Hot As Sin

This one is for the
“Steppin’ Out Dancers,”
wonderful supportive ladies who remind
me that no one is ever truly tapped out.

Special thanks to:

Jack Berry,
my favorite law enforcement official.

Carin Rafferty, Patricia Keelyn,
Martha Shields, Carolyn McSparren,
Lisa Turner, Carol Anne Stone, and Pam Ireland.
Thanks for everything.

Judy Pierce, thanks for the cat.

Deputy Marshal Patrick Talbot keyed the radio again. “Dano, give me a sitrep.”

When no one answered, Patrick didn’t bother to try a third time. He put the radio on the table, pulled the automatic pistol out of his holster, and cocked it. The bullet shifted into place with an efficient, businesslike double click. “Get the lights.”

Emily Quinn scrambled to do as he asked. Patrick moved the window shade a tiny bit with the barrel of his gun. After a minute of studying the front, he checked the rear of the farmhouse and the security system keypad. Then he focused on her.

“I want you upstairs, Emily. In the front bedroom. Take my keys just in case, and don’t come down until I get you.”

She realized what he intended. The front bedroom was the only one above the porch roof. Patrick was giving her an escape route.

“Hey, cheer up. It’s probably just a radio on the
fritz,” he said as he picked up the phone. “Goddammit! The phone’s dead. Upstairs, now! Move!”

Emily moved. Once upstairs and alone in the dark, she sank to the floor beside the bed. The glow-in-the-dark hands of the Lucite clock ticked off seconds like hell’s metronome.

Ten minutes of purgatory passed before she heard the shots. Three of them, close together. And then nothing. Only the sound of the farmhouse breathing and shifting. The sound of an empty house and old trees in the wind. Indecision and fear paralyzed her.

Instinct told her to get out the window, to follow Patrick’s unspoken advice and run. But the eerie silence flayed her conscience. What if Patrick were bleeding and too weak to call out? What if he needed help? She couldn’t just leave him to die.

Carefully she opened the door and peered into the hallway. Her heart pounded so hard she could feel the surge of blood in her fingertips as she eased her way toward the stairs. When she reached the landing she froze. Below her one man leaned over another, his gun hanging loosely from his hand. In the dark and from her angle she wasn’t sure which man was Patrick. Then she registered the brown hair, the suit, the silver-plated gun.

“Patrick,” Emily whispered as she walked down the stairs. Relief flowed through her like a sedative. “Thank God, you’re alive.”

At her voice the man cocked his head and straightened. When he turned around slowly and leveled his gun at her, Emily realized her mistake. But it was too late.

When the gun went off, she didn’t even scream. She
closed her eyes. Not because she was brave; because she was a coward. But the bullet never ripped through her. Instead, the gunman made a sound as if someone beat the air out of his lungs with a baseball bat.

Forcing her eyes open, she watched the man pitch forward and stumble into the bottom stair. Patrick’s bullet must have hit him square in the back. By the time he tried to catch himself, it was too late. With a sickening thud his head connected with the hardwood spindle of the railing. He didn’t move again.

“Emily.” Patrick lay at the bottom of the stairs.

Please, God, don’t let Patrick die
, Emily prayed. She inched past the gunman, afraid to look at him, afraid he’d open his eyes and grab her.

A sweet, cloying smell assaulted her as she shoved aside the overturned card table and knelt at Patrick’s side. The front of his shirt was wet with blood. He lay on the cards which had been scattered like confetti. Drinks and chips littered the floor as well. Emily swallowed hard and fought the nausea. She tried not to think of Patrick’s life seeping into the carpet just as surely as the spilled soda had.

“What do I do? Just tell me. I’ll do it.”

He rolled his head a little and made a negative sound. The gun slid out of his hand and onto the floor.

“I’ve got to stop the bleeding,” she said more to herself than to him. She scanned the room for something to use as a pressure bandage.

“Too late.” Patrick coughed.

“No, it’s not too late,” she insisted, fighting tears.

“Take my wallet … inside coat pocket. Now,” he ordered. When she had it he said, “You run. You cover
your tracks. Don’t … trust anyone. The man who tried to kill you is a U. S. marshal, and … I don’t know who else is involved.” He paused to catch his breath and closed his eyes for a second. “The dog tag on my key chain … take it to Christian Gabriel. He owes me. Tell him I said to make you disappear.”

“I’m not going anywhere except for help.” She stretched to reach the afghan on the back of the couch to keep him warm.

“There is no help.” His tone was final. “Can’t trust—”

“You are
not
going to die on me, Patrick,” Emily interrupted, fighting to keep the fear out of her voice. “I won’t let you. You hear?”

