Now You Die - Roxanne St. Claire Page 0,3

six-two and a hundred eighty pounds of solid attitude, but she could have fought him. “I have ten different moves that could fold you in half.”

He laughed softly. “Sweetheart, you fold me in half by standing still.”

Of course he’d turn it into a sexual tease. “If you don’t get your goddamn hands off me, Jack, I’m going kick you so hard you’ll still be limping tomorrow.”

His expression was pure sin, white teeth gleaming, midnight eyes mocking. He took that same wide stance he’d had at the range, offering her direct access to his crotch. The move brushed his hips against her, the contact branding.

“Go ahead. Gimme your best knee.”

Her body betrayed her with a white hot crackle of response.

“You are seriously pushing your luck, Culver.”

His eyes narrowed and he pinned her, his chest against hers, his hips dangerously close. “What I’m pushing is you against the wall. Like it?”

“Unless you want me to hurt something you value, let me go.”

“It’s so damn hard…” He leaned in an inch, as if he might show her exactly how hard it was. “…to get your attention around here.”

“That’s because I’m working. I have a company to run, and you’re interrupting the sleep I need to do that.” She pressed harder against the building, determined not to give in to the impulse to do the opposite.

Just once. Here in the dark, alone. Just one more time to feel the hot steel of him.

“We’ll talk in the morning, Jack. You’ll have my attention at the meeting.”

“But I have it now.”

She shook some hair off her face so she could look right into his eyes. “You’ve got five seconds to back off.”

“Then I’m gonna use them—”

“Four.”

He stared at her, his eyes smoky and heavy lidded. “To ask a favor.”

“Three.”

“You know I’ll go right down to the wire.”

“You know I’ll break your balls, just like that drug addict broke your trigger finger.”

His look grew dangerously dark. “My old trigger finger.”

“Yeah, I saw your new trick. Not impressed. As far as I’m concerned, your only trigger finger is injured for life. Regardless of the fact that you managed to get that expunged from your NYPD record, and lied about it to me.”

His fingertip grazed the skin under her earlobe, sending a shiver from her neck to her toes.

“My trigger finger works just fine.” He dropped his gaze, looking right at the one place where she couldn’t hide her response. Her nipples jutted against the thin satin, twin peaks of reaction. “It’s firing you up.”

She gave him a solid push. “Stop it.”

He backed up with a smile, keeping one hand on her shoulder. “Since you’re here, let’s talk.”

“I’m going back to bed.”

“I’ll go with you.” At her look, he grinned. “Up the path, I mean.”

That’s how Jack always operated. He inched his way into places, eased himself where he shouldn’t be, and the next thing she knew, wham—he was taking matters into his own hands. “No.”

“Then how about a little friendly competition?” He turned to pick up her gun. Handing it to her, he let their fingers brush. “My left hand against your right?”

He never took no for an answer. “I can’t take advantage of you like that, Jack.”

“Sure you can. Come on.” He nodded his head toward the range. “It’ll be fun.”

Actually, it probably would be. Wrong on every level, but fun. “No.”

“You’re worried I’ll beat you.”

She snorted softly.

He leaned closer. “You’ll like the prize.”

Something unholy and unwanted rolled through her at the rumble in his voice. “Which is?”

“Oh, let’s see. Let’s make it interesting, but…safe.”

Nothing was safe with him.

“How about…” He was already leading her toward the firing range. “The winner gets to do anything they want to the loser…above the neck.”

She laughed. “Above the neck.”

“Yeah.” He guided her to the shooting berm. “You win, you can do anything you want to me above the neck. You can box my ears. You can pull my hair. You can—”

“I get the idea.”

“Kiss me with tongue.”

“We can’t—”

“We could.”

“—can’t set up a Tyro course, because I only have one round.”

He turned toward a prep area where he’d laid out several different weapons and magazines. “Got a Glock mag right here.”

So he’d been planning this all along.

“I’ll set up the Tyro,” he said. “Three stages, three targets, twenty-four shots, ten yards.”

“Fine.” She slipped the extra ammo into the elastic waistband of her sleep pants and got into position. “I’m going to kick your injured ass and then slap your arrogant face. And then I’m going to bed.” Alone.

At the opposite end