Crazy Sweet Read Online Free PDF

for a couple of seconds, just rested his head against the door and silently swore at himself.
    “T-turn around,” she said, and he figured that was probably not such a bad idea.
    Pushing himself off the door panel, he slowly turned to face her and raised his hands to either side of his body. He had a Sig Sauer .45 in a holster jammed in his pants, riding in the small of his back, under his shirt, and he knew that even with her getting the drop on him, he could take her—but he wasn’t going to shoot her, or put her to the floor. Not yet. Not when she still looked like a bunny in the headlights. Not when she was still standing exactly where he had first put her, one step away, instead of gaining some distance before drawing her weapon. Not when her hands were shaking so badly he doubted if she could hit the broad side of a barn even at that distance. And not when she didn’t have her finger on the trigger.
    Nope, both the girl’s hands and all her digits were wrapped around the pistol’s grip like duct tape. He wondered if she even knew there was a trigger, and he wondered how anyone who knew so little about how to hold a gun had known how to load one.
    “My name is John Roland, and I work for the U.S. State Department.” That always sounded good to Americans in a foreign country. It shouldn’t, not necessarily, but it did—and her voice had definitely tagged her as an American. “Please lower your gun.”
    “The—the State Department?” she repeated.
    But she didn’t lower the gun. Not an inch.
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “You don’t look like you’re from the State Department.”
    She had a point, a damn good one. He looked like a merchant marine on a three-day bender, but he was sticking with his story.
    “My office, the embassy where I work, is actually in Panama . I’m here in San Luis on vacation.”
    “I saw you sitting out in front of the bar across the street.”
    Good girl. She’d been paying attention to her surroundings from behind those big sunglasses. He was surprised.
    “Did you see the men come out of the villa’s gate?”
    She nodded, and a blond tendril of hair slipped free from one of her bows and slid down the side of her neck to curl in the concave curve above her collarbone, which was where the plunging V of her halter top began, which for all the fascination it held wasn’t nearly as riveting as where the V of the halter top ended.
    He took a breath.
    “And the fourth guy coming up the street?” he asked. “Did you see him?” The one with the fucking AR15?
    She nodded again, and another honey gold strand slipped free to slide across her shoulder. “Th-that’s why I came inside the hotel.”
    He was more than surprised that she’d seen the fourth guy. He was impressed. She’d been standing at the cart, buying junk, and watching the street like a hawk, which really didn’t have a damn thing to do with how her skin looked up close, like satin—smooth, soft, and with a subtle sheen that was just a little mind-boggling.
    The gun, Smith, he reminded himself. Keep your eye on the gun.
    “Are you staying here?” He was going to have to take her down and take that damn gun, but he’d really like to do it without breaking her, a consideration that wasn’t usually within a hundred miles of his “Things to Do Today” list, not on any day of the week. Up until one minute ago, one hundred percent of the people who had ever pointed a gun at him had been on his “Take Them the Fuck Out” list, Monday through Sunday.
    “D-do you have some identification? From the State Department?”
    A good question, and no, he didn’t, but he went ahead and carefully lowered his right hand and turned slightly to his left, subtly shifting his weight and giving a damn good impression of someone going for his wallet—and in less than two seconds had her off balance, spun around, and planted solidly against the wall next to the door. Her hands were still gripping the pistol, but he had both of them