To the Limit (3 page)

"Yeah," she said, drawing the one word out thoughtfully. "I'd mind. You haven't answered my question. What are you doing here?"

The edge in her voice was as sharp as a blade. Clearly, she'd chosen to hang on to the pissed-off part of her memories of that spring night instead of the incredible-sex part. But he'd save that discussion for another day.

"You'll understand if the same question has crossed
my
mind." He dragged his other leg through the window and faced her in a darkness cut by her wimpy flashlight and the muted glow of a security lamp slicing in from the alley. "But since you've got the firepower, I'll play nice. What I'm doing is working."

She processed that tidbit of information and from the look on her face discounted any
work
he might be doing as dirty. The word that came out of her mouth pretty much cinched it. And for a moment there—a moment that made him sweat— he thought she might actually shoot him.

"Easy," he said when she tensed as a result of his reaching into his hip pocket. "Just getting my wallet. Here. Check it out. Swear to God. I'm legit." He flashed a smile. "Unless you consider that a
bad
thing, and then I'm whatever you want me to be."

She didn't seem to find that funny. "Discovery Unlimited." She looked up from studying his ID. "You're a PI?"

"That's what it says on my license."

She pushed out a grunt that could have been disgust, disbelief, disinterest, or all three and tossed the wallet at his chest.

"Your turn," he said in his best
"plays well with others "
voice.

What he got for his effort was a hard glare. Big surprise.

OK. Time to get out the pickax and pry. "You a cop?"

The breath she expelled said she was weary of this entire scenario. "No. I'm not a cop."

He breathed a little easier. She wasn't the fuzz, which made things a whole lot easier for him, considering he was playing fast and loose with the law himself. Sometimes, it was just more fun that way.

"No way would I believe you're a criminal," he said, certain of that conclusion.

"Believe what you want."

What he believed was that he was tired of seeing the business end of that .38 directed at his chest.

"Yeah, um, Eve ... about the gun?" He lifted a hand, then exhaled a relieved breath when she finally flicked on the safety and tucked the bad boy away. Not that Mac
really
thought she'd shoot him, but facing a royally ticked woman holding a grudge
and
a gun made for pretty limited breathing room. At least it did from his perspective.

"Thanks."

"So happy that you're happy." Stone-faced, she notched her chin toward the window. "Now get out."

He tilted his head, considered her. "What? No, 'Hi, how are ya? How's the world been treating you after all these years?'"
And still no explanation?

She heaved a weary sigh. "Hi. How are ya? How's the world been treating you? Gosh, I'd love to hear all about it, but at this very moment, I'm a little busy here." She turned back to the file cabinet and started rifling through the folders. "And I'm a little pressed for time."

"I can see that. Ready to tell me why?"

She glanced at him over her shoulder. He lifted a brow, gave a confidence-inspiring smile, and got another one of those stone-cold glares for his efforts.

"So I should take that as a no?"

"You're in my way, McClain. Now in case you missed it, that was your cue to belly crawl on back into whatever hole you slithered out of."

He scratched his head, took his sweet time following the lines of her slim legs and hips, the lush fullness of her breasts, all packed into a skin-tight black bodysuit. He'd never forgotten sweet Eve. She was sending some pretty clear signals that she hadn't forgotten, either. Or forgiven.

"After all these years? You don't really still hold a grudge, do you?"

From any other woman, the sound she made would have been indelicate. From Eve, it was just plain sexy. "Don't flatter yourself."

Pissed.
The lady was still pissed all right. Interesting. "OK. So you
do
hold a grudge. Shucks and golly. Didn't know it meant that much to you."

OK, that was a lie. She'd been a virgin. And so hot and sweet he'd damn near made the mistake of keeping his promise and calling her the next day. The fact that he'd even considered it had scared the shit out of him. He'd had an agenda back then that hadn't included a dewy-eyed, recently sullied virgin expecting things from him—like endless love and commitment. He'd had things to do. People to see. His life to fuck up.

Her shoulders were as stiff as a Kevlar vest as she very slowly turned away from the cabinet to face him again. Big surprise. She looked as annoyed as hell to see him still standing there.

"You could take advantage of me, you know," he suggested. "Tell me what you're looking for. Use me to help you out."

With one long look, she told him what a novel idea that would be.
Her
using
him.

Right. So he'd told her he loved her that night. It wasn't the first time the line had worked on a woman. And it wasn't the last. He'd been a real shit, a first-class ass. And proud of it. Then. She didn't have a reason in the world to think he'd changed. If you asked his ex, she'd tell you he hadn't. But still, it
had
been a long time ago.

The sound of footsteps stopping outside the door had them both whipping their heads in that direction.

Heavy knuckles rapped twice. "The hundred bought you fifteen minutes, Mrs. Leoni. You've got five left; then I gotta have you outta there."

"Mrs. Leoni?" Mac whispered with an arch of his brow as whoever had delivered the message clomped away. "You schmoozed your way in here playing the woman scorned?" He grinned. "Cool."

And then a marginally disturbing thought occurred to him. "Or
are
you a
Mrs.
Leoni?"

