When a Man Loves a Weapon (2 page)

Four months ago. Three shots. Meant for him.

Bobbie Faye had jumped in the way.

They didn’t talk about it. At all. Every single morning, he kissed the scars, and every single night he held her, his long, lean fingers splayed out over that area as if he could ward them off, shove away the memory.

“Hey,” she coaxed, tugging his hand, trying to dispel the mood, “he’s a metric buttload of miles away.”

“MacGreggor escaped.” He bit the words out with the same harsh disgust as the first time he’d told her. He’d damned near gone feral, his protective instincts kicking into full gear those first few weeks, and she’d had to fight him to keep him from putting them into complete lockdown mode. He’d have put armed guards on her if she’d have let him, and he’d vetoed traveling to meet his family and his family traveling to meet her. Hell, he’d have vetoed going to the grocery store and Ce Ce’s and ever seeing the sunlight again if she’d have listened to him. Good thing she’d patented “titanium-level stubborn” years earlier.

“He escaped three months ago.” She was going to put a happy spin on it, if it fucking killed her. “And he’s heading toward Canada. We know that from the tips and witnesses calling in.” There was a BOLO out on Sean on every continent—a “be on the lookout for” notice that went out internationally, at all levels of law enforcement. “He’s trying to get home.” To Ireland, she hoped. Well, she
hoped
for
Hell
, because Ireland had never done anything to deserve Sean MacGreggor, either.

She watched Trevor tamp down his fury, that ice-cold hatred he had for Sean MacGreggor, the man Trevor had shot. The man who’d promised to come back and “claim” Bobbie Faye.

She’d been studiously ignoring that little nugget of information. Trying to be normal, whatever the hell that was. She’d actually slept a whole night. Well, sort of a whole night. Okay, four hours without waking up ready to fight someone and accidentally smacking the crap out of Trevor.

Still, she’d been working her ass off to convince him she was okay. “Hey,” she said when he didn’t answer, “everything is back to normal . . . in fact, better than normal, all flowers and sunshine and fluffy clouds. I have set a whole new record of no one trying to kill me. I think I should get a trophy.”

“C’mon.” He reached for her again, not smiling at her attempt, his perfect poker face back in place. For an absolutely hot man . . . her Hormones took their own little detour at that moment to wander over his muscled thighs, nearly derailing her entire brain with an Ode to Man . . . he could go granite cold, a veneer he carefully adopted whenever he was undercover. It had become something of a personal goal to make him forget how to use that mask, particularly with her.

He pulled her to her feet, his sparring gloves smooth against her arms, and they stood face-to-face—er, eyes to chin, technically, since he was nearly six inches taller at six foot. She gave him a big grin, which inspired his suspicious appraisal.

“You realize,” she poked him playfully in the ribs, “that as soon as we get me in prime fighting form, I’ll get flattened by a bus instead.”

And just as he started to retort, she landed a punch and didn’t take the time to revel in his surprised expression, though he did manage to block her next flurry of moves. Damn freaking man. Two steps later, she nailed his thigh with a kick and they were suddenly
game on
, sparring, and she came very very close a few times to almost landing
another one. Close enough to make Trevor’s eyes narrow, and he had to concentrate and not merely bat her away.
Ha.
Girl power.

She maneuvered him the way he’d taught her and, in one sweet move, the angels sang and the Universe was distracted from bringing on her total abject humiliation and she managed to take him down. They slammed against the padded floor mat, and if he hadn’t immediately rolled and pinned her beneath him, she’d have danced around the ring like a winning prizefighter.

Instead, she kissed him. Which made him relax. Whereupon she flipped him over and straddled him.

She’d have paid big money to have a photo of his expression—half shock, half pride. She wriggled on top of him and leaned down, kissing the corner of his mouth.

“You need to focus,” he said, the words grinding out against her lips.

“I
am
focused.” She smiled and kissed him again, and reminded herself that she was getting to marry this man.

“You planning on using this technique on everyone you take down? Because that’s a lot of guys I’ll have to kill.”

“I’m not sure whether to be annoyed that you’re obsessing again, Mr. FBI, or happy that you think I’m capable of taking down multiple men. I landed a punch
and
a kick
and
a takedown. I think we need to celebrate.” She grinned, running her fingers through his hair and wiggled just enough for him to be absolutely certain that sparring practice was over.

