A Harmless Little Ruse (Harmless #2)(4)

Lindsay drops. I let go of her wrist.

“You bastard,” she says from the ground, looking up at me, blood smeared and eyes wide and feral now.

“You think this is me being a bastard, Lindsay? Really? Because on a scale of bastard, this is downright courtly.”

“You bruise me and headbutt me and give me a bloody nose and you call that courtly?”

“You pretend to want me, give me a little intimacy -- ” My voice cracks on that word, damn it. “And then steal my gun and try to escape. You really aren’t in a position to demand anything from me behavior-wise.”

Her lips purse, nostrils flaring, and she grabs the hem of her shirt, pulling it up to wipe her nose.

A flash of dusky nipples greets my gaze.

I bite back a groan.

We’re both panting, angry, frustrated, feeling betrayed, and turned on as f*ck.

Or maybe that’s just me.

“Lindsay. Give me my gun. I’m not going to stop asking.”

She plants the soles of her feet on the ground. She’s wearing black leather sneakers, black sweatpants, a black hoodie with a black t-shirt underneath.

Who does she think she is? An Emo ninja?

Her head dips between her knees and she just breathes.

Footsteps. Leaves rustling. And then --

“Sir?”

It’s Gentian.

“Call them off. Found her.”

He eyes me uncertainly. “And your -- ”

“And nothing. Target found. Do the rest.”

“Yes, sir.” Gentian runs off.

“You are just like Daddy,” Lindsay says, contempt so thick in her voice I could wear it as sunscreen in Afghanistan and stay pasty white. “You think you can order everyone around and they’ll do your bidding like good little robots. I spent four years of my life on that island because Daddy made his mission more important than me.”

“My mission would be easier if you were just a robot.” My damn erection taunts me. Wish I were a robot right now.

“This mission wouldn’t exist if I were dead.”

I explode. “That’s the point, Lindsay! My job is to keep you undead!”

“Your job is to turn me into a zombie?” She gives me a withering look.

I ignore that. “Where’s my gun?”

“What gun?”

I grab her arm, hard. My fingertips dig into her wiry muscles. I know I’m hurting her. A sick little corner of me enjoys hurting her. I can’t admit it, but she f*cking gutted me back in her bedroom, letting me wake up like that. Alone. Used.

A mark for her sick little game. Is that all this is?

She squirms, but juts her chin up at me, defiant, glaring.

I dare you, those honey-brown eyes say, turning dark as this standoff continues.

Oh, yeah?

I don’t back down.

Ever.

Pain enters those eyes, then fear. Good. A healthy dose of fear means we’re getting somewhere. She should be afraid. Not of me. Of them.

Any fear, though, is progress.

“Let go.”

“My gun.”

She nudges her chin toward the bush behind me. I push her toward it.

“Get it.”

“How can I get it when you’re squeezing me like a nut in a wrench?”

“You got the ‘nut’ part right.”

She scowls, then rolls her eyes.

I’d laugh if I were in a different mood, but now I’m pissed. Not so much about the gun, which was bad.

Pissed that she left me like that.

And by pissed, I mean hurt.

“You are such an *. How can I bend over when you’re holding me like this?”

I reach up for her hair with my free hand and snake my fingers through it, threading it like a Chinese finger torture puzzle through my knuckles.

“What are you doing?”

I let go of her upper arm.

She bolts.

Then yanks back with such force I have to lean down slightly or I’ll rip all her hair out at the roots because of the sheer force of her movement.

Her scream dies in her throat.

“You bastard,” she gasps, pooled at my feet into a panting little ball of hard, tight anger. Her chest rises and falls and God help me, my blood goes where it shouldn’t. I need all the oxygen to go to my brain. Last thing my pants need is a tent.

“I may be a bastard, but I’m not a sucker, Lindsay. Bend down and find my gun.”

“You just want me to bend down so you can see my ass.”

I stay silent, because one of the rules of handling a hostile person is to give them something to be right about.

I can give her a victory on that topic.

Because she is mostly correct.

It’s not the only reason, but it’s a nice fringe benefit.

Five seconds later, my gun’s in my waistband, and she’s two feet away from me. I let her go.

We’re at an impasse.

“Just let me leave, Drew. I’ll disappear. Run away. Hide. I know how.” Her voice is so contrite. Her pleading is damn close to begging. These mood swings are killing me.

Why the change in her? What’s made her so desperate to leave?

“You think letting a presidential candidate’s daughter escape to go live an underground life is on my list of Shit I Want to Do Tonight?” I start laughing. It’s not a pleasant sound. “You’re as crazy as your parents think you are, Lindsay!”