placed her back and bottom firmly against him. She stiffened slightly. To his surprise his body stirred to life.
He hadn’t felt anything in so long. Not lust, or curiosity, or even much pain. After Natalie had shot him and killed herself, he’d cut off the last of his emotions.
The idea that he could react to a woman’s body dismayed him. It felt like a betrayal of his wife. He swallowed.
Even though his arms were longer than Resa’s, the tiny cubicle made it difficult to move away from the warm firmness of her body. Not to mention that his nose was practically buried in her hair. It was soft and smooth, and smelled like summer, like melons and sunshine.
He clenched his jaw and concentrated on showing her how to hold the squarish, chunky little Glock.
He pressed the grip against her right palm. “Wrap your thumb and these three fingers around the handle, and your index finger on the trigger.”
Then he showed her how to rest her right hand in the palm of her left. Her hands were cold. He could feel her trembling. Was it because she was afraid of the gun? Or of him?
“There. That’s how you should hold a gun. No one-handed gunslinging. No ridiculous sideways shots like you see in movies. Hold it gently but firmly in both hands.” He bent his head toward her ear. “And relax. You’re too stiff.”
Okay, that was close. He let go of her and leaned against the bulletproof wall. He sighed, hoping to expel the scent of her hair from his nostrils. He forced himself to concentrate on her hands. She was the first woman he’d even looked at since his wife had died. And he wasn’t happy about it.
“Now line the sights up with your right eye,” he ordered gruffly. “No, don’t close the left one. Keep them both open. Aim for his chest.”
She uttered a little moan and the barrel wavered.
“Come on, Resa. You said you wanted to protect yourself. Well, this is how you do it. If you’re going to handle a gun, you’ve got to master it. You’re in charge. You—not the gun. Now grip it like I showed you.”
Her shoulders squared and her chin rose. Her fingers tightened around the gun.
“Look at the target. That’s a dangerous man.”
“The Lock Rapist,” she whispered.
“If you had to, could you shoot him?” He saw her throat move as she swallowed.
“Resa,” he snapped. “Could you shoot him?”
“Yes.” Her voice was shaky. “I think so.”
“Because if you don’t know you could pull the trigger, we’ll stop right now. If you aren’t ready to defend yourself with deadly force, you’ll just end up putting yourself in more danger.”
She took a deep breath and a round bit of creamy flesh swelled above the low neckline of her top.
“I can do it.” This time her voice was stronger.
“Good.” He forced his attention back to the gun.
“Now, when I say so, squeeze the trigger smoothly. Don’t jerk, don’t hesitate. Just squeeze.”
She raised the gun a bit and sighted down it as she took another long breath.
Archer breathed with her, unable to take his eyes off her strong, delicately rounded arms. He watched, fascinated, as her index finger tightened on the trigger, just like he’d told her.
The gun went off.
Resa had expected the gun to kick, but it still surprised her.
“Oh!” Her heart pounded. Her fingers tingled with reaction from the gun’s report.
Archer stood behind and to the left of her, so close she could feel his breaths on her neck. So close she could smell his clean, citrus scent.
“That was good. Very smooth.”
“Smooth? Really? I thought I was going to drop it. I’m not sure I could do it again. I didn’t expect the trigger to be that hard to pull.” Her voice was as shaky as the rest of her.
“Glocks don’t have a safety. You can adjust the trigger sensitivity but I wouldn’t recommend it.”
She took off the headphones and let them rest around her neck. Leaning forward, she squinted at the target. “How do you think I did?”
“On your first shot? There’s a small chance you hit the target.”
His voice sounded amused, but when she glanced up there was no trace of a smile on his hard, classically molded face. Instead, he frowned and turned his attention to the recall button. Was he embarrassed by his joke? Or by the fact that he’d been lured into small talk? His cheeks seemed pinker than they had been.
The target swayed in the breeze it created as it floated toward them. She didn’t see a hole.
“I missed the whole thing.” Her ears burned with chagrin.
The target came to a stop in front of the counter.
“No, you didn’t. Look right there.” Archer pointed at the lower left of the silhouette. “You got him in the kidneys.”
“I was aiming for his heart,” she said harshly. The silhouette was the rapist, and right then she wanted him to die for what he’d done to her sister.
Archer’s black eyelashes floated down and back up, and he sent her a searching look. Then he nodded.
“Shoot again. This time get off three shots as fast as you can.” He sent the target back downrange.
She fired, then she put the gun down as if it had burned her. “That’s all.” She held out her hands, splaying the fingers. “I’m too shaky, and I closed my eyes on the last shot.”
He took her hands in his and turned them palm up. “You might want to wear gloves for a while—driving gloves so your fingers aren’t covered, until your skin toughens up.” He touched a red place on her palm. “You could get blisters.”
His warm hands bothered her. She didn’t like the way his touch made her feel—cared for, protected. She knew from long experience that she couldn’t trust that feeling. She’d never been able to depend on others to take care of her. Her mother had worked two jobs and juggled a string of boyfriends. With teaching during the day and waitressing at night, she’d never had time for Resa and her sister, so Resa had raised Celia. And of course it was Resa that Celia had come to when she left her deadbeat jerk of a husband.
She pulled her hands away from Archer’s touch.
“So what’s your plan, Resa?”
His question caught her off guard. “My plan? Oh, you mean for the gun?” She swallowed and prepared to lie. “After what happened to my sister, I just think I’ll feel better knowing I have protection.”
“You’re not
