Page 5 of Straight Shooter

He got to his feet. “Can you stand?”

She lowered the cloth, exposing her face. The lamp’s soft glow from beside the bed illuminated the pink hue in her lips. “I—yes.”

He motioned for her to do so. He wanted to help her, but touching her in her current state didn’t seem right. She flattened her slim feet to the floor, pinched the blanket at her chest, and stood.

“Bathroom’s here. There are towels and everything you need in the cupboard. Shower and I’ll get you something dry.”

Her injured eyebrow rose. She stepped into the bathroom and looked around as if she thought someone would jump out and attack. “Why are you doing this?” The words came out small, fearful. His heart lurched.

He rubbed the pads of his fingers together. The first rule of interrogating someone was holding them in fear. That shit had gone out the window. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He kept his focus on her cheeks because looking into her eyes did something to his gut. “And I won’t let anyone else. As long as you talk.”

He closed the bathroom door, and a beat later the lock clicked. Pressing his hands to the wood, he listened. When he heard the shower running, he went to the cabinet above the mini fridge by the bed, pulled out a bottle of whiskey, and poured a shot.

He was going to need a hell of a lot more than booze to get him through the night.

Chapter

Three

She had to have lost her mind. She was showering in one of Moretti’s guard’s cabins. Lord almighty. Her hands trembled as she worked shampoo through her hair at rapid speed. He hadn’t tried to open the door, but a flimsy little lock wouldn’t stop him if he wanted to. Steam billowed around her, and for a second she inhaled deeply, sending warmth through her bones. She’d never been so cold in her life, and she couldn’t fully shake the chill. Whether it was from the rain, shock, or just plain terror, she didn’t know.

Tears built in front of her vision and her throat thickened. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—think about what had almost happened on the deck. Mortification heated her cheeks. She rinsed her hair then scooped up the bar of soap and worked it ferociously over the skin Beanie had touched. A sob broke through her lips, and she pressed them together as a river of tears sailed down her cheeks. She had to get a grip, but if she didn’t let out some of the fear and panic that had frozen her only minutes ago, she’d turn into a mess.

Knock, knock, knock

She jumped. The bar of soap flew from her fingers to bounce at her feet.

“Sorry to interrupt,” the guard said through the door. “I’ve got some dry clothes here. I’m going to pop the lock and toss them on the floor. I won’t be able to see anything, I promise.”

She pressed her lips together again. Now the flimsy lock didn’t even provide the façade of protection. No sound reached her ears. She swiped her hand over the shower’s glass and stared at the door. It didn’t move.

“Uh. I can leave them outside the door if you want, but I just thought you’d rather not have to open the door when you’re”—he cleared his throat—“done.”

She weighed her options. Either way she was vulnerable. But if she opened the door in a towel, he’d get a closer look at her than he would if she stayed behind the frosted glass coated in steam. The fact that he was giving her the choice showed a glimpse of chivalry.

She swallowed. “The bathroom floor is fine.” She shook her head. Had that even made sense? She heard the sharp ping of the lock popping, and then the door opened and his long arm stuck through the crack. He tossed the items to the floor and closed the door.

One brownie point for the guard. She bent to pick up the soap, finished scrubbing, and then turned off the water. She snagged a towel from the cupboard and dragged it into the shower stall with her. After drying off and wrapping the towel around herself, she advanced on the door and locked it again.

She hadn’t gotten a good look at the guy, but something about him had struck her as different from the other doofus-y guards, who hung on Moretti’s every word.

Shaking out the clothes, she held up a black T-shirt and navy-blue sweatpants. Her dress and underwear were soaked and ruined, and now that Beanie had touched them, she didn’t want them back on her skin anyway. Going commando in a strange guy’s sweatpants would be a first, but at least they were dry and warm. She dressed quickly, worked a towel through her hair, and then opened the door.

The guard sat on the end of the bed, his fingers laced together and dangled over his knees, his stare on the floor. The top two buttons of his shirt hung open, revealing the lip of an undershirt and the olive skin of his throat. His eyelids lifted, and steely gray eyes stabbed into her. Embarrassment flamed beneath her skin. She rolled her lips together and knotted her hands at her sides.

“Thanks for the clothes.”

He gave one nod. She shifted her gaze to the chair. What was she to do? He sure wasn’t treating her like a prisoner, but the night was young.

“Sit.” He nodded at the chair.

She did as he directed, curling her feet under her. The mantra she and Dani had lived by scrolled through her mind: Don’t ever give more information than you have to. The phrase had carried her through life long before she fully understood what it meant. And she’d practiced it. From foster home to foster home, she’d always kept her hand close to her chest. She never let anyone get too close and always did what she wanted, when she wanted. When she’d met Dani, at only nine years old, she’d met someone with equal pain in her heart. Dani had become her other half and had taught her how to live without depending on anyone. Thanks to Dani, stealing had become second nature by the time she’d gotten her first period.

In their business—her business now—there was always the possibility of getting caught, either by the cops or the target. Giving only the minimum amount of information was key to getting off. She wouldn’t make an exception for this dude.

She moved her gaze over his body. A muscle jumped beneath the smooth skin at his jaw, where a black five-o’clock shadow was forming. Impatience sizzled through her. A clock ticked somewhere in the room, tightening her nerves into springs.

“Well?” she asked.