Page 9 of Straight Shooter

Her brain worked at warp speed, flipping through memories of the last few months. She shook her head, but his unwavering stare brought home a flashback of a particular night. She, Brock, and Milo had just rescued Dani and Serena from Milo’s father, who’d planned to kill them.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

He wasn’t just someone who could identify her—he was someone who had the names of her friends. That was far more dangerous than his recognizing her face. Realization dawned, and she drew her breath in through her teeth. That night, after Milo’s father’s arrest, a man had pulled up in an unmarked car and Milo’s friend, an FBI agent, had gotten out.

“Rhett . . . something.” She yanked her hands from his hold. “You’re a dirty cop.” She twisted her mouth into a snarl. “Unbelievable.” As she checked him in the chest with her shoulder, the ship rocked, throwing off his balance further. She brushed past him, using the bedframe for balance, and stopped on the other side of the room, behind the chair.

“Rhett Callahan.” The words came out begrudgingly. “You remember me?”

He didn’t even have the decency to deny being corrupt. She didn’t want to admit it, but she remembered him all right. At nearly six-and-a-half-feet tall, he wasn’t one to forget. Not with that thick, wavy black hair and eyes the shade of slate.

Definitely not the type of dude you saw every day. Even in that moment after Dani’s kidnapping she’d been taken aback by the super-hot cop, but she’d also taken great care—or so she’d thought—to stay off his radar.

She couldn’t leave this room with him still alive.

The smallness of the woman’s golden orbs and the tension around her full mouth should have made him uneasy. She looked fit to kill and for some reason, he was her prey. She’d made it to the other side of the room and put the chair between them. Which was a joke. If he wanted to charge at her she’d have no leg up in the matter. But if it made her feel safer, so be it.

She remembered him. Christ, that was a problem. If anyone found out he was an FBI agent, the case would be shot to hell and he’d probably get shot, too. And when that was done, they’d kill her for the fun of it, scandal be damned. Moretti didn’t fuck around if someone crossed him, especially one of his men.

Her hands curled over the top of the chair. The T-shirt she wore—his T-shirt—swallowed up her shoulders. He didn’t need to see her hips to know his sweatpants hung dangerously low around her waist. They were pooling at her feet.

He sat on the bed to give himself some kind of stability in the shifting room. Damn it was a rough storm, and there was no sign of it letting up anytime soon. Seemingly satisfied with his distance, she averted her searing stare.

“Yeah, well, there was something familiar about you too,” she said, finally answering his question. “Milo speaks so highly of his FBI friend, Rhett. I bet he’ll be pleased to know you’re a crooked cop. Or did you get paid enough for just one stint?” Contempt dripped from her words, and he clenched his jaw.

He wanted to set her straight and tell her that he wasn’t crooked, that he’d been hired undercover and transferred to Key West specifically for this position. But he couldn’t do that. He also couldn’t let her walk around knowing his true identity.

He massaged his knuckles and weighed his words. He wouldn’t take her bait. Instead, he’d go back to square one: find out why the hell she’d gotten on this yacht in the first place.

“What does Moretti have that you want?”

She pushed the tip of her tongue against the inside of her cheek.

“It must be good,” he continued. “Let’s guess, shall we?” He propped his ankle over his knee. “There were a lot of influential people on this boat. Perhaps you were trying to scope out the crowd, find a new clientele to steal from.”

A delicate eyebrow arched.

“But no,” he mused aloud. “You want something he has.” Rubbing the tip of his thumb under his bottom lip, he sifted through what little he knew of her friends. “Dani and Serena were grade-A criminals. If I’m not mistaken, they have a history of stealing rarities: diamonds, gold, artwork. But Moretti doesn’t have any of that on the ship.” He tapped his chin and she rolled her eyes.

“Is your thought process always this slow?”

He laughed but quickly covered it with a cough. Damn, she was funny. “I’ll admit that your presence is puzzling.”

His phone chirped in his pocket and he retrieved it. Ah, crap. He quickly answered. “Yes, Mr. Moretti.” He kept his gaze locked on the woman. The defiant, cocky glimmer in her eyes had disappeared.

“The storm’s passing, so we’re lifting anchor. What’d you find out about the woman?”

He tightened his hand into a fist. “She’s been rather tight-lipped, but we’re finally getting somewhere.”

“Hurry up. I’ve got business in the morning when we dock. I expect a full confession of who hired her and what she’s after by then, got it?”

“Understood. Is that all?”

“No.” The word came out with reluctance.

“Sir?”

“Be sure not to damage her face. We want her easily recognizable to send a clear message to whoever’s behind this.”