything last night.”

  “Yes, and thanks for having her six,” Alex murmured behind her, his hand in Renner’s face. “I still can’t believe she jumped off that high-rise in Hillcrest Heights. She’s just as bad as you. You’re quite a guy.”

  Renner accepted the praise humbly. “It was my pleasure,” he said even as Tara piped up with, “Well, of course he is. That’s why you hire men like him, isn’t it?”

  Alex’s brow lifted like he had more to say, but he offered nothing, just brushed by Renner and Tara on his way to the kitchen with Kelsey.

  “Let’s eat,” Tara said.

  “Ah huh,” Renner replied, his boots rooted where he stood, his gaze caught on the fine Irish bar next to where Alex and Kelsey had been sitting. Had to be solid wood, maybe something Alex had crafted. Beautifully carved Celtic crosses and ivy marked the polished front panel. A white bar towel sat neat and folded beside a dozen seductive amber bottles of temptation. The friends of a lifetime... Jameson. Bacardi. Jose Cuervo. Patrón. Others.

  Alex wouldn’t mind. All Renner needed was one stiff drink. A quick shot would go down smooth and easy. Just one. That was what real men did, they tossed one back, and it gave them the burn and the energy to move on. To keep fighting. Fighting men had been doing it for centuries. No one had to know. The guys might even expect it from him. Couldn’t let them down, could he? They had his back and he had theirs and—

  Tara’s fingertips graced his chin, tugging his gaze from the bar back to her trusting blues. “You do what you have to do,” she told him earnestly. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Don’t be long.”

  But he knew what she meant, and damn it, Renner didn’t need her permission, nor anyone else’s, but—

  Tara was a recovering alcoholic. So was Harley. They’d both stayed clear of that bar and those bottles. They hadn’t even seemed tempted. Yet Renner knew they were just like him. Tempted plenty. Alcohol didn’t let anyone get away without a fight. A fight he was now embroiled in. So, how’d they do it?

  He stared that bottle of Irish whiskey down. Stay or go? Man up or man down? Live to die another day or pickle his liver like a weakling with Satan riding his back, spurring him. on. Not covering his six. Never loyal. Just spurring him endlessly on for one more shot, one more sip, half-pint or bottle or handle. One more, and then another until it killed him. Until Tara left him for good—

  Damned if something Detective Cody Graves had said a long time ago didn’t bubble up to the surface of Renner’s mind. Something about how sometimes the better part of valor was walking away from a fight. Knowing when to fight. Knowing who you were really fighting. That guy with the big mouth or—you.

  In the end, all came back to Tara. She’d told Renner precisely what he’d needed to hear, to do what he had to do. Well, first Renner was going to do breakfast with a strong cup of coffee and a hearty slice of peppered bacon. Then he was going to do a quick retreat back to his or her place, where they could be alone and naked the rest of the day, maybe tomorrow, too. And then, he was going to do Tara.

  Jack Daniels and his friends couldn’t beat that.

  Chapter Forty

  Tara rubbed her nose into Renner’s chest like a cat in heat, craving his touch and his scent. Every last one of his kisses. Loving the way he clutched her backside when she came. The way he always handled her poor banged-up head gently as if he knew where that bump was. How he knew where every last one of her injured ribs were and avoided them with precision. Which hadn’t been easy the way they’d feasted on and off each other’s bodies yesterday. Yet this morning she felt better. Relaxed. Finally, ready and able to face the world. Maybe spit in its eye.

  Better yet, they had two weeks off together—two weeks!—to play and relax. In the shower. In his bed. On his sturdy kitchen table. Or on the counter while the pancakes she’d tried to make fluffy burned instead to a smoky crisp. Surely the neighbors heard the smoke detectors screaming.

  Or they could play at her, ahem, loft. Mr. Marchant had to have noticed she hadn’t been back. Or maybe he’d seen the news. He might be worried. It was time to go home.

