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"You are fucking gorgeous, you know that?" he says.
"Considering what I'm here for, I do believe you're obligated to say that."
"Nope. You're gorgeous, Detective Duncan. Also? Shit at taking compliments."
I laugh, and he crosses the floor to scoop me up in a kiss.
We're in his bed, entwined in the sheets--or what remains of them, most pushed onto the floor.
He leans over to kiss me. "Any chance you're staying the night?"
"Planning to."
"Good." He squeezes my hip as he slides from bed. "I need to make that bank deposit. You know the drill." As an ex-con, he doesn't dare keep it in his apartment overnight. "But I'll be quick. You want me to stop at the diner?"
I smile up at him, and he says, "Dumb question. Burger and rings and a Diet Coke. Though I don't quite get the point of the diet pop."
"Balance."
He laughs, kisses me again, and heads for the other room, where we left our clothes. I watch him go. It's a helluva view. Broad, tattooed shoulders. Muscled arms. Great ass. He notices and turns, his gaze moving slowly over me.
"You keep looking at me like that," he says, "I'm not going to make it to the bank."
I pull my knees up in invitation. He starts toward me. I shut my legs and tug the sheet over them.
"Tease," he growls.
"Drop off the money. Bring me onion rings. I'll show my sincere appreciation."
"Sincere appreciation? I like the sounds of that."
He dresses and then leaves. When the door closes, I'm on my phone, zipping through work-related messages before I check in on Diana. I go to hit speed dial. Then my gaze shoots to the door.
Phone. Kurt.
Shit, I never asked if he'd had any more weird calls. And now he's taken off on a 2:30 a.m. bank run.
I'm still doing up my shirt as I fly down the stairs. I know I'm overreacting. But it's my way of admitting he's important to me, that I'm not going to get distracted with my own problems when he has his own.
I'm on the street now. Even in the daytime, it's not one of the city's safest neighbourhoods. At this hour, it's unnaturally quiet, as if a predator lurks around every corner, waiting for some foolish prey to break the silence. It's a wet September night, rainwater still dripping from eaves, that plinking the only sound I hear until I catch the slow thump of Kurt's footsteps. Unhurried, deliberate footsteps, ones that tell the world he's here and doesn't give a shit if they know it.
I tear around the corner. He glances over his shoulder, still unhurried, even the pound of footfalls not enough to concern him. He's twenty feet away, under a flickering street light, and he frowns as he sees me.
"Everything okay?" he calls, his voice echoing in the darkness.
I slow to a walk. "I just decided I want a milkshake instead of the burger and Coke."
"You did keep my number, right?"
"I needed the exercise."
He chuckles. "I planned to give you that after I got back."
I laugh. He's waiting under the light, and I'm walking over, the gap closing. Ten feet, nine ...
Movement flickers in the shadows. I don't wait to see what it is. I charge, yelling, "Kurt!"
He turns, and it seems in slow motion. A gun rises. I shout. I hit Kurt in the side, and a gun fires, and he goes down, and I don't know which comes first--the shot or the fall. Then he's hitting the ground, and I'm twisting and there's a guy there. The same one I saw in the parking garage. Not Ricci. A dark-haired stranger. Holding a gun on us.
