Page 8 of Straight Shooter

A watch, earbuds, gum . . . and a knife. For a second, the holster looked like hers, but this one was black and hers was brown. If she passed Beanie in the hall, she’d kill him. Not just for trying to rape her, but for taking her knife, too. She unsheathed the blade.

Footsteps pounded outside the door. No! He couldn’t be back already. She leaped to her feet and the motion of the ship pitched her onto the bed. Keys jangled and she slid off the mattress, pressing her back to the wall beside the dresser, out of sight of the door.

Her heart beat in an erratic rhythm. She didn’t have time to think this through. She had to make a decision—get what she came here for and take her best chance at survival, or falter and let the guard have her tortured and killed.

It was him. Or it was her.

The lock snapped and the door whooshed open.

“Sonofabitch!” he barked. She closed her eyes. His voice had been the only island of calm on this hellish journey. He went to his nightstand and her heart palpitated. If he turned around, he’d see her.

She tightened her hold on the blade and held it out in front of her. She didn’t have to kill him. Maybe she could wound him enough that she could overpower him and tie him up. He turned, and the air shifted in the room.

Steel-gray eyes landed on her, and his body expanded. “What the hell are you doing?” He took two strides but the boat shifted. Losing his balance, he crashed into the wall. The dresser kept her in place.

“You’re going to try to stab me? After I saved your life?”

She met his stare and held out the knife in a shaking hand. “You could make this easy and tie yourself up.”

His laugh belted through the small room. “You’ll never make it out of here alive. Jesus, I should’ve known better,” he growled. With his back against the wall, he beckoned her. “C’mon. Take your best shot.”

Indignation set fire to her blood. If he thought for one second that because she was on the short side he didn’t need to fear her, he had another thing coming.

Only she didn’t want to stab him. Damn him.

He pushed away from the wall and caught the dresser. Now he was only inches from the blade. His top lip twisted. “What are you going to do with that, huh?”

She slashed the knife in the direction of his chest knowing it’d miss. She just needed to distract him. He jerked out of the way and she shot out her foot, kicking him in the stomach. He lurched forward and hooked his palm over her wrist. She twisted against his hold, and all her martial arts training came back. Using her foot again, she kicked at his elbow and his arm buckled, but he didn’t relinquish his death grip.

He used the momentum of her swing and twirled her around so her back slammed against his chest. Hard muscle collided with her shoulder blades. He locked his free arm around her belly, warming her skin through the T-shirt she wore. With his other hand still holding her wrist, he twisted.

Fresh beads of sweat misted her upper lip as the tendons in her arm screamed.

“Let go and you won’t get hurt.” His words came out on a breath, almost as a plea.

“Fuck you.” She slammed her head backward, but her skull connected with his breastbone and not his jaw, as she’d hoped.

He twisted again. “Drop it,” he growled. “I don’t want to break your arm.” His hot breath seared her neck. Pain exploded through her ligaments, but she couldn’t give up. He huffed impatiently, shifted his hand from her belly, and pried the knife from her grasp.

The boat tilted again, and he grabbed her hip just before they were thrown to the far side of the room. His chest slammed to her back and air wheezed from her chest. He grabbed the footboard and anchored them against the wall despite the floor’s constant heaving.

“You’re giving me a headache, you know that?” He caught her shoulders and whirled her around so that his chest pressed into hers and her back was against the wall. She spotted the knife on the mattress.

“Don’t even think about it,” he snarled.

The hard lines of his cheeks once again struck a chord. His gaze roamed over her face.

“I know you.” His declaration sent prickles of unease down her spine. In her line of work, you never wanted to bump into someone you knew. Odds were, it was a rival criminal or a cop. And she sure as hell didn’t want one of Moretti’s guards knowing who she was.

She shoved at his chest. He didn’t budge. Her temper flared. “You don’t know me.”

He caught her hands and pinned them at her sides. Instinct made her knee lift, but he sensed her movement and blocked her jab to his junk.

“Things could get a hell of a lot worse for you, so I’d watch who you’re kicking in the balls if I were you.”

She exhaled through her nose, but anger bubbled beneath the surface of her control. She stared into his gray eyes, which were darker than the storm raging outside the window. Long, dark eyelashes bordered them, and a rim of charcoal surrounded his irises, which didn’t shift away from her face.

His hold on her wrists loosened, but he didn’t let go. The harsh glint in his eyes vanished. “I do know you. You’re friends with Serena Smith and Dani Metcalf.” The statement came out slowly, yet with utter certainty.