Christmas Male(7)

The bus in front of her coughed up exhaust and began to crawl forward.

“I’m moving now,” she said. “My ETA is twenty minutes.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Natalie said and disconnected.

The call came through as she was inching her way toward Ninth Street. Shots fired in the sculpture garden at the National Mall. She was only a couple of football fields away. Thank God.

Punching a number into her cell, she pulled onto a grass verge at the same time as she told the dispatcher she was nearly on the scene. Then she plucked her gun out of her evening bag and ran toward the well-lit ice rink.





2




D.C. FELT THE PRESENCE of the other person before he saw or heard a thing. And he sensed danger. Neither surprised him. Combat experience honed a man’s perceptions. He didn’t glance up from the notes he was taking and didn’t slow the movement of his pen, but all his other senses went on full alert.

He was pretty sure that it wasn’t the man who’d taken a shot at him. Private Hemmings’s assailant had been too intent on escape. D.C. couldn’t hear anything other than the still-approaching sirens and the music from the ice rink. Still he felt the threat increase with each passing second. He’d only felt this way one other time. It had been in Baghdad. And he’d learned later that he’d been in the crosshairs of a high-powered rifle.

He let his gaze slide to his gun, which he’d set on the ground. His cane lay next to it. Either one would prove a useful weapon…if he could get to them in time.

“Don’t even think about it.”

D.C. let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. The voice was husky, authoritative and definitely female. It also meant business.

“D.C. police. Raise your hands and keep them where I can see them.”

D.C. did as he was told. As he lifted his gaze, the first thing he saw was the shoes. Cops were wearing interesting footwear these days. Hers were expensive-looking with killer heels and they were moving purposefully toward him. They should have slowed her down, but they didn’t. A black coat that flared out as she moved revealed a short red dress and legs that made his gaze want to linger. But the gun she held professionally in both hands was a bit distracting, especially since it was aimed at his most vital organ.

The moment he saw her face, recognition slammed into him like a bare-fisted punch. It was her. His mystery woman. Her face was as striking as he remembered. Delicate features and porcelain-colored skin contrasted sharply with a stubborn chin and a slash of cheekbones that suggested strength. A cop’s strength?

Finally, he met her eyes head-on. He registered their color—aged whiskey. Then his cataloging slammed to a halt as he experienced the same raw, primitive desire he’d experienced earlier.

Evidently, lightning could strike twice. His eyes narrowed as she stopped in front of him. He was pretty sure that the danger he’d sensed earlier had nothing to do with the gun and everything to do with the woman.

Who the hell was she?



“PUT YOUR HANDS UP.” Fiona was happy to see that her weapon was steady. Because she wasn’t steady at all. From the first moment she’d spotted him kneeling next to the body, she’d recognized him. And she’d experienced the same intense, impulsive urge to go to him that she’d felt earlier. Instead, she’d halted in her tracks and taken a moment to gather herself before she’d moved toward him.

The 911 caller had identified himself as being in the military police and had promised to stay on the scene. The gun on the ground next to him and the way he was scribbling in that notebook suggested he was a cop. Still, she’d have to make sure. That was when he’d glanced up and met her eyes. She’d very nearly stopped dead in her tracks again.

Who the hell was he? And how could he have this kind of effect on her?

“Mind if I use my cane?”

“Just give the gun a wide berth.”

“I called this in. The victim here is a woman. She’s taken a blow to the back of the head and she may have hit her forehead on the edge of the sculpture when she fell. She’s unconscious. Her breathing and pulse are steady.”

As he spoke, he rose in a smooth series of movements that told Fiona he’d practiced it often. She noticed more details than she had in their earlier encounter. He was larger than she remembered, well over six feet with broad shoulders and a swimmer’s body that went well with his lean face. But it was his eyes that grabbed her attention.

Again.

They were the darkest gray she’d ever seen. His gaze was direct and very intense. Not much slipped by those eyes, she could tell. And staring into them was a mistake. The pull he seemed to effortlessly exert on her tightened, and she barely kept herself from walking into his arms.