To Love a Thief. Merline Lovelace
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His glance caught hers.
Dammit, there it was again! That indecipherable look. The message she couldn’t quite interpret. Mackenzie’s breath hitched and that damned jittery sensation returned with a vengeance.
“How about our first dinner together?” he suggested.
How about their last!
She wasn’t a fool. Or dead from the neck down. She could recognize healthy, old-fashioned lust when it shivered through her. She just wasn’t ready to deal with it.
“To dinner,” she echoed faintly.
He clinked her glass softly, took a sip and turned back to the stove to stir a thick, creamy sauce.
Mackenzie blew out a slow breath. Maybe he hadn’t noticed that little blip on her internal radar screen. Sliding one hip onto a cane-backed stool, she eyed the slowly bubbling froth he was stirring.
“What’s that?”
“Béchamel.”
“And béchamel is?”
“A seafood-based white sauce used in a number of Mediterranean dishes. I seem to remember promising you the real thing a few weeks ago.”
He had, she remembered. Right after hand-delivering one of the countless pizzas she’d ordered while working late at the control center.
“Want a taste?”
Mackenzie studied the little blobs in the sauce with something less than enthusiasm. She wasn’t averse to trying new dishes. She merely preferred to have a general idea what they were first. Still, he had gone to all this trouble to cook for her. The least she could do was be gracious.
“Sure.”
Tearing off a crust of bread, Nick dipped it in the sauce. Mackenzie gave the lumps another doubtful look, but leaned forward to accept the offering.
The bread was warm and fragrant, the sauce a heavenly blend of cream, butter, garlic and shallots. The rubbery lumps took a bit of chewing, but their delicate fish taste wasn’t too bad. Not too bad at all.
“What do you think?”
“I think,” she announced, swiping her tongue along her lower lip, “I’m better off not knowing what I just ate.”
Laughter glinted in his eyes. “Coward.”
Her stomach did a little flip that had nothing to do with fishy blobs.
“You’ve got sauce on your chin.”
The glint in his eyes deepened. So did the timbre of his voice.
“I’ll get it.”
Before she could reach for the blue-and-white towel on the counter, he had it in hand and came around the end of the counter. She swiveled toward him, her back to the tiles, her knees bumping his thigh. Curling a knuckle under her chin, he tilted her face to his.
The gentle swipe of the dish towel raised goose bumps on Mackenzie’s skin. The brush of Nick’s firm, warm hand against her chin left her fighting to remember all the reasons why she’d decided not to jump his bones.
He was so close Mackenzie could see the gold tips to his lashes. So near she could feel his breath warm on her face. Her heart hammered. Her lips parted.
His thumb traced a slow circle on the side of her chin. The light, lazy touch set every one of her nerves to jumping. She knew she had to pull back, laugh off this crazy moment, or she’d do something monumentally stupid. Like flinging her arms around the man’s neck and attacking the mouth so tantalizingly close to her own.
“Nick…”
“Mmm?”
“I, uh, don’t think…”
“What?”
“This isn’t…”
Radizwell gave a low growl. The rumble barely penetrated Mackenzie’s whirling senses but Nick lifted his head and glanced over her shoulder. The next instant, he threw the dish towel aside and wrapped his right fist around her upper arm like a vise.
“Hey!”
“Get down!”
With a violent tug, he yanked her off the bar stool and threw her behind the counter. He followed her down. They hit the tiles a mere second before the wall of windows overlooking the garden exploded in a burst of glass and gunfire.
Bullets ripped into walls, cabinets, appliances. Raked the table, shattering dishes. Slammed into the stove. Sent boiling white sauce spraying.
Crushed against the floor tile by Nick’s weight, Mackenzie couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. The stuttering gunfire seemed to go on for two lifetimes. Burst after burst. Deafening. Terrifying.
Suddenly, there was silence. Blessed silence. For a heartbeat, maybe two. Then glass crunched and she heard the thud of running feet.
Nick rolled off her, sprang up. Mackenzie scrabbled onto her knees, trying frantically to get her feet under her. She lifted her head just in time to see Nick’s arm whip forward. A long-bladed kitchen knife flew across the room.
She heard an agonized scream. Another burst of gunfire. A feral snarl. Fangs bared, Radizwell streaked past her.
“Arrrgh!”
Bullets plowed into the ceiling, traced a wild pattern across plaster. Huge chunks rained down.
Nick leaped over the counter. Mackenzie raced around it a second later, horrified by the sight of Radizwell savaging a screaming, writhing figure dressed all in black. She was even more horrified when she saw the bastard still gripped his Uzi with one hand. He kept firing wild bursts while he tried desperately to fight off the dog with his other arm.
All Mackenzie could think of, all that pierced her frantic thoughts, was that the girls were asleep upstairs. Right above them. The stream of bullets could penetrate the flooring, plow through their mattresses.
Nick must have had the same gripping fear. His foot swung in a savage arc. The Uzi went flying. Only then did he attempt to drag Radizwell off the screaming victim. He got a fist around the dog’s collar and heaved.
Radizwell reared back, but was only gathering his muscles for another attack. Fangs bared, claws scrabbling on the tiles, he lunged forward once more. His size and fury carried Nick with him. The man on the floor frantically crabbed backward, kicking at Nick, at the dog, managing to get free of both. His hand went to his underarm holster.
Mackenzie didn’t stop to think, didn’t calculate the odds. She dived for the Uzi, got her hands around the grip at the same instant the bastard in black leveled a .9mm Beretta.
He pumped out one shot, only one, before she fired.
Chapter 3
The D.C. fire department, the police department’s crime scene unit, several detectives and a squad from the coroner’s office were already at the house when Maggie and Adam rushed in. Face ashen, Maggie took in the black plastic body bags on the kitchen floor. Her eyes were haunted as they locked on Nick.
“Samantha? Jilly? You said on the phone…” Her voice cracked, broke. “They’re okay?”
“They’re fine.”
Nick’s shoes crunched on broken glass as he crossed the kitchen and gripped both her hands in his.
“They were in bed, asleep. Jilly didn’t wake up until she heard the sirens. Samantha stayed down for the entire count.”
“A police officer is upstairs with them now,” Mackenzie put in. “We figured we’d better have someone keep them company until, well…”
She glanced at Adam. His jaw was set, his blue eyes arctic. He didn’t exude the charm of a handsome, wealthy Boston aristocrat now. He was Thunder, once OMEGA’s