In answer, she turned back to the file cabinet, started on the second drawer. Even in the semidarkness, he could see how fine she looked. Fine bones. Fine blond hair. Fine, fine breasts. But then she'd always had those. And now they just might belong to Mr. Leoni.

Well, hell. Some guys had all the luck.

"So," he said, trying another tack, "what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"

Nothing.

He was getting nowhere... unless. He considered her through narrowed eyes and decided to take a shot in the dark. Hell. Why not? He didn't much believe in coincidence so it was a stretch to believe that it was merely chance that he'd run into pretty Eve in the exact same spot where he was looking for his client.

"Your being here wouldn't have anything to do with Tiffany Clayborne, would it?" he asked, just for the helluv it, letting his cop's instincts lead the way.

She turned stiffly toward him, her eyes sharp. "What have you got to do with Tiffany?"

Well, hell-o. She
was
here because of Tiffany. The question was, why?

"Well, darlin', I could tell you, but then I'd—"

He never finished his sentence. The office door edged open a crack, then immediately slammed shut again.

The room fell into silence but for the sound of a heavy object rolling across the floor. The distinct scent of kerosene registered in the darkness along with the red-orange glow of a lit fuse scuttling toward his feet, then rolling under the desk.

"Holy fuck!" He flew across the room, snagged Eve's arm, and jerked her with him toward the window at a run.

Grabbing her around the waist, he lifted her off her feet, shoved her through the open window, and bailed out right behind her.

"Go. Go. Go!" he yelled when he found her in the alley on all fours. He didn't wait for her to get up. He bodily lifted her again just as an explosion shattered the night around them into an inferno of fire and earsplitting sound and flying glass.

Eve's ears rang like a three-alarm fire. Her knees and elbows ached and burned from her crash to the ground. And thanks to McClain, her face was flattened into the filth of the pocked alley paving.

He weighed a ton; his hot breath fanned her face in labored pants as he lay above her, his arms wrapped protectively over her head. All around them, she could hear the sound of glass shattering against pavement, the muffled concussion of brick and stucco pelting the street.

Bomb. Someone had tossed a bomb into the office. And because of McClain, she was still alive to tell the tale.

Great.
The last person on earth she wanted to be in debt to was him.

"Get. Off. Me," she grunted, and tried to squirm out from under him.

He moved with a muffled groan and pushed himself to his feet. "Who have
you
pissed off lately?"

She shoved the hair back from her face, took the hand he extended, and let him tug her to her feet. "You
really
want to talk about this now?"

"Good point. Let's get the hell out of here." Neither one of them wanted to hang around for the second act. Not to mention, they didn't want to be here when the police arrived.

With fire still rolling through the blown-out hole that had once been a window, she raced with him down the alley. In the background she could hear the serrated wail of sirens closing in fast.

"Are you nuts?" He snagged her arm when she headed back toward the blown-out wall.

"People could be hurt in there."

"That's what they pay paramedics for! Besides, that little piece of work was meant to be contained to a space the size of the office. And it was far enough away from the dance floor that even if—and that's a big IF—there was some residual damage, it couldn't have made it any farther than the hallway."

"Now, come on, cupcake. We don't have time to discuss logistics. Move it!"

She wanted to argue but didn't have the strength. She'd been beaten around one too many times in the last twenty-four hours; she was short on sleep and was running on adrenaline fumes.

Exercising wisdom instead of pride, she let him take control. He led her out of the alley, down two blocks, and into the cool, smoky darkness of a neighborhood bar. Once inside, she collapsed into a padded booth, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes. She didn't bother to open them when she heard a waitress approach. Didn't object when McClain ordered two whiskey shots.

"Eve." His voice was soft with concern.

She opened her eyes.

"Drink it."

He shoved a shot glass in front of her. She hadn't even heard the waitress return.

"Come on. Chug it down. You look a little shocky."

She pushed out a fatigued laugh—yet nothing felt funny. Surreal, yes. Insane, absolutely. But not funny.

She focused on the shot. With shaking hands, she brought it to her mouth and tossed it back.

Liquid fire. Instant tears. The whiskey burned all the way to her toes. And did its job. When the flames eased, a mellow warmth seeped through her blood and steadied her.

"Thanks," she said when she could speak.

Only then did he toss back his own shot. "You need another?"

She shook her head. "Coffee would be good, though."

Eve watched in silence as he eased out of the booth and walked over to the bar. Then she buried her head in her hands. And laughed. What else could she do?

It wasn't enough that she'd been attacked last night. It wasn't enough she'd almost been blown to bits tonight. She had to deal with Tyler McClain, too.

Who said Fate didn't have a sense of humor?

Chapter 3

Fourteen years. It had been fourteen
years since Eve had seen McClain.

Sure, it had been inevitable they'd meet up again someday, but in her wildest dreams she hadn't figured it would be in the dead of night, in the middle of a job, or that explosions would be involved.

She'd always sort of hoped it would have played out a little differently. Like with her behind the wheel of a Mack truck and him flattened on the pavement like a crushed beer can growing smaller and smaller in her rearview mirror.