pinned flat against the plaster above her head, his hip dug into her abdomen, and the V of his right thumb and forefinger around her throat.
Her face had gone instantly pale.
“Let go of the gun,” he growled. “Or I’ll snap your neck.” And that put her way beyond pale into “deathly pale” territory.
He felt her fingers relax, and he pried the weapon free. Then he released his grip on her and stepped away.
Yeah, he thought. It had been a good question, but it had also been one more mistake in a day full of mistakes, starting with her leaving whatever hotel she was staying at, which no way in hell could be the Palacio.
“Where are you staying in San Luis?” he asked, releasing the magazine out of her pistol. Next, he ejected the round she’d loaded into the chamber and let it fall into his hand—a .45, full metal jacket.
When she didn’t answer, he glanced up.
Perfect. She was trembling, all over, from the top of her French twist down to her toes, every inch of her—trembling. And suddenly he hoped very much that nothing fell out of her dress.
“What hotel are you at?” he asked again, trying to take a little of the growl out of his voice.
“Th-that’s none of your business.” She sounded about ready to faint, which was one of the last things he needed.
“It is if you want to get back there in one piece,” he said, then checked the magazine. It felt empty, because it was empty.
Sonuvabitch.
“You only had one cartridge?” That didn’t make sense. Nobody carried around a semiautomatic pistol with just one cartridge.
“C-cartridge?”
“Bullet,” he elaborated. And anyone who didn’t know the difference between a bullet and a cartridge shouldn’t be carrying anything around.
“There’s only one?”
“ Uno. ” He held up the round, and watched her beautiful, lush, candy-apple-red, trembling lips tighten just a bit, in the middle, but he couldn’t tell if it was because she was going to cry— Please, God, anything but that —or if she was angry.
“I—I paid for three.”
Three?
Well, that was just about the stupidest damn thing he’d ever heard.
“Who did you pay?” For three freaking cartridges to put in a seven-round magazine for a semiauto pistol that didn’t look like it had been cleaned since World War II.
“The man on the street, the one with the cart.”
Oh, geezus.
Suddenly he knew what had been in the bundle, and he knew why Royce’s men had come out of the gate, and it wasn’t because of a tight white halter dress and honey blond hair.
“Get in the corner, and don’t move. Not a muscle, and I mean it,” he said, drawing his Sig and gesturing toward the forward corner of the room, where he could keep her in sight, but where she’d be hidden behind the door if it was opened, something he wasn’t planning on allowing, but there were four guys out there who might be thinking differently.
Christ . She’d bought a gun off the street, with one friggin’ cartridge, which was probably just enough to get her killed, and she’d done it in front of Royce’s guards, who would damn well know what kind of business Vendor Man conducted out of his friggin’ cart.
He stepped back over to the door to listen.
“I—I don’t think you’re with the State Department.”
“I am,” he lied without a second thought. He didn’t tell people his business—ever.
“You don’t look like anyone I’ve ever met from the State Department.”
That got her a look. “Which State Department, exactly, are we talking about?”
“The one in Washington , D.C. ”
Geezus.
“I have friends there.”
Good. Great.
“Lots of them.”
Okay, he wasn’t going to run with that, even if she did look like a girl who might have a lot of “friends” anywhere she went.
“And none of them carry a gun.”
He wasn’t surprised. The job description for State Department pencil pushers didn’t usually include disarming beautiful blondes in ratty hotel rooms. No, that
Her face had gone instantly pale.
“Let go of the gun,” he growled. “Or I’ll snap your neck.” And that put her way beyond pale into “deathly pale” territory.
He felt her fingers relax, and he pried the weapon free. Then he released his grip on her and stepped away.
Yeah, he thought. It had been a good question, but it had also been one more mistake in a day full of mistakes, starting with her leaving whatever hotel she was staying at, which no way in hell could be the Palacio.
“Where are you staying in San Luis?” he asked, releasing the magazine out of her pistol. Next, he ejected the round she’d loaded into the chamber and let it fall into his hand—a .45, full metal jacket.
When she didn’t answer, he glanced up.
Perfect. She was trembling, all over, from the top of her French twist down to her toes, every inch of her—trembling. And suddenly he hoped very much that nothing fell out of her dress.
“What hotel are you at?” he asked again, trying to take a little of the growl out of his voice.
“Th-that’s none of your business.” She sounded about ready to faint, which was one of the last things he needed.
“It is if you want to get back there in one piece,” he said, then checked the magazine. It felt empty, because it was empty.
Sonuvabitch.
“You only had one cartridge?” That didn’t make sense. Nobody carried around a semiautomatic pistol with just one cartridge.
“C-cartridge?”
“Bullet,” he elaborated. And anyone who didn’t know the difference between a bullet and a cartridge shouldn’t be carrying anything around.
“There’s only one?”
“ Uno. ” He held up the round, and watched her beautiful, lush, candy-apple-red, trembling lips tighten just a bit, in the middle, but he couldn’t tell if it was because she was going to cry— Please, God, anything but that —or if she was angry.
“I—I paid for three.”
Three?
Well, that was just about the stupidest damn thing he’d ever heard.
“Who did you pay?” For three freaking cartridges to put in a seven-round magazine for a semiauto pistol that didn’t look like it had been cleaned since World War II.
“The man on the street, the one with the cart.”
Oh, geezus.
Suddenly he knew what had been in the bundle, and he knew why Royce’s men had come out of the gate, and it wasn’t because of a tight white halter dress and honey blond hair.
“Get in the corner, and don’t move. Not a muscle, and I mean it,” he said, drawing his Sig and gesturing toward the forward corner of the room, where he could keep her in sight, but where she’d be hidden behind the door if it was opened, something he wasn’t planning on allowing, but there were four guys out there who might be thinking differently.
Christ . She’d bought a gun off the street, with one friggin’ cartridge, which was probably just enough to get her killed, and she’d done it in front of Royce’s guards, who would damn well know what kind of business Vendor Man conducted out of his friggin’ cart.
He stepped back over to the door to listen.
“I—I don’t think you’re with the State Department.”
“I am,” he lied without a second thought. He didn’t tell people his business—ever.
“You don’t look like anyone I’ve ever met from the State Department.”
That got her a look. “Which State Department, exactly, are we talking about?”
“The one in Washington , D.C. ”
Geezus.
“I have friends there.”
Good. Great.
“Lots of them.”
Okay, he wasn’t going to run with that, even if she did look like a girl who might have a lot of “friends” anywhere she went.
“And none of them carry a gun.”
He wasn’t surprised. The job description for State Department pencil pushers didn’t usually include disarming beautiful blondes in ratty hotel rooms. No, that
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