Under the Gun

She decided to focus on the latter point. “And exactly what is your work? You were clearly looking for something in that building and it wasn’t me. Wasn’t a painting, either.”

“Speaking of that.” Adam put a hand on his hip and stared her down. “How did you know we’d be at that building?”

She’d stalked Luke, of course, but admitting that was out of the question. “I got lucky.”

Adam snorted. “Right.”

“Don’t worry about Claire and her snooping. I’ve got this situation under control,” Luke said.

Situation? She assumed that was his new pet name for her. Interesting how he couldn’t use his arm and was six seconds away from passing out but still thought he was in charge. Only the Y chromosome could result in that kind of bent logic.

Luke inhaled. “Just call the office—”

“You mean your antique storefront or your real job …” She hesitated until she knew she had their joint attention. “Whatever that job actually is.”

Luke scowled in her direction before turning back to Adam. “Go back to the scene,” he said. “Claire and I are going to have a little talk.”

She noticed Luke sounded more like police and less antique expert by the minute. “I’m fine, but thanks.”

“Then?” Adam asked.

“I’ll bring her in.”

“Never going to happen.” And she meant it. Injury or not, she would knock Luke down, press against his wound. Do whatever it took to stay free.

The idea of sitting in a cell and depending on the services of a court-appointed defense attorney made her head spin with fear. She knew how the system worked—poor people lost. Despite everything she had done in the last two years to escape her past, she had somehow slipped back into a situation where she had nothing. The exact place she’d spent her entire adult life trying to avoid.

“One more thing.” Luke used his good hand to cuff Adam’s shoulder. “This all stays between us.”

“How exactly do I explain the dead guy in the alley?”

Claire shook her head. Antiques experts. Right.

“You’ll think of something. I just need a little time with Claire.”

“How much?”

“Some. Might need a cover, too.” When Adam started to argue, Luke stopped him. “This isn’t up for debate.”

Silence lingered while Adam just stood there. When he finally spoke again, he sounded anything but convinced. “You’ve got twenty-four hours.”

Luke nodded. “Agreed.”

“Not by me,” she muttered.

“Just be careful.” Adam grabbed his keys but not before shooting Claire one last warning glare.

She waited until the door closed to say anything. “I get the distinct impression your friend doesn’t like me.”

“And here I thought you weren’t good at reading people.”

She picked up a damp towel and wiped the area around Luke’s wound before taping a bandage over Adam’s surprisingly professional stitching. The process took a few minutes. Rather than haggle and argue, she used the quiet to come up with a plan to leave Luke before Adam’s twenty-four-hour deadline expired.

She saw the mess of ripped paper and blood-drenched pads on the table. “You’ve ignored this question so far, but care to tell me why a businessman keeps a syringe in his bathroom?”

He smiled in a way that was more warning than welcoming. “Why? Want to learn a new way to get rid of your next husband?”

“I see you’ve decided to be as much of a jerk as possible.” She threw the towel on the table and plunked down in the chair Adam had abandoned.

“Some people like me,” Luke said.

She didn’t doubt that one bit. From creeping around and watching him for the past few weeks, she knew about his dating life. Women came over, stayed the night, and a new one showed up a few nights later. It was an endless parade of blondes and brunettes, each one looking easier than the one before her.

But that wasn’t Claire’s business. Her focus was on clearing her name. Like it or not, she needed help for that. When the whole town judged you guilty, you had to find someone who didn’t. Luke didn’t fit in that believer category yet, but she hoped he would.

“What’s the plan now?” she asked.

“You tell me what happened to your husband.”

She hated that word because it made Phil sound special, and he wasn’t. “And then?”

“I’ll decide that after I hear what you have to say.”

“How is that fair?”

“Do you have a choice?”

She didn’t.

Chapter Three

Four hours and two confusing explanations from Claire later, Luke was ready for a handful of painkillers and a bed. But thanks to his unwanted female sidekick, he didn’t have the option of the sweet oblivion of sleep.

They stood at the double doors to his office suite. He positioned his body in front of Claire to block her as much as possible from the security cameras he knew were shooting them from all angles.

Following her gaze, he looked at the words stamped on the door: Recovery Project. On the outside, the fifth-floor office on a side street in the Georgetown area of Washington, D.C., housed an antiques salvage operation. In reality it served as headquarters for an off-the-books agency tasked with finding missing people, both those who wanted to hide and those who prayed for rescue. That’s what he did for a living. He hunted people.

Since he didn’t directly work for the government, he didn’t have to obey its stringent rules. The Recovery Project was the place the guys with the real badges came when they needed the dirty work done. Luke and his team worked outside the law. They flashed fake credentials or whatever else it took to get in the door and never asked for credit when they succeeded in reaching their goals. To Luke’s way of thinking, they accomplished more in one day than most law-enforcement agencies could manage during a year-long sting operation.

Lights on the security panel flickered when he swiped his key card through the reader. The doors to the main reception area opened with a click. The place was in after-hours mode, dark except for one small lamp in the lobby area. Just as he expected—quiet and empty. It was about time something worked right today.

He had called seven times on the way over, trying the main number and then each private line to make sure they’d be alone. The idea was to protect Claire’s secret for a few more hours. The gun tucked into his sling protected him from her. If she made a move in any direction he didn’t like, he was ready.

Not that he could shoot her. Despite everything that happened between them before and everything bubbling under the surface now, physically hurting her was out of the question. But the desire for emotional revenge had not dulled since she’d left him holding a stack of bills for a wedding that never happened.

He had spent those first days dreaming of her coming back to him broken and despondent, begging his forgiveness for leaving. In his fantasy, he turned her away. He would listen, laugh in her face and walk off. That proved to be much harder in real life. Those chocolate-brown eyes and body born for the bedroom were enough to drive any sane man to do something really stupid. She had done it to him. Likely did it to most men unlucky enough to cross her path.

No, he couldn’t push her out of his head. But he could threaten. Oh, boy, could he threaten.