Hunter's Heart (3 page)

“The only thing I know about you is what you do for a living. You know plenty about me. I vote we begin the sharing with you.”

“All right.” Her foot brushed his leg as she crossed her legs. “Let’s see….” She pinned him with her eyes. “I like, Pina Coladas, the feel of the ocean, the taste of champagne and making love at midnight in the dunes.”

He laughed. Before he could give her a snappy comeback, the waitress deposited two frosted longneck bottles and glasses of water on the table. “Ready to order?” she asked in an Irish brogue that stole his attention from Celia.

A cute kid with really short blond hair and paper-white skin stood there flashing a grin. He looked back to Celia who shook her head then asked, “What part of Ireland do you come from?”

“Greystones. South of Dublin on the seaside. I’m an artist doing this,” she glanced around the room, “to keep from becoming a starving artist.” She finished with a laugh.

“Miss.” A man from another table called.

“Be back lay-ter then.” The girl bounced away to attend the other table.

“I would love to visit Ireland,” Celia said wistfully, lifting her beer.

He clinked his bottle on hers. “Here’s to visiting Ireland.” He didn’t say,
and me taking you there
. They both took a drink. “Tell me the rest.”

“I don’t normally talk about it.” She made lazy circles with the bottle in the moisture collecting on the table. “No one really cares anyway.”

“Try me. Start with where you’re from.”

Her eyes searched his face. She took a pull of the beer without taking her gaze from him, obviously gauging how much to say. He sat still and kept a neutral expression, giving her time to make a decision.

“I’m not from around here.”

“No surprise. Not many people are. It’s a military town.”

“I’m Croatian. I immigrated here with my father when I was twelve.”

That surprised him. She had no accent. Not even a hint. Then he did the math. Guesstimating her age, she was there during that colossal goat fuck war of independence. “The war?”

She nodded.

“My father worked in the military. I suspect he worked for your CIA. Things got very bad. One day we were on a plane to the United States. The next, I was living in a condo in a Washington suburb.”

“Your mom?”

“Dead. It was just me and my father. Now it’s just me,” she said in a flat voice. She looked around then back to him. “Maybe we should order now.” She picked up the menu and scanned it.

Okay
, not a subject he’d bring up again. He got the attention of the Irish waitress.

“I’d like the sampler platter. Fish, shrimp, clams and potatoes—all fried,” Celia said.

“Make it two, and the onion ring appetizer,” he said, handing over the menus. “I guess neither one of us worries about heart attacks.”

A smile climbed her cheeks. “What made you go into your line of work?”

He leaned back and considered her. “You know most women I go out with don’t have a clue what I do.” Thanks to books and flicks incorrectly portraying the teams, there were a lot of bimbos who wanted to hang and be a part of a nonexistent glamorous life. Celia already knew the reality of his job and she was here.

She tilted her head. “Oh. I get it. Security reasons.”

“Yeaph.
It’s standard operating procedure for us not to tell women, or anyone we’ve just met, what we do for a living. You already knowing is nice.”

He still needed to be sure she wasn’t honey potting him. He hadn’t thought of it until she mentioned him being a test. Getting back to him so fast was suspicious. Even if this got serious, like he hoped, he’d have to be careful.

“That must be difficult. What do they say when they find out?”

“I’ve only told a handful. In my experience—and what I’m told by others—it either drives them off or spurs them on because they like the prestige of hanging with a marine mammal.”

“Marine mammal?” She blinked several times then laughed. “Oh.”

Damn she had a great laugh.

“So, if you met me here tonight for the first time, and I decided to talk to you…” She smirked. “Then asked what you did, what would you tell me?”

He paused a moment and set his mind to the story. “I’m living my dream as a traveling dog groomer,” he said seriously. “Going from place to place, shaving mischievous peek-a-poos.”

“That’s what you tell women…and they believe you?”

“That, or I’m traveling around the world collecting feathers for the Smithsonian.”

She snorted. “Stories like that work for you?”

He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced around “Most times. I did have one backfire,” he said in a low conspiratorial voice. “I told a woman I was a missionary, in the bar to save souls, hoping it would get her to leave me alone. It only made her more determined to get me in the backseat of her car.”

She laughed. “You’re making that up.”

“Truth.” He raised his right hand. “Can’t you tell?”

The smile left her eyes. “Should I be using my skills to determine the veracity of everything you say tonight?”

“No. I’m sorry. I was trying to be funny and obviously failed.”

She turned her attention to the view. They both went silent and sipped their beer. “How’d you get into your job?” he asked.

Her head snapped around and she leaned over the table. “I can’t talk about my job with you.”

He leaned to her until their faces were only inches apart. “Didn’t ask
about
the job,” he said in a loud whisper. “I know what you do. I’m asking how you got into it. And, I suggest you don’t do that again.”

She glared at him, clearly not amused. “
What
? Tell you not to question me?”

“No ma’am.” He called up all his powers to keep from grinning and to keep his eyes on hers. “Lean across the table like that. Your, eh, blouse is eh…. Hell. I love the view.” He glanced to the swell of her breasts and the blue lace containing them. “I think I’m seeing more than you intend.” He cut his eyes side to side. “And if another man….” Okay, he couldn’t hold back the grin. “Gets that view, well, I’d feel it was my duty to send him to the world of unconsciousness and beyond.”

She looked down. Her blue eyes darted around like a bouncing ball then back at him. She bolted upright, tugging the gauzy cloth almost to her chin. Her face went as red as the crab legs the waitress was delivering to the table a few feet away.

“I’m, I’m sorry,” she stammered.

