Wanted By The Marshal. Ryshia Kennie
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of nowhere. He’d been broadsided. Damn it, he thought. He’d been caught with his pants figuratively down. He turned and saw out of the corner of his eye the barrel of a handgun. He didn’t dare turn right around, even though he wanted to. But he didn’t plan to die today, or any day in the immediate future.
“Drop your weapon!”
There was no way in hell that was happening. His mind ticked through the options. He could take her down, but he had to get closer. He hoped her attention was on his weapon as he dropped it to his side, still holding it in his left hand. At the same time, he took a step backward, toward her.
“Do it!” she snapped. “And don’t take another step.”
“I’m a US—”
“I don’t care who you are,” she interrupted. “Put your hands where I can see them and drop your gun.”
He slid his gun into his holster and lifted both hands in the air. He had his badge in one hand, having pulled it out from the side of his holster as he’d holstered the gun. “I’m going to toss my badge—”
“No!” she interrupted. “You’ll throw nothing.”
Damn it, he thought again. He was furious with himself. She’d snuck up on him. But she hadn’t come out of nowhere. He should have sensed that he wasn’t alone. He should have known. Hell, he thought. He should have expected it, been prepared for it. It was the basic tenet of any scout pack—Be Prepared—never mind a US marshal. He’d missed the signs that she was near. And because of that, he was at the wrong end of a gun. Was he getting old? His friends had teased him about that only a week earlier over a couple of beers. They’d been celebrating his thirtieth birthday. He discounted that thought. He worked hard to be at the top of his game. Still, that didn’t change the fact that he’d screwed up—big time.
“Who are you?” he asked. If nothing else, he deserved to know who was threatening him. More important, he needed to put himself back where he belonged, in charge of this situation.
She fired a shot that kicked up dirt two feet to his right.
“What the hell!” he roared and almost spun around, stopping himself with sheer willpower.
“Another word and you’re a dead man,” she retorted.
A thought came to him that was as outrageous as it was possible. After all, it was her condo that he was standing outside. The more he thought it, the more the idea gained plausibility. Was it possible that this was the witness he’d come to protect?
“I’m here to—”
“Do you not understand English? Shut up,” she said.
The words were angry and spoken with no hesitation, no hysteria and no tears. That wasn’t what he expected if she was the witness. But if it wasn’t her, who was she?
“Turn around,” she ordered. “And do it slowly.”
There was something about her voice. A silken edge that in another time and another place might have been erotic. He couldn’t help the thought. It was a voice that could do things to a man in the darkness of the night.
He found it interesting that her voice vibrated a bit as if she was nervous or traumatized. Had she never held a gun before? It was a possibility. And a possibility where he’d been lucky that she hadn’t hit him.
He pivoted on a heel. He wanted to give her the impression of how little he cared about her demands, or the fact that she had the advantage. She needed to know that he didn’t fear her.
But when he faced her, he could only stare. For the woman holding a gun on him with a grim but determined expression was the face on the witness’s file. He was facing the very woman he was to protect, and the file picture had done her no justice. In the picture she’d been pretty; in real life she was so much more than that. The rising sun highlighted her dark hair, giving it a glossy sheen that framed her beautiful face. She was petite, no more than a few inches over five feet. She was slim and yet voluptuous in a way that made him fight to keep his eyes up and on her face. It was an attraction that he hadn’t felt in a very long time, if ever. She mesmerized him with a look.
He was pinned by green eyes. They were eyes that would have held him forever if it weren’t for the gun that she had yet to lower. The moment shifted everything he knew about this case. A simple, uncomplicated assignment had just become difficult. Difficult in ways he’d never imagined.
“Kiera Connell?”
“How do you know me?” Kiera’s voice cracked as it had off and on since her ordeal. She hoped that it wasn’t on the edge of breaking or of her losing it like she had for an hour only yesterday. She couldn’t afford to lose her voice when a strange man was roaming her property. After everything she’d been through this was beyond disconcerting. She wanted to ask who he was, why he was here but she feared that her voice wouldn’t hold out. That he knew her name was interesting but not startling. There was a list of owners in the common area. The question that was more troubling was—had he been casing the place?
“I don’t.”
The easy way he spoke combined with his soulful brown eyes seemed to say that none of this bothered him. That this was just an everyday occurrence. Who was he?
He took a step forward.
“Take another step and you die.”
It was a stupid thing to say and she knew it. She’d already threatened him with death once and despite her threats, she doubted if she could kill him. Pull the trigger, yes, she’d already done that. But that had all been for show. If she was going to threaten to kill, she should be able to make good on that threat. She’d only shot the gun at the shooting range and then here, when she’d dusted the top of a dandelion to prove her point. She didn’t like the feeling of aiming a killing weapon at another human being, at any being.
“Who are you and what are you doing slinking around my place in the dark?”
Except it wasn’t dark anymore. The sun had cleared the night shadows and the neighborhood was coming to life. Soon one of her neighbors would be wondering what was going on. On the upside, she was sure that if someone were to see their little tableau, they would be quick to call the police. This wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where guns and violence were common. In fact, she’d never seen or heard of an incident in the time she’d been here.
“Travis Johnson...” He broke off as if reconsidering saying anything else but instead took a step forward.
“Stop!” Her throat hurt at the effort, but it didn’t break. She clenched the gun so tight that her palm was beginning to sweat.
She frowned. He hadn’t ditched his gun as she’d demanded, only holstered it. She wasn’t sure how she’d let that get past her. She guessed that she would have had to shoot him for him to relinquish the weapon as she’d demanded. Except for the weapon which he was careful to keep his hand away from, he was complying. Not once had he tried to overpower her, to take the gun from her. Considering how fit he looked, she guessed he could have easily been able to overpower her. Instead, he’d let her remain in control, let the situation play out. Except for the gun, none of his mannerisms indicated that he was the trespasser or thief that she’d first thought. His voice was low and calm as if having a gun held to him was a normal way to begin his day. His stance was relaxed, as if she were no threat. That annoyed her.
Despite the discomfort, she held the gun tighter. It was as if by doing that she was safe—protected even more than before. Her eyes met his. His brown eyes were steady and in an odd way honest. Yet something ran under his calm surface. She speculated that he hid a harder, darker side. The thought of that made her hold back a shiver. She needed no more darker sides. She’d faced more darkness than she ever wanted to see in