  “I’ll race you to the shower,” she said as she licked her way up Renner’s neck, then covered his mouth with hers. The man had a rugged five o’clock shadow that graced the hard line of his cheeks, jaw, other assets she adored. Who knew whisker burns could hurt so good? Yet they did. On her lips and chin. Her breasts, that had even now perked for his attention. The inside of her thighs. He’d marked her body in the most delicious places and—

  The shower could wait.

  Urgently, she nipped his lower lip, sucking it like he’d suckled her breasts. Hinting. Then hinting a little harder until he opened those beautiful deep blue eyes and rolled her over.

  “Good morning,” he growled down at her before he poured kisses over her face.

  It didn’t take long until they were both sweating and flying again. This man knew her body too well, and that made her happy in ways she’d never imagined. This was making love. Kiss by kiss, he’d banished all thoughts of her nightmares. When she woke now, her first thoughts weren’t to run and check her locks. Her past was finally behind her. She really could fly.

  “Come with me,” he murmured, his voice a sexy rumbling command her body couldn’t seem to ignore. So, she did, her heart opened wide as her body exploded.

  At last, Renner sagged into her, his breath hard in her ear, but his body just as relaxed and satisfied. Satiated. For now. She too knew a few things he couldn’t resist. Mostly she just had to undress, but he liked her mouth on him—everywhere. And she lived to make him throw his head back and roar. She loved his fingers in her hair while she worshipped his body. If this gentle dance of persuasion they seemed to be locked in step with wasn’t love, she didn’t know what love was. He already owned her body and soul. Her heart. He just didn’t know it yet. She hadn’t told him.

  And just like that… “I love you, Renner,” spilled easily off her tongue.

  His head came up, sweat glistening on his brow, but that adorable bright light in his eyes. Gah. She knew it then. He didn’t have to say it. He loved her, too.

  Her heart overflowed down her cheeks.

  “Please tell me I didn’t hurt you,” he begged hoarsely, that sad smile back on his mouth.

  She couldn’t speak, could only shake her head.

  “Good,” he purred, “because I know you love me, baby. You’ve been showing me nothing but love since we met.”

  She nearly choked. “Even when I pushed you off that high-rise?”

  He nodded, bowing the top of his head to her chin as his mouth latched onto her nipple. “Even then,” he mumbled. The man had no trouble talking with his mouth full. “And you need to know I love you, too. All of you.”

  She nestled her nose into his hair and against his scalp, breathing in the spicy, sweaty scent of him. Loving every last epithelial, every molecule. Holding onto him and all that he’d brought into her life. Courage. Ferocity. Love, soft and sweet and kind.

  His head came up again as he let go of her nipple with a satisfied pop. He grinned like the happy male he was. This man was a pleasure to love. He was a gift and she was never letting him go.

  “How about we take a nice long bath instead?”
he asked, his mouth still shiny wet.

  “I’d like that. But then I should probably go back to my place. I’ll have bills to pay and I want to let Mr. Marchant know where I’ve been.”

  “I want you here with me. All the time. Would you ever consider moving in—”

  “Yes. Yes!” she all but squealed. “I’d like that very much.”

  “Today?”

  Tara nodded, grinning like a fool. “Yes, please. I’m myself, I’m strong again. More, I don’t know, stubborn, I guess you could say.”

  That raised his brows. “How could you possibly be more stubborn?”

  Yeah, he had her there. “It’s a good trait.” She laughed. “It keeps you focused on your goals long after others quit on theirs.”

  “It also gets you into trouble.”

  Well, yeah. There was that. “But only winners have the perfect blend of tenacity and willpower.” Her back stiffened automatically at that. “And only winners believe they can do anything. It’s never more than a matter of ‘where there’s a will, there’s a way’. Right?”

  His hands slipped under her hips and ended up cupping her backside. Renner took a deep breath. “Right, but how willful are you? A good marriage takes hard work.”

  Tara stopped breathing. Was he asking...?

