That makes him the most dangerous man I’ve ever met.
Weird. I’m the one with the loaded gun, and I’m the one who’s trying not to shake.
When he tries to move forward, I point my gun at his head.
“Don’t move,” I warn him. “I’ll shoot.”
“No, you won’t.” He goes down a step.
I frown. Is he underestimating me after all?
“I may be a woman, but that doesn’t make a difference.”
“It does.”
“I can still shoot you,” I threaten him.
In fact, I’m starting to feel like doing just that.
“But you won’t.” He goes down another step. “Because I just saved your life.”
Saved my life? Oh, that time he knocked me out of bed and out of the way of a sniper’s bullet? How did he do that? How did he know my life was in danger? What was he even doing in my room?
“And because you need answers.”
He stands one step above me. When did that happen?
Before I can make a move, he takes the gun from between my fingers, puts the safety on, and places it back on my palm.
My forehead creases. I stare at the gun, then at him. I open my mouth, but no words come out.
I’m just so confused right now, to the point that I almost feel dizzy. I don’t know who this man is. Sure, he just gave me his name – Cain Archer, was it? – but it doesn’t mean a thing to me. It definitely doesn’t explain how he got into my room. Or why. He said he saved my life. Why would he do that when I don’t know him, when I’ve never met him?
Even my feelings are all jumbled up. I want to trust him, but every instinct in my body warns me not to. I find him attractive, fascinating, but I’m also annoyed. He just makes me so uneasy.
“Shall we go back to your house and talk?” he suggests. “I’ve got a few questions of my own.”
“Why?” I ask.
It’s the only word I’ve managed to compose.
“Because someone might find us here and accuse us of trespassing,” he answers.
Right. We just barged in through a broken window, after all. Well, I barged in through a broken window. I don’t know how he got in. Definitely not through the front door.
“Also, because you might want to change before we talk,” he adds. “Or maybe put something else on.”
As he speaks, his gaze goes to my chest, and as I look down, I realize just exactly what he’s looking at. In my haste and confusion, I forgot to put on my robe. Or a bra. Basically, I’ve just been in my tank top and boxers this whole time.
Shit. I quickly put an arm over my chest and drape the other over my thighs. Not that either will do much good.
“I’d lend you a jacket but I don’t have mine,” he says.
I sneer at him even as I try to keep myself from blushing. “What are you looking at?”
His eyes, still void of any emotion, meet mine.
What? Are my breasts so small that they don’t incite even the tiniest iota of lust in him?
Wait. Why am I getting mad at him? Surely I don’t want him ogling my breasts or looking at me like I’m some piece of meat?
God, I don’t understand myself anymore.
I turn my back to him. “Fine. Come to the house. But if you try anything funny, I won’t hesitate to shoot you. Understood?”
“Understood.”
~
“I don’t understand,” I tell Cain later after we’ve moved to my living room and I’ve changed into a shirt – with a bra underneath, of course – and pants. I’ve decided to make coffee, too. “You’re saying someone hired a man to kill me?”
“Yes,” Cain answers.
I watch him as he takes a sip from the cup I gave him. A cup with Minnie Mouse and pink hearts. My least favorite. The only reason I still have it is because my mom gave it to me. It’s too childish and too girly. And yet Cain didn’t even raise an eyebrow when I gave it to him. Does nothing affect him?
Wait. I’m not supposed to be thinking about Cain. Or gawking at him like a fifteen-year-old even though he’s the first man I’ve ever had in my living room. I tear my gaze away from him and let it fall on the atlas beneath the coffee table as I sip coffee from my own emerald green cup.
What were we talking about, again? Right. Hired killers. They don’t just exist in movies and video games. Even before I joined the Bureau, I knew they existed in the real world, too. Since then, I’ve met a few. Men who can take life as easily as they can take a bite out of a sandwich. No second thoughts. No remorse. Men who kill for a living, for money, as if a million dollars is all a person is worth. As if that amount of money is enough to ease a conscience. Unbelievable.