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What the fuck?
I lower my gun. There must be some mistake. This can’t be Al Chandler. Maybe Orso got the address wrong. Or maybe it is the right address but this is Al Chandler’s girlfriend staying here.
Or so I think until I see the name on a certificate on the shelf.
Alyssa Chandler.
Alyssa. So that’s what Al is short for. Now I know why I’ve never heard of a fourth Chandler brother – he doesn’t exist. There’s a younger sister, though, and she’s sleeping on this very bed.
Fuck.
There’s no way I can shoot her. Dying request or not, I don’t kill women. Orso knows that. I’ll just have to go back and tell him about the situation. He’ll understand.
I put my gun away and start to step away from the bed.
Right. So I’ll just leave. Alyssa Chandler will never know I was here. I’ll just go and…
I stop in my tracks as I lift my head and look across the street. That house is supposed to be empty, but I’ve just caught a glimpse of someone behind a window. Someone with a gun.
Fuck.
I grab Alyssa and throw her down on the floor just moments before a bullet shatters the bedroom window.
Chapter Three
Allie
My eyes fly open as my back hits the carpet. I find myself staring up into ebony irises, moonless night gleaming from the windows of a man’s face.
Not for long. One moment he’s on top of me and the next he’s gone, rushing out the door like a blast of wind.
I remain lying on the carpet, my arms at my sides, as my brain, still slippery from sleep, tries to grasp what’s going on. Am I still asleep? Is all this a dream?
It must be, because it doesn’t make sense. Or so I think until I turn to my side and nearly hit the bed.
What the hell? Then that means…
I quickly get on my feet. As I see the shards of glass on the floor and the 7.62mm bullet on the sheets, I gasp. My knees wobble and I lean on the bedside table to keep myself from falling. My thoughts fire rapidly.
What’s going on? Did someone try to shoot me while I was sleeping? Who? Why? And who was that man who was on top of me?
As I look across the street, I see him going into the house there. So I grab my gun from under my pillow and go after him. I run downstairs, cross the street and enter the neighbor’s house through a broken window. I’m about to head upstairs when I hear someone coming down so I just wait at the bottom of the stairs. As soon as he reaches the landing, I point my gun at him.
“Stop right there!”
He freezes in place. For the first time, I get a good look at him.
He’s at least 6’4″. Dark hair. Wavy. The biggest wave nearly covers his right eye as it curves towards his ear. The rest frame his square face, some strands sticking out from the nape of his neck. They do nothing to soften his sharp jawline.
As my gaze moves lower, I notice how… muscle-bound he is. Not bulging huge like a pro wrestler but buff. His black shirt hugs his torso like a second skin, so I can see the lines of his chest and the absence of fat along his midsection. A pair of perfectly fitting dark blue jeans sits on his waist. No belt.
Is this the body that was lying on top of me earlier? Damn.
Focus.
I close my mouth, which somehow seems to have opened on its own, draw a deep breath to replenish the oxygen in my lungs, and grip the gun in my hands more firmly.
“Who are you?” I ask him.
“Cain Archer,” he answers without any hesitation, his gaze squarely meeting mine.
That’s weird. I’m sure he can see the gun I have pointed at him from not more than three feet away, and yet I see no glint of fear in his black eyes. I feel none coming from him.
Why? Does he think I’m bluffing? That this gun isn’t loaded? Does he think I don’t know how to use this gun? Not that it takes much skill to shoot someone from this distance. Or does he think I can’t pull the trigger just because I’m a woman? If so, he’s not the first man to make that assumption. Or should I say that mistake? After all, many of the men who have underestimated me have ended up catching one of my bullets.
But no. I sense no smugness from this man. He’s not grinning, not smirking. He’s simply… calm. Confident. It’s like he knows he’s bulletproof, like he knows I can’t hurt him.
Damn, that’s hot. And scary. My palms are tingling, but so is the back of my neck.
Janine once told me that the two most dangerous kinds of people in this world are the ones who you can’t read and the ones who fear nothing. Right now, I can’t tell what this man is thinking, only that he doesn’t fear my gun.
