Page 2 of Straight Shooter

“Freeze!”

She whirled around, and the tools clattered to the floor. Her stomach slammed into her chest. Sweat collected at the back of her neck, and her skin prickled.

No, no, no! They’d caught her. She was going to prison for sure—no one got away with trying to steal from a senator.

The overly tanned guard stood ten feet away, a gun trained on her head. Her kneecaps screamed as they dug into the unrelenting floor, and her body trembled as she lifted her hands in the air. Cotton filled her mouth.

She forced down the firecracker of panic that threatened to burst through her chest. She cleared her throat and brought her fingertips to her earlobe. “Oh, good. Maybe you can help me. The diamond popped out of my earring and it rolled under this door. I found these tools at the bar and thought I could slip inside and grab it.” If the guard came close enough, she could grab the knife at her thigh.

“Stand up.” He barreled across the floor and stopped in front of her. He shot his hand out and snagged a handful of her hair. Pain tore through her scalp as he hauled her to her feet.

She wouldn’t go down without a fight. Adrenaline lit her veins. She dove under her dress for the knife, yanked it from the holster, and sliced at her attacker’s waist. He surged backward, and the freshly sharpened blade licked through the material of his jacket.

He hissed and brought the butt of the gun down on her forearm. Her fingers snapped open and icy pain shot up and down her nerve endings. The knife bounced on the floor at her feet. She lunged for it but his grip on her hair tightened, bringing her to a stop.

He shoved her chest to the locked door. His weight crushed her ribs, preventing her from taking so much as a breath. Her cheek smooshed against the cool, smooth wood and she closed her eyes. There was no getting out of this.

“You’re going to want to get down here, Beanie,” he said to someone on the phone. “And bring the boss.”

FBI agent Rhett Callahan made his way from the bar to Moretti’s parlor on the main floor. Moretti had cancelled the party and had just dropped off the disappointed guests—not that he gave a shit. He assumed everyone was just pissed because the party had ended before the free cocaine started flowing. The last thing he’d wanted was to sit there and watch sleazy bastards crawl all over half-naked women and cheat on their wives. Donatello Moretti was a sonofabitch, so when Rhett had been asked to leave San Diego and work undercover as his bodyguard, he’d been happy to take the job.

He rapped his knuckles on the mahogany wood.

“Come in.”

Rhett pressed the winged handle and the door glided open. He stepped into the room and placed his hands behind his back. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

The aging man stood at the window overlooking the quickly darkening sky, a glass of brandy in his hand. Moretti’s suit jacket hung over his desk chair, and his loosened tie dangled awkwardly over the bulging belly that he normally kept better hidden.

“Shut the door,” he said, lifting one finger off the glass.

Rhett did as asked and returned to position. He’d been undercover for only six weeks, but the bastard was sharp as a tack and liked his security details to be seen and not heard, and always on point.

Rhett held his tongue and kept his gaze on Moretti. White hair streaked the senator’s beard, worked up his sideburns, and weaved through the ebony strands on his head. A large onyx ring took up the middle finger of his right hand. He wore a wedding band on his left hand. A gold chain peeked out from under the collar of his shirt, another thing that was usually hidden from the public eye.

“Did you enjoy yourself up there?”

“I did, sir. It was a wonderful party.” If dryness tainted his voice, there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

“Good. We’ve got a problem.”

Rhett’s hand jerked over his wrist at the small of his back and unease tickled his throat. A problem wasn’t a problem as long as Moretti hadn’t discovered Rhett was an undercover FBI agent. Any other “problem” he’d handle fine and dandy. “I wondered why things ended early.”

“Yes. Well not to worry—my schedule is still the same. We’ll just wait out the storm that’s coming and be on our way when it clears. I believe the captain said we should set sail again after midnight.”

“Good to hear. What’s the problem?”

Moretti dropped the glass to the table. “You’re a good detail, you know that?”

The compliment made a muscle in Rhett’s jaw jump. He rolled his tongue over the roof of his mouth. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’ve got a solid head on your shoulders and handle sticky situations with clarity. I like having that on my team—I need that on my team. Especially right now.” The last sentence rang through the air.

Questions burned through Rhett’s mind. Jesus, was Moretti going to confide in him about the scandal? A stripper, Raquel Stevens, had allegedly died at the hands of Donatello’s nephew, Andre Moretti, and the story had kicked up quite the sandstorm of drama in the tabloids. Thanks to his uncle, Andre was out on bail pending trial. Since it was a scandal the Morettis couldn’t afford, the payoffs had already started. Once Rhett uncovered whose pockets Moretti had greased in hopes of getting his nephew acquitted, the papier-mâché walls the senator had created would bust the fuck open, and everyone involved would land in prison.

“I appreciate that.”

“Good. I want you to take the lead on my security team. Beanie’s a shithead. He needs someone to keep him in line. It’ll come with perks, of course,” he said, waving his hand.