A Perfect Storm(23)

She eyed him up and down-and took a step back. "Jackson resisted me just fine."

God, he did not want to hear this again. Why did she keep bringing it  up? Was she infatuated with Jackson beyond the platonic? Thinking that  left him churning with a dangerous mix of emotions. "Let's stick to the  point. To make things simpler on me and on yourself, you need to stay  with me until we sort things out at the bar."

Pacing away, she appeared to think about it. "Your couch is comfortable."

"I told you that you could use the guest room."

Her shoulder lifted. "You don't want me on the couch?"

Now what was this about? Spencer crossed his arms. "I don't mind if you  sleep there, but why would you want to when you can set up your own  room? You can make yourself at home in there." And in case she worried  about it, he added, "While you're with me, I won't push you to do  anything you don't want to do-except kiss me when you curse."

She shot him a dirty look. "I won't slip up again."

"I'll give you as much freedom as I can. I'll stay out of your hair. But  if you go anywhere, I need to know. No more running off by yourself.  Period."

She paced again, head down, hands on hips. When she returned to him, she nodded. "All right, fine."

He launched into the next demand. "Make no plans without me. None. We're  either working together on this, or we're not working at all."

"Sure, fine. Ditto back atcha."

Being reasonable? Doubtful, so he didn't bother to commit himself to the  same rule. "Tell me why you have so many weapons in your trunk."

Without missing a beat, she said, "I like to live."

That blunt answer threw him. "You need a shovel to live?"

Her chin lifted. "You know why I need that."

Yes, he probably did, but he badly wanted to be wrong. "Enlighten me."

"If I have to kill anyone, I'll need to bury them."

Oh, God. Spencer dropped back to sit on the bed. He shouldn't have asked.

Arizona, damn her, laughed. "Oh, lighten up, Spence. I was just funnin' ya."

"Funning me?" Anger stirred as he glared at her. "You think it's funny to joke about murder?"

"Sometimes, yeah. Depends on the murder victim, right?" She strolled  around the room like a caged tiger. "I carry the shovel for lots of  reasons. In case I get my car stuck in mud, in case I have to use my  knife and need to hide it." She shrugged. "It's an all-purpose, handy  tool."

Skeptical, he said, "You don't plan to kill anyone?"

"Didn't say that." Her face went carefully blank. "If someone needs killing, if I need to defend myself or someone else-"

"I'll do it." He was trained, he was a man, and … he wanted to shield her from as much ugliness as he could.

"I don't need you to. I can fend for myself."

But she didn't have to, not anymore. More firmly, to make sure she  understood, he said, "If it comes to that, if the situation turns that  violent, I will be the one to handle things."

Her chest rose with agitated breaths. "Just like you killed Chandra Silverman, even though it was my right?"                       
       
           



       

They'd already debated who had more right in that regard. But he knew  his actions concerning the evil organizer of a human trafficking ring  had veered from wanting revenge for the death of his wife to concern for  Arizona.

She deserved to regain a normal outlook on life, not add to the nasty  memories by chalking up a kill-even against someone who deserved death  as much as Chandra had. She might not realize it, but it wouldn't give  her closure. It'd only darken her dreams more.

Given Arizona's livid expression, she didn't agree. Spencer stood and walked to her. "Just calm down for a minute."

That damned pointy finger of hers poked hard into his chest again. "You calm down!"

He grabbed her hand. "That's enough."

She strained against his hold, then gave up to lean into him with her  ire. "It's one thing for you to play the White Knight, but if you think  you have the stones to change me, forget it."

"Change you how?" That he still held her hand-and she allowed  it-surprised and pleased him. More gently now, he enfolded her fingers  in his own and, drawing her closer, held them against his chest. "What  do you mean?"

"I've seen violence. I've lived it. And I can take a hit as easy as the next guy."

Over his dead body. "You're not a guy." She was a small, susceptible  female-and he couldn't bear the thought of her being physically injured.

"Doesn't matter. Now that I'm free, I plan to stay on the delivery end of things."

"Doling out retribution?"

Her jaw locked. "I will do what I think is right. What is best. You can either help, or you can stay out of my way."

No, she wouldn't get rid of him that easily. "I'm here to help,  remember?" He moved his thumb over her taut knuckles, hoping to quiet  her. She could make a credible fist, but she lacked the power necessary  to fend for herself against brutal men, especially the immoral breed of  flesh peddlers. "That's why we need some ground rules."

"I agreed to your stupid rules already."

True enough. And since he wouldn't let her out of his sight, he could  keep her from using most of those weapons. Most. "What do you carry on  you?"

Understanding the question, she relaxed a little. "Depends on where I  go. Usually a knife, pepper spray and stun baton. The baton is  telescopic, so it can fit in my purse."

She indicated the big slouch purse that looked liked it could hold the kitchen sink. "Incredible."

Shrugging, she added, "If I'm blending in but still want a gun, I carry  the little Beretta Bobcat. It's easy to hide. And if I don't have to  conceal things, then I carry my Glock, maybe my rifle, too. And I wear  my vest. If I'm on night surveillance, I have these cool night-vision  goggles that come in handy. They weren't cheap, but they're worth the  cost."

Fully armed and protected, like a damned trooper. "What did you plan to carry tonight?"

"Not much, since my new clothes won't make it easy." After freeing her  hand, she went to her duffel bag and withdrew a wicked switchblade. She  pressed a button, and it snapped open. But closed again, the profile was  slim and would be easy to hide in the bottom of her purse. "It's not my  favorite, but it'll do."

He crossed his arms over his chest and surveyed her. "What is your favorite?"

Animated, she took out a leather sheath and slid free a big, dangerous  knife. The fluorescent overhead light glimmered on the blade as she  turned it this way and that. "My baby."

His heart grew heavy at the sight of the weapon. The fixed blade  tactical knuckle knife wasn't a utility knife by any stretch of the  imagination. It wouldn't be used for a quick defense. No, it was for  attacking, and it would cause a lot of damage if used against someone-or  if turned against the owner.

"She's a real beauty, isn't she?"

He tried to be suitably interested, rather than appalled. "Stainless steel, tanto-point. Nonreflective black powder coating."

"Yup." Arizona fit the handle over her fingers like brass knuckles.  "Comfortable, too." She turned her hand, her hold secure, familiar.

Spencer grunted a reply.

Glancing at him, she said, "I have a nylon harness that gives me easy  access but keeps it hidden until I want to show it." She grinned.  "Sometimes that's all it takes. Most guys see this, and they back off."

Muscles coiling at her boast, he drew a steadying breath. "Sometimes?"

"Other times … " she returned the knife to the sheath and put it in back  in her bag " … we battle. But for someone who knows how to use it, a knife  is a terrific equalizer, so don't sweat it, okay?"                       
       
           



       

Fury stole his common sense and cool control. Her cavalier attitude  defied belief. Sure, she might be able to hold her own against a man if  he was drunk enough, dumb enough or completely unschooled. But for her  to think, even for a single second, that she could keep a thug from  turning that lethal blade back on her …

Seemingly unaware of his fury, she withdrew a catalogue. "Know what I  really want?" She thumbed through the catalogue until she reached a  dog-eared page. Coming to stand by him, practically leaning into his  side, she pointed out a costly, custom knife. "Isn't it cool?"

Spencer only half heard her as she waxed on about bead blasted, anodized  titanium handles, double thumb openers and pivot screws.

Chagrined, he dropped down to sit on the side of the bed. "You know your knives."