“Relax.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Forget it and tell me what got you interested in that kind of work.”

She shrugged and after a gulp of beer, regained her composure. “Senior year of college I applied to any and every place that took applications. I filled out so many government job apps I could do it in my sleep. While I waited for my big break, I came across a company that trains people to detect deception. I talked my way into the classes.”

“Talked your way in?”

The band came in from the deck and squeezed past the waitress as she delivered their onion rings. He’d seen the three guys before in other places like this. They played mostly Southern Country, some old stuff, and they were loud. He was glad he’d moved them to this table. There’d be no way they could talk once the music began.

“Until then they’d only taken government,” she continued after the waitress left. “Law enforcement and corporate security types. Turns out, I was a natural.” She dipped a ring into the bowl of hot sauce. “One of the directors—a woman—passed my info on to a few people she knew in the government and I was hired. All very boring.”

She took a good-sized bite of the ring, closed her eyes, then chewed slowly with an almost orgasmic look on her face. “These are
sooo
good,” she said then took another bite. It struck him she was totally oblivious to how sensual her manner was and how it was affecting him. He grabbed a ring and jammed damn near half the thing in his mouth, swallowing a healthy chunk of lust along with it.

“What about you? Why are you…?” Her eyes met his. “You know, doing what you do? And don’t give me that silly crap.” She picked up another ring and dunked.

Her hand stopped mid-way to her mouth. “Are you going to answer me?”

Answer?
Oh. “Yeah.” Watching her, he’d lost his place in the conversation. “Third grade I saw a documentary about this super secret group and how tough their training was. I decided it was what I wanted—and it still is.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“Truth.” His right hand came up again.

“Plates are hot. Be careful,” their waitress interrupted, placing loaded platters in front of them. “Can I get you anything else?” she asked.

“More lemon,” they said at the same time. “And beer,” he added then inhaled deeply.

“Nothing like the smell of fried food.”

Celia laughed as she squeezed lemon on the fish. He did the same and they dug in.

Determined to learn as much about her as possible he peppered her with questions while they ate. What was on her bucket list? What movies and music she liked. They liked several of the same. He was surprised one of her favorites was
The
Girl With the Dragon Tattoo
. She liked music. Just about any kind. As if he couldn’t already tell by the way she moved and rocked unconsciously to the band’s selections.

“Hey everybody,” the band’s guitar player said, “we’re going to stop here for a couple so ya’ll can enjoy tonight’s sunset.” The space went silent and diners turned to watch the red globe slip below clouds on the horizon. Hunter moved his chair to afford Celia a better view of the pink and golden sky.

“That was nice,” Celia said. “Not enough people appreciate things like sunsets, and sunrises.”

He regretted not moving the chair to a place he could have put an arm around her. Celia wiped her mouth and looked from her empty plate to his. “I’m
totally
filled up.”

She should be full. He was. And she he’d eaten as much as him. The band started their version of,
That’s My Kinda Night
. Unable to resist any longer, he grasped her hand and stood, drawing her up with him. “Come on, let’s dance and work off all those fried food calories.”

“Are you serious? You dance?”

“A matter of interpretation but I do okay.” He made an effort to draw her in the direction of the dance area but her feet were planted firmly in place.

“I…” She attempted to extract her hand. “I don’t dance.”

“Lady, I beg to differ. You’ve been chair dancing since the music started.” He circled his free arm around her waist and guided her to the tiny dance floor. “You don’t have a problem with the beat,” he said in her ear as he drew her close. “Start with your hips and sway. You only need to get comfortable moving with me.” He took a couple of steps and she followed easily.

“Ready for more?”

She nodded but her smile had already told him she was. She moved awkwardly the first time he turned her. When he brought their bodies together she slipped a leg between his and
great Caesar’s ghost,
they moved like they’d been dancing together forever. They next time he turned her she moved gracefully and leaned back in his grasp, laughing. It wasn’t just the sound of it but the way she came alive and the fact he’d made it happen. The music stopped and she collapsed against him. Her head tipped back.

“Thank you. Dancing to a live band is amazing,” she said, giving him a megawatt smile.

Damn. That smile. And, her warm, firm body against his…. It was all he could do to keep from kissing her.

She escaped his grip and moved in the direction of the table.

“Hey pretty woman, don’t walk away,” the man at the mic sang out and riffed a few cords from the ancient Roy Orbison tune,
Pretty Woman
.

“He means you Celia.” She turned and gave him a shy smile.

“Go back pretty woman,” somebody yelled.

He stretched out his arm and motioned for her to come back. Her face flushed but she returned and took his hand. The band launched into the next song and a handful of couples joined them. He decided to keep her on the floor unless a slow song came up. Twenty seconds of their warm bodies slowly grinding together and he had no doubt he’d go horny teenager. Four more songs and the slow one hit. “I’m ready for another beer,” he said in her ear. “Mind if we sit out a few?”

She nodded, looking relieved. Maybe she didn’t trust her body either.

“It’s busy. I’ll go to the bar and get the beer.”

She nodded again and headed for the table. He leaned on the bar and watched a smiling Celia trying to bring her hair into some kind of order. Then he saw trouble.

A man sitting at the table adjacent to theirs moved in his chair and leered at her as she ran her fingers through her hair. The guy said something. Celia tensed but didn’t respond. He spoke to her again, this time leaning her direction. Celia didn’t look at him but made a face like he’d breathed on her with plutonium-grade bad breath. Then he reached over and put his hand on the table.

Nope. Not happening.
Asshole was messing with the wrong woman. He slapped a bill on the bar, snatched the brewskis from the bartender and hustled to Celia.