  “I know you said you wanted to take time getting to know each other, but…” He looked down to where their bodies were still warmly connected. “I don’t want to wait. Move in with me. Stay with me. Marry me. Win with me.”

  “Yes,” she whispered, afraid if she spoke too loudly, she’d wake up from this once-in-a-lifetime dream.

  When Renner smiled, the sun poured out of his heart, and he was smiling now. “I love you, Tara,” he whispered.

  Aww… She cupped his beautiful, manly face. There wasn’t a twinge of sadness in his eyes. Only the purest love. His cheeks cracked wide open. Even with whiskers, he looked like the happiest kid on earth. And so was she.

  Talk about goal-oriented. All Renner needed was a mission, a directive, or an order, and he was ready to go. He and Tara had already gone to her place and met with her buddy, Mr. Marchant, the gray-haired older gent who didn’t mind taking her rent, but never came through with simple, basic things like fire escapes or enough extinguishers.

  How he’d ever acquired a certificate of occupancy or a housing business license amazed Renner. Which made him look differently at the other four apartments on the first level of this older Victorian. The house itself was not in bad shape. It was the owner who was out of touch with state and city regulations, out of compliance. Renner didn’t want to think about how much insurance old man Marchant had—or didn’t have. Probably not much, certainly not enough.

  Renner had learned the hard way about licensing and insurance requirements after his dad died. His mother woke up one day and sprang into action, intent on getting back on her feet and on with her life. She’d brushed her hair and threw her shoulders back, and she’d used some of the payout from Cody’s life insurance to buy a has-been tavern, now registered at city hall as the profitable enterprise, Crazy Eights.

  Like the energetic, and okay, stubborn woman she had been and still was today—Renner cringed at the fact that he seemed attracted to that particularly bristly female trait—Brenda Graves opened a pub where Cody’s fellow detectives and MPD officers could linger after hours, where they could be among friends. Where they could laugh or cry while they threw one or a dozen back. Where she could look out for them and make sure they didn’t drive once they’d gone over her two-beer limit. Not that she stopped them from drinking any more than she’d stopped him after two beers. She’d just mothered them. Maybe smothered them. Made sure they got home to their loved ones at night. Called their wives to tell them where their men were and why. It seemed Brenda had found a new mission in life—making sure that none of Cody’s friends died on her watch.

  She should’ve been a Marine, too.

  Which was why Renner was on his fifth trip to the garbage receptacle in Marchant’s rear parking lot. The fewer combustibles Tara left behind when she moved, the safer this entire building would be. At least until Renner had some free time to help this guy with his rent issues and insurance. That was all Marchant needed, a helping hand to get the place back on track. He might have to ante up and pay a few late fees or fines, but that was doable. Consider it a lesson learned.

  “Only one more,” Tara called down the stairs after Renner.

  “Okay, lock up after me. I’ll be right back.”

  “You bet.”

  He waited until he heard her feet pounding down to the first floor. Then click, and he jerked the back door open. Mr. Marchant stood on the small concrete porch, dressed in a red winter jacket and boots, sweeping the latest snowflakes off the steps.

  “Here, I can do that,” Renner said as he dropped the tidy white kitchen garbage bag off the edge of the porch. “You take a breather.”

  “Thanks,” Marchant said with a puff. “Seems the older I get, the less oxygen there is in the air.”

  “You okay?” Renner asked, his sharp eyes taking in his new friend’s condition.

  “Pshaw, yes. Just get winded faster these days. That’ll teach me for smoking when I was young and dumb.”

  Renner had to smile at that. He was still young enough to be that kind of dumb. “Well, we all have our favorite bad habits, don’t we?”

  Marchant took up residence on the concrete side of the porch. “Sure wish I knew who’s leaving those damned cigarette butts for me to clean up.”

  “What butts? Where?”

  “Over there.” Marchant gestured to the garbage receptacle.

  “Today?”

