managed to land.
He rubbed his hand over his jaw, more shaken than he’d like to admit. The woman was having too great an effect on him, so much so that he couldn’t even predict his own reactions. It was a totally unfamiliar occurrence, and it couldn’t be allowed to continue.
He knew from brutal experience what happened when he lost his objectivity on a case. People wound up dead. Letting down his guard, even a fraction, increased the danger. So he was going to have to find a way to manage this…connection to Amber Jennings, without compromising the assignment. The reminder stiffened his resolve, but the fact that he’d needed it at all was worrisome.
Hearing a sound in the doorway, he slowly raised his gaze. She was watching him, her face ashen, but otherwise composed.
“I’m…sorry for what just happened.”
Her words released something fierce inside him. “You don’t owe me an apology.”
She didn’t argue, just continued standing there with ramrod straight posture that almost completely hid the trembling in her limbs. “I…I want to learn what you tried to teach me.” She attempted a smile, but couldn’t quite manage to pull it off. “I want to learn how to defend myself. And how to shoot.”
For a man who’d just considered the importance of governing his reactions to the woman, he was doing a damn poor job of taking his own advice now. She looked like a strong wind would knock her over. It was all he could do not to go to her, lend her his support. And knowing what his touch had done to her only a few minutes earlier made him long to put his fist through a wall. “All right.” His voice was clipped. “We’ll start again tomorrow.”
“No, today.” If his tone was grim, so was hers. “I won’t freak again, I promise.”
He stared at her, recognizing the barely smoothed nerves and the savage determination in her expression. And realized the courage it had taken her to approach her own fears head-on. “All right. Let’s try it again.” He wasn’t about to make the same mistake he’d made earlier, so he led her to the body-size punching bag hanging in the corner. “Back up against the bag. It’s the attacker.” With effort he kept his voice brisk and impersonal. “If your hands are free, you clasp them together—” he demonstrated “—and drive your elbows back into his stomach.”
He watched, issued suggestions, and she practiced with a stoic sense of purpose that had been missing earlier. He showed her how to place her fingers together in one straight line, and how to use them to jab someone in the throat to disable him. He bent his wrist back and demonstrated how to use the heel of the palm beneath an attacker’s nose with enough force to drive him back, giving her opportunity to flee.
“We’ll concentrate on defensive moves, techniques that will buy you enough time to turn and run.”
“Can’t you teach me how to take an opponent down?”
He shook his head, reached out and repositioned her hands. “Your build and strength are against you. You just need enough moves to take the attacker by surprise and cause some serious pain.” His lips curled briefly. Far from the wild, frantic woman who had run from the room earlier, she was hanging on his words now with a fierce purpose that was impossible to miss. He didn’t have the faintest idea what had caused the change, but he promised himself that soon he’d find out.
When she was perspiring from her exertions, he said, “That’s enough for today.”
She didn’t argue. Bending her head, she wiped her forehead with the edge of her T-shirt, revealing a band of soft, smooth skin. “Now we’ll practice shooting.”
“I think we’ve done enough for one day.”
“I want to learn.”
He was beginning to observe a rather noticeable stubborn streak in her. With a mental shrug, he acquiesced, and drove her across the island to a shooting range.
Half an hour later, with his hands on his hips, Nick surveyed the target outline she was practicing on. She’d listened to his instructions carefully before emptying the clip in her gun, but there wasn’t a mark on the cardboard.
Cocking an eyebrow, he strolled back to her. “That was an interesting start,” he said through his headset.
She glowered at the weapon she held. “I don’t like guns.”
That was easy enough to discern. It showed in the way she looked at them, full of suspicion and perhaps a glimmer of fear. Despite his repeated suggestions, she still held the weapon gingerly, instead of clasping it firmly in her hand.
With more patience than he would have dreamed he possessed, Nick reloaded her weapon, handed it back to her. “Okay, let’s start again. Show me your stance.” At least she’d gotten that part right, he noted. “Good. Feet shoulder width apart, and remember, the gun is an extension of your arm. Use your other hand to brace it.” If she’d been anyone else he would have stepped up behind her, guided her hands into the proper position with his own. Instead, he reached over, attempted to arrange them correctly as he murmured directions. “All right. Try it again and don’t close your eyes this time.”
Her second attempt was slightly more accurate than the first. There was a hole squarely in the center of the outline, which he chalked up to luck, and a few others scattered around the outer edge.
“Better. Want to try it again?”
She relinquished the gun to him just a little too eagerly. “Tomorrow, all right?”
He nodded and took off his headset. When he would have turned away, she caught his sleeve to stop him. His gaze dropped to her slim hand for a second before she let it fall to her side. “I just wanted…to thank you, I guess. For everything. Yesterday…helping me leave last night…and today. I guess I never did thank you for saving my life.”
The words sounded as though they were hard for her to form. They were harder, much harder, for him to hear. He ejected the spent cartridge from her weapon with savage force. “I don’t want your gratitude, Amber.”
“What do you want?”
The quiet question, no less intense for its lack of volume, snared his attention. Slowly his gaze raised to hers. “I think you already know the answer to that.”
To her credit, she didn’t flinch. “I told you once…”
“That you wouldn’t sleep with me.” He shifted his focus once more to the gun, prepared to hand it in.
“It’s not fair…”
“If you’re concerned for my feelings, don’t be.” He gestured for a nearby employee to come and get the weapon and ear guards. “I rarely do anything for altruistic reasons.” His words served a twofold purpose. They should hold a warning for her, one she’d be wise to heed.
And they should serve as a warning to him.
Chapter 4
Victor Mannen straightened one tailored suit sleeve and suppressed the rage throbbing at his temples. Control was the true mark of breeding, and above all else he considered himself well-bred. The battle, however, was difficult. There were few things more infuriating than incompetence.
When
