When a Man Loves a Weapon (45 page)

“
Practicing
it is not a bad thing,” she agreed. “Little proofs of fertility can wait a while.”

“I like the practicing part,” he said, his thumbs now smoothing over her breasts, circling and teasing, rasping over her nipples and what were they saying? “Also,” he added, bending to kiss her neck as he slid one hand down inside the loose elastic of the scrubs she wore, and between nibbles he said, “I am amazed you’re not yelling at me. For not talking to you. About my past.” His hand dipped between her legs, and his other captured the back of her neck, holding her to him, his lips against hers. “I deserve it.”

“Um,” she said, after a long while, trying to remember what she was supposed to be doing. Oh. Yeah. Answering. “Yeah. You do. Can we table the yelling for later?”

He tasted her along her jaw and then down her neck, whipping off her shirt, and then his whiskers scratched
against her breast, his hot mouth closing around a nipple and she arched into him.

“Tabling. Duly noted,” he said between kisses. The things he knew how to do with his hands. “But just so you know, I’m not going to do that again,” he murmured, and nipped at her because she’d whimpered when his mouth had paused long enough to talk. Then he moved to the other breast and then down and as he kissed her scars, kissed the curve of her hip, he added, “Ever, Sundance.”

“What?” she asked, regretting it because it would mean he’d have to stop that magic with his tongue and . . . oh . . .
oh
. . . and then from far away, he answered.

“Let anything come between us.”

She caught his gaze in her own as he stood, and it felt like an oath. A vow. And she nodded, tears dampening her cheeks.

“Nothing,” she agreed.

“Good to know.” He grinned against her lips, his fingers working magic and her own hands undoing his jeans, sliding in and around and cupping him. Then she pushed at his shirt—and realized it was a clean one, no telling where he’d gotten it—but she didn’t care, just that her hands were on him. She hummed with that power she’d felt on the field, felt that surge of electrical current heating up her body. And it didn’t matter that they were in a hospital room, didn’t matter that they had no specific address to go to. All that mattered was this, him, and then their clothes were on the floor and he lifted her, her legs going around his waist, and she felt pure joy breaking through the darkness inside her heart, the place where she’d been afraid, too long afraid, and before he kissed her again, she saw that same joy in his eyes, that same benediction. And as he slid into her, her entire body shouted
home home home home home
.

There are so many people who make a book possible, and not nearly enough words to thank them. I would like to mention a specific few who were exceptional help for the novel you hold here. If there are mistakes in this book, it is certainly not for the lack of the people listed below trying their dead level best to keep me from making them.

A very deep, heartfelt thanks to:

Kim Whalen, my most amazing agent. You’ve been a rock and you’ve kept me laughing throughout these books and you’re the best.

Nichole Argyres, my extraordinary editor, who believed in Bobbie Faye from the very beginning and helped me make the dream come true.

Matthew Shear, Anne Marie Tallberg, John Karle, Joe Goldschein, Kylah McNeill, Ed Chapman, and everyone in the art department who made these covers rock (I love them)—thank you all. It’s been one of my greatest pleasures to be a writer with St. Martin’s Press.

Colonel Mike Edmonson for allowing me such great access to your troopers as I researched this book.

Captain Duane Schexnayder, who answered so many SWAT questions, I am forever in your debt—you were the epitome of professional and brilliant and I appreciated your suggestions more than you could know.

Detective Bart Morris, who was just flat-out cool, and
who gave me insight into the mind of the detective and helped me flesh out my instinct into real characters.

Sharon Naquin, Ph.D., Executive Director, LSU Division of Workforce Development, one of my dearest friends and without whom the above would have not been possible. You not only helped me to find the perfect resources, but you were a constant cheerleader and source of encouragement.

Special Agent Pam Stratton, for all of your efforts to help me grasp the hierarchy as well as the inner workings of the FBI and how it would function in this wild scenario; you, quite simply, rocked and were a joy.

Yvonne Hewitt, for your tremendous help in getting the Irish speech patterns correct in both
Girls Just Wanna Have Guns
and
When A Man Loves A Weapon
—as well as the terrific catches when I mangled the colloquial phrasing. I could not have done this without you.

Nancie Hays and Luke Causey, who both answered numerous technical questions about guns—especially for putting up with my emails that went along the lines of, “That thingie thing you told me that did that thing, you know? What was that again?” They both have the patience of Job, and a good deal more humor. I would’ve been lost without them.

Cap’n Bob Bernstein, for your wonderful sense of humor and help with brainstorming the casino boat scene. You were a phenomenal inspiration.

Jason Newman, Staff Sergeant, Air Force, who gave me detailed military background. Jason weathered some very oddball questions with grace and humor; any mistakes are my own.

Nick Lejeune, for the generous use of his name. Thankfully, the real Nick is a terrific guy and nothing like his counterpart in the book. (Well, except for the dimples.)

Kathy Sweeny, who answered random frantic last-minute attorney questions and tried to keep me from making grave mistakes in exactly who does what when, when it pertains to legal processes.

Jacob Causey, for all of the answers on fire and both Jacob
and Nicole Skrintney for the answers regarding cars—and for drooling with me over the Audi.

Emilie Staat, who is an extraordinary assistant and who kept me sane. (Okay,
saner
, because “sane” may be stretching it a bit.) You were always an amazing, fantastic friend and a huge help.

Pam DuMond, CJ Lyons, Lori Chapman, Renee George, Michelle Bardsley, Terri Smythe, Amanda Causey and Jerry McGee, all of whom read drafts and were a phenomenal support.

Pooks. Patricia Burroughs, a woman of tough questions and great advice and lots of laughter and intense debate—thank you for being such an amazing friend and for holding my hand through that first draft.

Allison Brennan, Lori Armstrong, Roxanne St. Claire, Debra Webb and Karin Tabke, for all the late night freak-out Q & A sessions.

POVers (you know who you are) who’ve been friends and support for 15 years. Also, thanks to all of the fine folks over on Crimescenewriter and Weapons_Info (both Yahoo groups) for the wealth of information they dispense for writers.

Alabama football fans—you are what makes a school rivalry great—a good sense of humor.

LSU football fans—you are, of course, the greatest. (I may be biased.) Thanks to a crack LSU staff and team, nothing like what I’ve described has ever happened.

The Fans. The letters I have received have humbled me and made me so grateful for being able to be a writer. You’ve lifted me up, sustained me and made all of the years of hard work worth every single solitary minute, and I hope I get the chance to continue to bring you laughter and pleasure.

My parents, Al and Jerry McGee, my in-laws, Patsy and Marion Causey, my brother, Mike, my sons, Luke and Jake and their wives, Amanda and Nicole, and my granddaughter, Angie. (I am barely getting used to saying “granddaughter,” but she is the cutest critter on the planet, so that makes it easier.)

Carl, my husband and best friend. You make me laugh every day, and happy beyond measure. I am the luckiest woman in the world (and no, you cannot remind me of that when I am grumpy). Thank you for putting up with all of the late nights of me staring at the computer and for all of the times you brought food into the cave when things were a little ragged and you probably should’ve been in fear for your life. You are my rock that I lean on and my heart.