Debra Webb - Striking Distance

But she wasn’t going to need that kind of backup tonight.

She did a double take, her gaze landing on Mr. John Doe himself.

“Mmm-hmm,” she muttered under her breath. “You are one amazing Y chromosome.” For a killer, she added.

John Doe sat on a stool about center of the long bar, those ice-blue eyes scanning the dance floor like a hungry panther ready to pounce on his dinner.

Looking for a little action, big boy? Taking her time as she crossed the room, she took stock of his numerous physical assets. Whoever had estimated his height and weight had done a stellar job. Those broad shoulders tested the seams of his black shirt. Powerful thighs filled out a well-worn pair of jeans. Black ankle boots, the kind made for walking and climbing, soft leather uppers, ribbed soles. For stealth and traction. Smart.

He wore a watch, but no other jewelry that she could readily see. The slight bulge at his left side about midway of his torso would indicate a shoulder holster. She wondered how he’d managed to get in here with a weapon. Official ID, perhaps? Just something else she’d need to check out.

The couple sitting next to him got up and headed for the dance floor, presenting the perfect opportunity for her. “The gods are watching over me tonight,” she murmured.

She slid onto the stool next to J.D., John Doe just sounded too cliché. “Great band,” she said when he glanced in her direction.

He didn’t respond.

Okay. She crossed one leg over the other, offering up a length of thigh for his perusal. He never even looked her way. She leaned toward him. “What time it is?” she asked, ensuring she spoke loud enough for him to hear her.

He held up his wrist so that she could see the face of his watch. She splayed her fingers over his muscled forearm and drew it closer to her face. He tensed and pulled free even before she was ready to let go.

Not the reaction she’d hoped for, but a reaction nonetheless.

She leaned close again, ensuring that her shoulder rubbed against his. “Thanks. What’s your name?”

Again nothing.

Five minutes passed with her sitting there gazing out over the mass of swaying, twitching bodies and him doing the same. Not one word was spoken.

Time for drastic measures.

She hopped off her stool, standing as close to him as possible. “Hey!” she shouted at the bartender. “How about a beer?”

A long-necked bottle slid down the counter toward her. She snagged it and took a long draw. “Hmm,” she purred as she wiped her chin. She sighed and plunked her bottle back onto the counter. She resisted the urge to wince. Although her lipstick did a great job of camouflaging her split lip, the alcohol still burned on contact.

She leaned against the bar and adjusted her position slightly so she could look her target directly in the eye...well, she could if he turned his head a mere five degrees and allowed her to. Jerk. Maybe he just wasn’t in the mood?

Only one way to find out.

She pulled a cigarette out of her purse, a girl never knew when she’d need a conversation starter, and provocatively leaned in his direction. “Do you have a light?” she asked, peering up at him as if the world just might come to an end if he gave the wrong answer.

He looked at her, that piercing gaze cold enough to give her frostbite, then glared at her breasts for a fraction of a second. “No,” he growled before looking away, clearly unimpressed.

Dammit.

Well, at least he’d spoken to her.

She tossed the cigarette onto the bar and propped fully against the counter, pressing her shoulder into his, as she drank her beer and contemplated her next move.

The beer was cold and refreshing once it got past her lip, but he was making her sweat. Usually she didn’t have this much trouble getting a guy’s attention. Surely three months sitting behind a desk at Langley in a two-piece suit hadn’t thrown her off the game this badly. Giving herself grace, she hadn’t actually ever attempted to bait a killer. It must be tricky, she mused. Rising to the challenge, she studied him out of the corner of her eye. His profile was strong, his jaw chiseled. A scar running from the corner of his mouth to the middle of his cheek served as a kind of permanent dimple. Otherwise, movie-star-quality features, but more rugged. She squinted for a better view. There was something in his hairline.

Another scar...

No.

Tattoo.

A number: 6...6...shit...

She stiffened.

He turned his head and pointed those laser-blue eyes directly at hers.

She opened her mouth but it took about three seconds for the words to come out. “Is that...?”

She couldn’t say the rest. He knew what she meant. She saw it in his eyes. Damn. Was this guy for real? Focus, Tasha. Stay calm. She forced her heart rate to slow before that cowboy Maverick could come bursting through the door.

He was still staring at her.

“What do you want from me?”

An involuntary shiver raced over her skin at the sound of his voice. Or maybe she was just freaked out by the bizarre tattoo. But the deep, gravelly sound scraped over her flesh, leaving every single nerve ending raw and tingling.

“I...” She moistened her lips and grappled for the cocky attitude she’d waltzed in here with. “My name’s Tasha. I just thought you were cute and that maybe we could—”

He looked her up and down. Not a fast and furious sweep, but a slow, methodical perusal...as if he were devouring every square inch of her with his eyes. She shivered again. Jesus, what was wrong with her?

When that unyielding blue gaze collided with hers once more, he said, “Go away.”

Had this encounter tanked or what?

She mustered up a properly pissed-off look and the body language to go with it. “Maybe I don’t want to. Maybe I like it right here.” She guzzled the rest of her beer. “You know,” she said, her gaze focused on the mirror behind the bar, but her voice just loud enough for him to hear, “I knew moving here would be a mistake. My first night on the town and I get the brush-off from the best-looking guy in the club.” She turned toward him then, pressed even more intimately against him. “Why is that, do you think?”

He shifted just enough so that his face was about two inches from hers. “Maybe it has something to do with that big mouth.”

She laughed softly and then sighed, allowing her breath to feather across his lips. “Well, now I know, don’t I?”

He turned away as if he hadn’t even noticed her seduction attempts. How the hell was she supposed to crack this guy?

Lucas’s offer echoed in her ears...succeed in this mission and you’ll come to work for me with the best of the best. Failure was not an option. The cell phone tucked into her boot vibrated. Maverick, no doubt.

She braced a hand against J.D. as she fished out her phone. He flinched. Great, he didn’t even want her to touch him. “Yeah.” She turned away from the exasperating man, straining to hear over the music.

“I take it we have contact.”

Maverick’s call would show up as a cell phone listed to her fake roommate, Patti. Under normal circumstances he would call if he didn’t like what he saw on the monitor, if in distress she would say the right phrase or her inability to answer would equate to the same, and the cowboy would create a diversion, allowing her to escape whatever trouble she was in. But tonight’s call was just to ensure contact had been made and to tie her to his monitoring link. Once he’d put a call through to her cell phone, as long as that phone was turned on he could trace her. Backup to the other apparatus, he’d told her. He liked playing it safe. She glanced at the brooding man at her side. “Definitely. I thought you were coming back to pick me up, Patti.”