“Let’s go with happy.”

He yanked off his shirt as he rolled over onto her, his hard body pressed along her own, his skin against hers delicious and warm against the cool air in the barn, like safety somehow sheathed in danger. Her body hummed as he braced on one arm and slid the other hand over her, a knuckle rasping just beneath her breast while he kissed her, possessing, dominating. She liked that he could be bossy and strong and rough and gentle at the same time and she wasn’t quite sure how he managed it, this treating her like an equal,
but still his
. Then she quit thinking completely as she burned
beneath the fire of his kisses trailing down the line of her throat. She wasn’t entirely sure when he’d unhooked her workout bra, but she shivered beneath the scratch of his days-old stubble against her breast as he raked his teeth across her nipples, biting, then his tongue soothing, her body flooding with heat and want and need.

“Up,” he commanded, and she arched her bottom and he stripped off her shorts—thank God for military efficiency—and she was bare to him. The mat warmed beneath her, the rough calluses of his palm sliding down her hip, past the little birth control patch that she’d checked with the religious fervor of a born-again zealot. His hand slid up her inner thigh until his thumb brushed her, his fingers sliding inside, his mouth taking hers, fast, hard, at the same time, and she nearly came undone at his searing attack of her body.

Then he lifted off her for a moment, a brief heartbeat of loss and cold, and just as suddenly, he was there again, having stripped off his shorts, and he lay down beside her, his blue eyes dark, serious. He seemed lost in the curves of her hip, the angle of her knee, studying her as if all the answers lay there, in the bend of her elbow or the place where he knew she was ticklish just beneath her ear. His face was all confidence and darkness, and she’d seen that hunger before on card sharks in a room full of thieves, a look that was patience and determination and secrets, his fingers sliding with knowledge and skill and when she moved to touch him, he stilled her with a
shhhhhh
.

“Let me,” he whispered, and then he took his ever-loving time about it, ’til she felt taut and aching and scattered all at the same time, cards spread on the table,
play me
.

There may have been whimpering. Possibly a little begging.

Okay, a
lot
of begging, and she tried to urge him to move faster, but he was ruthless, and he shut her up with an entire repertoire of kisses that tilted her world, and she shuddered beneath his utter control just as—

—his cell phone rang. The Bureau calling. She recognized,
and loathed, the specific “urgent” ring tone he’d assigned so that he’d know the difference between pure administrative crap that could wait and the life-threatening other crap that could not. She’d itched many times to pick up that damned tyrant of a phone and “accidentally” lose it in the garbage disposal, but the freaky thing was so sophisticated, she wouldn’t be a bit surprised if it not only resurrected itself, but videotaped her and ran and tattled.

He kissed her and she forgot about the phone for a second, or ten, and then it stopped ringing. He took his time at the corner of her mouth, braced on one elbow, leaning over her, his other hand playing intricate patterns, weaving through her long hair, its dark, rich browns like dark coffee against her ivory no-tan-for-you-this-summer skin.

The phone rang again. The damned thing went everywhere with him. Even to this barn behind the tiny house he’d found out in the middle of nowhere, south Louisiana. The frayed old house, worn at the edges like her favorite boots, tossed almost absently beneath great sprawling trees on acres of land—land bordered by a massive swamp that spilled into an enormous lake. Another ring. They were at the end of the world out here, somewhere back in primordial time, in the Mesozoic era, if she could judge by the size of the damned alligators she’d seen when he’d taken her on a boat ride to show her the property boundaries.

He tried to ignore the call, his hand guiding her into turning toward him, bringing her back to him as he hung onto his control, trying to keep them right there, in that moment, just them together, no duty intruding, but the phone kept shrilling, echoing off the barn walls, and Trevor sighed, touching his forehead to her own as she flopped her arms out against the mat, resigning herself.

“Sonofabitch,” he muttered, knowing he had to answer.

He was supposed to be on leave for another two weeks. The damned FBI had called him every single day. Sometimes, several times a day. She didn’t know what exactly he did, but he was assigned to freaking south Louisiana. How busy could they possibly be?