“Shut up and listen,” he hissed. “Last Call—a bar … Rock Falls. In Washington State.” He struggled. “Find Gabe. Christian … Gabriel. Ex-SEAL, retired, owes me. You got it?”

“I’ve got it.” She took a deep shuddering breath to steady herself. He was close to dying. “Washington. Rock Falls. Last Call. Christian Gabriel.”

“Best shot. Targets, pool, people—” He coughed again, the sound ominous. “
Emily?
”

“I’m here. I’m listening.” She held both of his hands, trying to rub the cold out of them, trying to rub life back into his body somehow. “I’m here.”

“Don’t tell … the Archangel I caught a bullet. Thinks I’m … invincible.”

“I won’t say a word,” she promised.

“Emily.”

“Yes?”

“Shoot him.” His breathing was raspy, as if he were sucking in air but not getting any oxygen.

Slowly Emily realized what Patrick meant. Her gaze flew to the gunman. The man wore a bulletproof vest; he was only stunned by the fall. If she didn’t kill him, he’d come after her and try again.

“Shoot … him.”

Emily picked up the gun.

The last time Christian Gabriel saw a nun walk into a bar, Sister Mary Joseph McGregor had come to drag him back to the orphanage. The twenty-year-old memory was still so sharp, it brought a twinge of pain to the lobe of his right ear. Gabe rubbed absently at the spot and wondered if the petite nun who hovered at the door of his bar was strong enough to drag anyone anywhere. But he never doubted for a moment that she’d come to drag someone back to the path of righteousness. Why else would she be scrutinizing his customers?

Casting an experienced eye over his crowd, he tried to pick out the poor sinner and couldn’t. There wasn’t an underage kid or fallen woman in the bunch. In fact, they were all Saturday-night regulars, mostly men who made a living either cutting trees or hauling logs. Gabe frowned, returning his attention to the nun, who wore a modern gray habit and a short veil, which completely covered her hair. A dark gray wool coat was draped over
one arm, and she clutched it to her stomach with the other.

Her body language dropped plenty of clues about her uncertainty. Glasses too big for her face obscured her eyes, which alternately scanned the crowd and counted the floor planks. The sight of an apprehensive nun set Gabe on edge. Nuns were usually so firm of purpose. At least the ones he’d known were, the ones who’d run the orphanage and his life until he was eighteen years old.

If she’d been the least bit like
those
nuns, she’d have already snared her sinner and been halfway to Seattle. Sister Mary Joseph never hovered politely around the fringes. Oh, no, she waded right in and got her business done, throwing her considerable girth around in the process. But this nun didn’t have any girth to throw around, even if she’d wanted to. She was pale and fragile. No, not fragile. She looked tired, worn thin.

Years of Catholic school instilled a certain amount of unquestioning respect for women who took vows. But she was beginning to make his customers nervous. Nervous customers didn’t order drinks.

He needed to send the good sister on her way or kiss tonight’s profit good-bye. Profit was one thing he couldn’t afford to lose right now. When she looked up again, he willed her gaze in his direction. He planted one hand on his hip and the other on the dark wooden bar; the look he gave her was less than welcoming.

To his surprise, she squared her shoulders like St. George facing a dragon and approached the bar. Gabe heard the collective sigh of relief go through the crowd as she walked past, ignoring them. The noise level
slowly increased. Someone punched up an old country song about lying eyes on the jukebox while a masculine voice from the back hollered, “Marsha Jean! I need a beer over here!”

His waitress, a slender blonde wearing a T-shirt emblazoned
THE BIGGER THEY ARE
 …, slipped off the only barstool that was occupied. Grabbing the long-necked bottle of beer that he handed her, Marsha Jean gave the nun a conspiratorial wink before she sashayed away. “If Harry tipped worth a damn, he would have had one of these five minutes ago.”

The nun watched Marsha Jean’s departure without saying a word. Gabe began to wonder if she was going to get to the point before he had to ask her to leave. He braced both hands against the bar. “Well, which is it, Sister? Business or pleasure?”

The moment she turned to face him, he forgot all about asking her anything because she shocked the hell out of him. Nuns were supposed to be older and plain, but she wasn’t. Not by a long shot. Even glasses couldn’t diminish the impact of clear green eyes fringed with impossibly long lashes. Didn’t she know you weren’t supposed to look a man in the eye like that unless you meant business?

Her mouth created a whole new category of sin, her bottom lip lush and full. For an instant her tongue peeked out at the corner, and the idea of testing those lips became all too appealing. What a waste, he thought as he dragged himself reluctantly back to reality. His conscience pinched him for the irreverence, but that didn’t stop him from embellishing the thought. What an
incredible
waste.