  “Every damned day. If I ever catch him or her…”

  Renner dropped the broom and ran to the receptacle. Oh, hell, no. Clove cigarette butts. Lots of them, one still smoking through the freshly fallen snow. Beside the receptacle where Renner was fairly certain Jorge had stood while he’d watched Tara.

  Renner ran past Marchant and back into the house, his heart in his throat. “Tara!”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Tara had just stripped the bedding off her bed when someone stepped out of her tiny walk-in closet. She hadn’t known anyone was there until a hand came out of nowhere and slapped over her mouth and nose. Then she felt an arm tighten around her neck, gloved fingers against her lips, and something sharp in her ribs. A knife. She couldn’t scream, couldn’t call out. Didn’t dare. That would put Renner and Mr. Marchant in danger. She wouldn’t do that.

  “There now,” an American voice soothed like this guy wasn’t trying to kill her. The sharp thing in her already sore ribs cut deeper, lancing her shirt and her skin. “You do as you’re told, I might let you live. Call your boyfriend. Tell him you’re too tired. He needs to go home. Make him.”

  She might comply if this creep would take his hand off her mouth. Tara smelled body odor and tooth decay. Clove cigarettes. Whoever this guy was, he wasn’t Jorge. But he knew Jorge. Which meant he was Indonesian or Syrian, or—just another terrorist.

  Unable to speak or reason with this guy, she went along while he shoved the back of her legs, edging toward her bedroom door. When she grunted, needing him to let go of her mouth long enough to do as he’d ordered, the blade in her side cut deeper.

  Tara was damned if she obeyed, damned if she didn’t. She couldn’t win. This guy had no intention of letting her talk, probably because he knew she’d scream. And she would. She had no intention of letting him kill Renner or Mr. Marchant.

  By then they were standing in her front room. She could see out her window. The wintry storm had finally quit. The sky was clearer and no flakes were falling. Clouds still hovered low and gray over the District. And there Tara stopped dead in her tracks. She wouldn’t go willingly, not to what she knew waited for her. This guy might as well kill her right here and now. That was what terrorists did.

  Until she heard boots pounding u
p her stairway. Renner.

  “No!” she tried to warn him, but her scream came out muffled.

  Her assassin hissed, “Silence!” cutting her again.

  The door burst open and Renner was there, his eyes black, his face devoid of emotion. The two pistols he relentlessly carried were out of their holsters and fastened on her and the man hiding behind her like a coward.

  “Andy White,” Renner barked. “Let her go.”

  “Ahmed Al-Yousif!!” her abductor bellowed. “I am Ahmed Al-Yousif. There is no more Andy White.”

  Tara cringed. Dear God, the man slowly knifing her to death was Jorge’s blood-thirsty buddy. But he had two names. He must be a traitor.

  Renner never blinked, never took his eyes off White/Yousif/Whatever. Just looked at her and told her as steadily as if he were reading the news, “I’m here now. You’re going to be okay.”

  But Tara knew better. The blade in her side was no toy, and she was already bleeding. And Renner couldn’t hide the sweat beading on his brow or the hard glint in his eye. God, please let that glint be that stubborn determination they’d talked about. She could use some.

  Tara shook her head at Renner, trying to tell him to just leave. Save himself.

  “Don’t. Move,” he ordered, his voice steel, wrapping around her like an unbreakable promise.

  But breathing was already a struggle. Blood ran warm and thin down her leg. It would only take one stab, one stumble, and she’d be dead. There was no way she’d make it out of this standoff alive. Tara closed her eyes, prepared to die if it meant saving Renner.

  “Let her go, White,” Renner ordered again. “Or die.”

  Tara was pale and bleeding, standing in a pool of her blood. Andy Asshat had to comply or Renner would soon have no choice but to shoot through her to kill him. Not an option he ever thought he’d be faced with. Yet here they were, AW hiding behind yet another human shield, prepared to die a chicken shit martyr. Renner wanted to grant that wish. But shooting Tara was not how he wanted this to end.