He rolled off her and crossed the sparring ring to grab the phone, and she listened to his very brief, tense side of the conversation.

“What?” he asked. Then, “No, it’s—”

He stood, back rigid, muscles granite. Silent. There was a stillness to him that made her very very nervous, as if he were a predator about to spring, and she held her breath. “I’ll be there,” he said, then snapped his phone shut.

He didn’t tell her what the call was about, and Bobbie Faye knew better than to ask, but it fucking killed her. Fucking FBI and fucking missions and fucking going away and he’d only be leaving right now if it was bad. And didn’t
that
response have all the maturity of a rabid teenager.
Gah.

She stood in the empty living room of this tiny house he’d bought . . .
they’d
bought, she corrected herself, as he packed his overnight bag. He had a “go bag” in the bedroom for emergencies—extra clothes, phone, boots, and enough survival crap to make a Sherpa orgasmic, but this bag had more civilized stuff, like his shaving kit, nice jeans, and shirts. She didn’t even want to know what was in the hanging bag draped over the card table they used as a dining set.

She wanted to hit something, but there was nothing to hit, kick, throw, slam, or smash. She glanced around at the emptiness: white walls, white trim, no furniture, not a single item, no rugs, just hardwood floors in desperate need of repair and refinishing. She toed one of the warped boards.

“We’ll sand that when I get back,” he said, a little too chipper for anyone talking about a home improvement project.

She threw him a skeptical glance. “Can you imagine me holding onto one of those big floor sanders? We’ll be lucky if I don’t take out a couple of walls with that thing.”

“I plan on aiming you at the two we need to take out anyway.”

“Very economical of you.”

“Just wait ’til you see how we remove the tile in the kitchen.”

He looked oddly happy at the thought. The man was
clearly a masochist. Of course, that explained an awful lot about their relationship.

“You’re just trying to con me into thinking you need more power tools,” she said.

“I’m adding it to the vows—love, honor, and router, ’til death do us part.”

“You just made a hand tool sound dirty.”

“Good to know,” he said, grinning.

There was phenomenal woodwork for such a tiny house, and she focused on the Craftsman-styled shelves at the other end of the living room. They were empty, like the rest of the place. A couple of shelves had gone missing and someone had let their kid paste all sorts of stickers on the inside of the bottom cabinet. She had expected the big bad federal agent to scoff at the blasphemy of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles rubbed to a mottled gray pattern on “quality woodwork,” but he’d squatted in front of that cabinet and smiled as he traced Michaelangelo (he laughed when she knew the name) and said, “This stays, when we refinish. People were happy here. They were a family here.”

She still, a month later, couldn’t figure out how in the hell he’d found this property, especially at a price they could afford. He couldn’t have created a more private home if he’d carved the place out of the swamp himself. He’d found it after she’d gotten out of the hospital—he hated the vulnerability of her trailer. Too many prying neighbors, too easy to rip the door open, too hard to protect. Hard to be a federal agent with just anyone able to tiptoe up to the trailer, unobserved, and overhear everything through the too-thin walls. She’d sold the trailer and most of her stuff to afford her half of the down payment, and they’d only just moved in a couple of weeks ago. There were a few boxes—very few—to unpack. She had almost nothing left from when they’d met and her trailer had flooded (and then fallen over, and then ripped in half) and he’d moved around so much, he hadn’t bothered to ever accumulate things.

He put two folded t-shirts on top of a photo. He’d packed the snapshot Ce Ce had taken of the two of them the day
she’d first said yes. Bobbie Faye hadn’t even realized he’d had a copy made. And it was framed. When had he done that? Did a man really need a photo if he was only going to be gone a short while? She inhaled, sharply, and had to turn away from the satchel, look away from his own too-serious face. She practically vibrated in place. He thought he was distracting her with the remodeling talk, but she wasn’t fooled.

She wanted to know what that call was about.

By the time she was seven, she’d been the kind of kid who’d unwrapped her presents before Christmas, played with them each night, and then rewrapped them before her mom realized what she’d done. How on earth did anyone else actually
wait
? And it didn’t matter what the hell was inside the box. It could be bricks. It only mattered that she didn’t
know
what was inside the box.