Shoot to Thrill Read Online Free PDF

asked.

    “Where’s what?”

    “The weapon.”

    Her chin lifted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But her eyes told a different story. They flicked ever so briefly toward the upper end of the bed.

    Nice try. With grim efficiency he searched the contents of the nightstand. He didn’t find any guns, knives, or mace in the cubby or the small drawer.

    He did, however, find a box of condoms. And a bottle of mint-flavored massage oil.

    Fuck. He really did not want to know that.

    He gritted his teeth and slammed the drawer shut with a spike of angry regret for what he might have been enjoying had the stars been aligned differently and he weren’t such an unlucky son of a bitch. And kept searching.

    There was a loaded Beretta between the mattress and box spring. And a stiletto in a sheath that had been taped to the back of the headboard.

    Okay, then. Not as harmless as she looked.

    He hiked his brows at her.

    Her cheeks glowed bright scarlet but her chin rose even higher. “A woman has a right to defend herself. No telling what kind of pervert will push his way into her bedroom.”

    He gave her a strained smile. “True enough.”

    Putting both the Beretta and stiletto in his jacket pocket, he slipped it off and folded it before setting it on the nightstand. He kept the SIG in its holster under his arm, but unbuttoned and slowly rolled up his sleeves. She watched him nervously. Then he pulled a pair of handcuffs from his back pants pocket.

    She sucked in a breath when she saw them. And in a flash scrambled across the bed to get away. He caught her by the ankle, narrowly avoiding a vicious kick in the face from her other high heel, which he swiftly ripped off and threw to the floor along with its mate.

    “Goddamn it!” he growled, using all his strength to flip her and pull her back to the center of the bed. By now she was using fists, too.

    “Let me go !”

    Jesus. The woman had some excellent defense moves.

    “Then stop hitting me!”

    With difficulty, he released her ankles and grabbed her wrists between kicks and punches, launched himself on top of her, and pinned her down with his body. With her arms held above her head, she could only wriggle ineffectually under him.

    “Better?” he ground out.

    “No!”

    He quickly realized he’d made a tactical error. A big one.

    Her shawl had come off in the struggle, and her strapless bodice had shifted down to the brink of being . . . way too distracting. Her already short hem had crept high up her thighs.

    She was wearing stockings. Silky ones. The kind with lace tops that stayed up by themselves.

    He stifled a groan and took a deep, cleansing breath. “How many times do I have to tell you, I’m not going to hurt you?”

    She didn’t look convinced. In truth, she looked plain terrified. And about to cry. Tears swam in her eyes, threatening to spill out the corners. Which did the trick, yanking him back from the verge of doing something really stupid.

    Like trying to kiss her again.

    God, what was wrong with him?

    He did not do teary-eyed women. Hell, he did not do women at all . And this was exactly why. They turned him all inside out and totally robbed him of his brain cells.

    Clamping his jaw tightly, he reached down to retrieve the handcuffs and snapped one cuff onto her wrist. The other cuff he fastened with a snick to his own.

    Giving her a warning glare, he rolled off and lay panting on the bed by her side, scowling at the ceiling.

    Apparently that surprised her, too. Hell, he was just full of surprises.

    Turning her head on the pillow, she stared at him anxiously. He kept his eyes firmly on the plaster overhead.

    It was crisscrossed with cracks. Like the scars on his leg and back. There was a spiderweb wafting back and forth in one corner.

    At length, she finally asked, her voice a thready murmur, “You’re not going to rape me?”

    He tried really hard to be angry that she could believe that of him, but