Iris Johansen - Quinn

“We’ll take turns. Three hours. Leave the connecting door open.” She sat down on the bed. “My internal clock is pretty good. Will you need me to wake you?”

“I believe I can manage.” His lips turned up at the corners as he turned out the light and headed toward the door. “I can always use my phone alarm. But if I fall down on the job, by all means shake me.”

“And then you’d probably grab me and break my neck.” She pulled the sheet over her and closed her eyes. “I’ll be careful…”

GALLO CROSSED TO THE CONNECTING door and looked at Catherine curled up under the covers like a cat.

She was sleeping hard, having gone to sleep within five minutes of the time that she had pulled the sheet over her two hours ago. Her breathing was light and steady, and her sleep was deep and sound. Yet he’d bet that if she sensed anything that was unexpected, she’d be awake in a heartbeat.

As he would be, Gallo thought. Her CIA training and his years in the Rangers had given them both a military mind-set that would probably remain with them the rest of their lives. Now it was strange thinking of Catherine as a soldier. Her competence was superlative, beyond question; but he could no longer think of her as the hunter who had stalked him through the forest.

He was too aware of her as a woman.

Shit, aware? Understatement.

He had trouble looking at her and not remembering her naked, wet, and shimmering in the sunlight. When she had come out of the water, there had been drops of water on her breasts and nipples, and he had wanted to bend down and lick them, make them taut and ready. Then move between her legs and put his hands-

Hell, he was getting hard just thinking about that moment.

And this moment, too.

She was lying there helpless, asleep, and there was a catlike grace about her. But like a cat, he could imagine her moving beneath him, fierce, sensual, springing forward and taking what she wanted.

As she had wanted to do at the lake. Dammit, she had wanted him as much as he had wanted her.

Stop. Block it as he had done since they had started in search of Jacobs. So what if he wanted her more than any woman he’d wanted in years? Screwing her wouldn’t be good for either one of them.

Wouldn’t be good? What was he thinking? It would be fantastic.

Maybe in the short term, but she didn’t deserve any more complications. God knows, he was too scarred to have a decent relationship with any woman. He had come close to almost destroying Eve years ago.

And Bonnie?

But Catherine had said he hadn’t destroyed Bonnie.

He closed his eyes as the pain washed over him. God, he hoped Catherine was right, that he hadn’t accepted what she had said because he wanted it to be so. But for that reason alone, he should be thinking of Catherine with gratitude and not as a sexual object.

Not likely. He was too damn selfish, and he wanted her too much.

But he could perhaps put off moving to satisfy that selfishness for a little while.

Keep busy. Find Jacobs.

His lids flipped open, and he turned away from the door and moved toward the window in his room.

Let that Mercedes be there.

He pulled back the drape. No Mercedes in the lot, dammit. Where the hell was the-

But he caught a glimpse of silver out of the corner of his eye.

Around the side of the hotel, in the far parking lot. He took his binoculars out of his suitcase. Be sure.

A shadowy figure at the wheel. Light shirt, dark hair, brawny shoulders. No reason for anyone to be sitting in the parking lot at one in the morning.

Jason or Nixon?

It didn’t matter.

He let the drapes fall back, turned, and glided silently toward the door to the hall.

Prey.

CATHERINE WOKE with a start.

Darkness. Silence. Something was wrong.

No Gallo.

She swung her feet to the floor and jumped out of bed.

She ran into his bedroom. She hadn’t expected him to be there. But his suitcase was open and on the bed. Binoculars on the table by the window.

She grabbed them and thrust the drapes aside.

“Damn you, Gallo.” She lifted the glasses and scanned the parking lot. Nothing.

No, to the far side…

She threw the binoculars down, ran back to her room, and slipped on her shoes.

Then she was running out of the room. No time for the elevator. She took the steps two at a time as she ran down to the lobby and out onto the parking lot.

She stopped short.

Gallo and a dark-haired man were wrestling on the ground beside the driver’s side of the Mercedes.

As she watched, Gallo flipped him over and climbed astride him. His arm encircled the man’s neck. Gallo’s face was flushed, his lips pulled back and revealing his teeth. Savage, animalistic anger and something close to bloodlust twisted his features. She remembered he had killed Paul Black with that very hold.

“Gallo,” she said through her teeth. “Don’t you kill him until we find out what we need to know.”

He looked up at her, and, for a moment, she thought he would ignore her. Then he drew a deep breath, and his arm loosened from around the man’s neck. “I’m not going to kill him… yet.” He jerked a knife from the man’s grasp. “He nicked me and made me a little upset.”

She could see the blood on Gallo’s forearm. Nick seemed a good description for the wound. “He didn’t hurt you.” She came forward and stood over Gallo and the man. “And if he did, you deserved it, you bastard. You left me without a word.” Her gaze shifted to the man who was glaring up at her. “Who is he? Nixon or Jason?”

“Why don’t we ask him?” Gallo pressed the edge of knife against the man’s throat. “Answers. I want answers. Name?”

“Humphrey.”

The knife brought blood. “Name?”

“Nixon.”

“Very good. Now, where is Thomas Jacobs?”

“I don’t know.” He gasped with the pain as the knife bit again. “I tell you, I don’t know. He hired me to watch his place and report back to him. He was expecting you to go after him when he heard about Queen’s death.”

“Report back? And that’s all?”

“For the time being. There might have been additional work later. He was going to consider it.” His lips curled. “I don’t think the son of a bitch could afford me. I wouldn’t have even taken the job if I hadn’t been having a slow month.”

“A ‘slow month,’” Catherine repeated. “What constitutes a ‘slow month’ in the assassination game, Nixon?”

“Where is Jacobs?” Gallo asked again. “One minute.”

“He was stalling me. He said he’d decide in two days,” Nixon went on quickly, his gaze on the knife. “That probably meant he had to find a way to score before he could pay me. He did it once before when he had me take care of one of the bosses at a casino in Atlantic City. The bastard always thought he could beat the tables. Sometimes he did. Sometimes he didn’t. But he was always sure he was going to make the big score.”

“That’s not enough,” Gallo said. “More. Jacobs is going to have to disappear for a while, and it’s going to take cash. He’d need money to pay you and to find a place to lie low from the police. Where would he go to get the money?”

“How do I know? He didn’t-” He cursed as the blood started to run down his neck as Gallo’s knife bit deep. “Maybe New Orleans. He told me once he lost his shirt in Atlantic City and the pit bosses were all crooks. He said that next time, he was going back to New Orleans, where he always won big.”

“When did he say that?”

“Six months ago.”

“Not when he set you up to do this job?”