Passion (In Wilde Country 2)

She nodded.

“Now I’m going to make sure there isn’t a bullet in the chamber. What that means is that I’m going to pull this gizmo back, then release it… Good. The chamber’s empty. Okay. Here’s what’s called the sight. Use it to line up your target. This is the trigger.”

“Even I know that.”

Was that a touch of indignation in her voice? He hoped so. He needed her to want to master this.

He held the Ruger toward her, handle first. If either Bianca or Alessandra had ever agreed to take a live spider from his, this was how she’d have done it. Slowly. Cautiously. As if it were certain to bite.

The LCP had resembled a toy in his hand. Not in hers. It looked like what it was.

A weapon designed to take a person’s life.

“You were right. It doesn’t weigh much.” She looked from the gun to him. “Now what?”

“Now, we walk up to that line on the floor.” He took her elbow, walked her to the toe line. “Stop right there. Good. Spread your feet apart. Not too much. Excellent. Look up. See that red bullseye? That’s what you’ll aim at. Okay. Lift the gun.”

“It wobbles.”

“Yeah. Bring up your other hand, if you can, and use your fingers to add balance.”

“No good. It’s still wobbling.”

“So what?” He touched the gun, brought the barrel up a fraction of an inch. “Didn’t you ever hear of One Hand Houlihan? That’s better. Now sight the target.”

She did as he’d instructed. The gun still shook, but not as badly.

“One Hand who?”

“Houlihan. More famous than Billy the Kid. Rode with Wyatt Earp. Steady. Steady. Great. If you haven’t heard of him, you’ve surely heard of One Hand Harriet.”

Ariel laughed. “You’re making this up.”

“Harriet taught Annie Oakley to shoot.” He stepped behind Ariel, put his arms around her and cupped one hand over hers on the Ruger. “She was a frugal woman. She figured using two hands when one would do was wasteful. Pull the trigger.”

“Pull the…?”

“No magazine. Nothing in the chamber. We checked. Pull the trigger.”

She pulled, with his help. Had she actually fired a bullet, it would have missed the bullseye, missed the whole dartboard.

That wouldn’t save her life.

“Do it again.”

She drew a breath, raised the gun, pulled the trigger, again with his hand steadying hers. Her aim was better, her hand steadier. The shot would have hit the dartboard, but not where it would cause the most damage.

“Again.”

Finally. The bullet would have found its mark.

“Once more,” he said, but he dropped his hand as he said it and when she pulled the trigger, she did it alone.

The shot would have nicked the edge of the board.

“Again.”

She glared at him, but she aimed and fired. It was her best shot yet, but still not good enough. Not if he was lying dead on the floor and Pastore was coming at her.

“Satisfied?”

“No.”

“Dammit, what do you want? I’ve never—”

He spun her toward him. What he wanted was some of the anger building inside her, but he needed it directed at an unseen assailant, not at him.

“I’ve been shot. I can’t help you. A man is coming at you. He’s going to kill you unless you stop him, and the only way to do that is to fire this gun and put him down. Are you going to do it, or are you going to let him end your life?”

He hated the flash of terror he saw in her eyes, hated himself for being the cause of it, but he folded his arms over his chest and stood his ground.

She swung away from him. Lifted her arm. Aimed the gun and pulled the trigger.

“Bam,” she said softly.

Bam, indeed. If the gun had been loaded, she’d have blown a hole right through the center of the target.

“Again,” he said.

Ariel aimed, pulled the trigger. Aimed again, and pulled the trigger. After the fourth time, Matteo took the Ruger from her hand.

“Sei bella e coraggiosa,” he said softly, “e io ti amo con tutto il cuore. You are beautiful and brave, and I love you with all my heart.”

She didn’t speak. Didn’t move. A lock of golden hair dangled over her eyes. She blew it back.

“All this time, I’ve been thinking about what might happen to me. But you…if something were to happen to you…”

He took her in his arms.

“Nothing will. We’re both going to get through this, cara.”

Tears glittered in her eyes. “Swear it to me.”

He couldn’t. They both knew that, but he understood why she had to hear him say the words.

“I swear it,” he said. He bent his head, leaned his forehead against hers. “Remember our Sicilian vow?”

She nodded. “‘I trust you with my life, as you trust me with yours.’”

He kissed her. She looped her arm around his neck and kissed him back. The kiss went from gentle to passionate; she felt his heart start to race against hers, and she drew back in his arms.

“It’s interesting, the things I’m starting to remember.”

“For instance?”

She ran the tip of her index finger over his mouth.

“Those courses I took at Miss Barlow’s?” She caught her breath as he sucked her finger into the heat of his mouth. “One of the things she insisted we learn,” she said, her eyes wide with innocence, “was that no proper young woman would ever make love in a room that held a pool table, a ping pong table and, most especially, a dartboard, not even if there was a big, wide sofa like that one in the corner.”

“What a coincidence. That we should find ourselves in just such a room, I mean. Any suggestions on how to handle the situation?”

Ariel rose on her toes, put her lips to his ear and whispered two words.

He growled his assent, swept her up into his arms and dropped the gun on the pool table as he carried her to the sofa, where he made love to her with such tender intensity that, at the end, she wept.

* * *

The storm raged around them.

There was a big flat-screen TV on a wall in the living room. Matteo flicked from station to station. Weathermen were calling the storm a blizzard. Nothing was taking off or landing at any airports in the region. Roads were impassable.

He hit the remote and the set went silent. Ariel turned to him.

“We’re cut off, aren’t we?”

There was no panic in her voice, only calm acceptance.

“Hey,” he said lightly, “look at the bright side. We can’t get out, but at least nobody can get in.”

She smiled, as he’d intended.

He reached for her hand.

He was so proud of her. It was hard to imagine anyone else waking into a nightmare and dealing with it as she had.

And she was healing, inside and out.

The bruises around her eyes had faded to a pale green. Her wrist was mending. Even the tiny stitches on her temple were gone. She’d said they were itching and he could see that they’d needed to come out. He’d snipped them away with a pair of manicure scissors she’d found in one of the bathrooms.

“No more Dr. Frankenstein,” she’d said, after a glance in the mirror, “but my eye shadow still needs some work.”

He loved that she was trying to joke about something that had to be a constant reminder of what had happened to her.

And her memory was definitely coming back.

He was happy for her.

And worried.

Sitting with her now, in the circle of his arm, his mind kept returning to the same question. How would she feel about him when she remembered everything? Who she was. Who he was. That he should have helped her when she’d asked him to, when she’d begged him to…

“Too bad we don’t have a snowmobile.”

He blinked. “Too bad we don’t… Oh. A snowmobile. Actually, I

don’t know how well a snowmobile would do in a storm like this.”

“Have you ever ridden one?”

“No.” He picked up her hand, played with her fingers. “But I’m great with motorcycles.”

“Such modesty from a knight,” she said, smiling.

“That’s the last thing I am, honey.”

“A knight doesn’t get to choose whether or not he’s a knight,” she said primly. “That decision belongs to his lady.” She batted her lashes at him. “In case you hadn’t noticed, that’s me.”

He smiled. She laced her fingers with his.

“Do you really ride motorcycles?”

“Sure. I bought one after I finished college. See, I took off a year between college and law school, to work and save money.”