“Great house. You own or rent?”
“I bought it years ago,” she said. “It was a dump. I made improvements.”
That was obvious in the kitchen, which had very clearly been expanded. He guessed that she’d sacrificed what was probably a bedroom to make room for a huge granite island, a roomy prep area, and a dining section well-lit from the late afternoon sun that streamed in through huge windows, beyond which he could see a tiny, flower-filled yard.
He took it all in, trying to reconcile the neat-but-lived-in kitchen, the flowers, and the streaming sunshine with the personality he’d built out in his head. It didn’t quite compute.
“You look befuddled,” she said, nodding for him to take a seat at one of the stools by the island. “Coffee? Wine? Whiskey? Something else entirely?”
“Whatever you’re having. And I’m not befuddled. I’m just reprocessing.”
She reached into a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Charbay Release III, and though he tried not to react, he was certain his eyes widened. He happened to know that particular bottle cost upwards of four-hundred dollars.
The corner of her mouth twitched as she lifted a shoulder then poured him a shot, neat. She slid it toward him. “I figure you deserve the good stuff. You came all this way for nothing, after all.”
“Not for nothing,” he countered, then nodded at the glass. “I got the good stuff, didn’t I?”
As he’d hoped, she laughed. He was starting to figure out Emma Tucker, he thought. Take it slow. Take it honest. If he couldn’t be real, don’t be anything at all.
At least, that was his plan for the moment. He had the sneaking suspicion that she’d continue to surprise him. And damned if he didn’t like that about the woman.
Across the island from him, she hopped up on the counter by the sink, her legs dangling. He hadn’t been that far behind her coming here, but she’d already changed clothes. Now she wore leggings and a form fitting tank top. And, yeah, he’d noticed the curves as he’d followed her through the house. He had eyes, after all.
But he’d also noticed her strength. The subtle tightening of muscles as she pulled herself up. There was a toughness about her. Some of it visible in her physique and the fact that she was obviously in shape. But mostly it was in the way she held herself. As if she could take down a man with a harsh look—and if that didn’t work, she’d land a solid kick to his head and lay him out for good.
Strength and power. That was the Emma Tucker he saw in this kitchen with flowers beyond the windows, herbs growing in pots on the sill above the sink, and kitchen towels decorated with cartoon-style cupcakes.
To completely round out the contradiction, the toes of her bare feet were painted pink. And her practical ponytail was softened by the wisps of red hair that framed her lovely face.
“Like what you see?”
There was a challenge in her voice, but he didn’t try to dodge. Instead, he simply said, “What’s not to like?”
She burst out laughing. Score one for the home team.
“I’m not going with you to some island to make goo-goo eyes at you while my tits are falling out of a bikini.”
“Not a problem. We’ll make sure the bikini fits properly. And goo-goo eyes aren’t necessary. Just a few adoring glances should do the trick nicely.”
She almost laughed again. He could tell by the way she held her mouth firmly closed, keeping it back. Too bad. She had a hell of a nice laugh.
“You surprise me,” she said.
“Then we’re even. You surprise me, too.”
“Do I? How?” She leaned forward, the position revealing an enticing bit of cleavage, and his body responded in a way that made him remember that he’d been celibate for going on four months now.
“Yo. Antonio. Up here.”
He looked up, ignoring the embarrassment of getting caught and going instead for brutal honesty when he said, “Just one more reason to convince you to come with me. It would suck if I had to escort a woman who did nothing for me.”
“Nice save. Now tell me how I surprise you. Other than my cleavage, that is.”
“Your house. I mean, your hand towels not only have cupcakes on them, they match the oven mitts.”
“Sweet of you to notice.”
“And for someone with your reputation and history, I’m surprised how accessible this place is. The front door is solid, but it’s just wood, and there’s a vertical window beside it, albeit shuttered. You have a back door off the living room and off the kitchen. And that wall of windows? Anyone wants in here, you’re not keeping them out.”
“Aren’t I?”
He glanced around more, looking for hidden security cameras. He didn’t see any, but he was certain they were there. “You can’t monitor the place twenty-four/seven. To be honest, I expected a fortress.”
“Like Stark’s place? I don’t have the luxury of buying acres and acres. Especially considering I like living here. I’ve been in Venice Beach my whole life. Well, all of the life that counts, anyway.”
“I’ve got no beef with the location. From what Stark said about your skillset…” He trailed off, uncertain how much Damien had actually been authorized to tell him.
“You mean doing covert ops for a top-secret, unacknowledged government agency?”
“Pretty much. You must have made enemies.”
She nodded slowly, and though he tried to read her expression, he failed. And when she spoke, she once again surprised him. “You’re carrying, right? A Glock 9mm. Right-handed draw. I’m assuming it’s out of habit and not because you don’t trust me.”
He was suddenly aware of the familiar weight. “Habit, yes. How did you—”
“Shoot the window.”
He blinked. “Say again?”
She nodded toward the array of windows looking out over the back yard, then reached beside her and pulled out a drawer. She tossed something small at him. He caught it in one hand. “Go ahead. Shoot.”
He opened his hand. Ear plugs. She was either insane or trying to prove a point. Either way, he wasn’t inclined to argue. He put in the ear protection, pulled his weapon, and then, after one last curious glance toward Emma, he aimed at the center pane, fired, and immediately cringed in expectation of both the clatter of shattering glass and the flying shards that might—maybe—make it back to where he sat at the island.
But none of that happened.
Instead, the bullet just stopped. From his perspective, looking at it from yards away through the almost obsessively clean glass, it looked like a bullet suspended in midair.
He glanced toward Emma, who looked ridiculously pleased with herself. “Take a look,” she offered, but he was already on his way. Sure enough, the bullet had been captured in what appeared to be a one-inch thick pane of glass. And there wasn’t even a hint of a spiderweb crack, much less outright shattering.
“What kind of sorcery is this?” he asked, turning toward her.
“We call it science these days.” She hopped off the counter and moved to join him at the window. “Lots of R&D where I used to work. I’ve added a few perks to this place over the years. The scanning system caught your weapon and sent me a text. If you try to pick a lock or pry open a window, you get a nasty shock. And if you were to try and shoot the lock instead, well, that gets really fun. Want to see?”