Straight Flushed (Hot Pursuit #1)(67)

I opened the apartment door and looked out into the hallway. Everything was quiet. We made it down to the Range Rover without incident. I set my things in the trunk while he slid into the passenger seat.

I started the engine and checked my mirrors before pulling out. Down the street, we pulled in behind to the same black VW Passat I’d ridden in when he’d taken me out to dinner. A few stray leaves had decorated the hood and windshield, but it otherwise looked untouched.

“I’ll only be a second,” he said, looking over at me.

I surveyed the street. “Okay, be quick.”

He nodded and hopped out. He trotted over to his car and rummaged around the back seat, his body blocked by the rear of the car. At one point he stood and adjusted his clothing then hunched over again, remaining out of my line of sight. A short time later, he popped up and walked back toward me. When he slid into his seat, there was a bulge under his shirt as he shut his door. Then when he reached for his seat belt, his shirt lifted slightly, and I saw it.

He had a gun.





Twenty-one



“What the hell is that?” I said, looking at the weapon poking out from beneath Stephen’s shirt. “You can’t carry a gun.”

“You’re carrying a gun. I figured I should have mine too,” Stephen said in a matter-of-fact tone.

“How well have you been trained to use that?”

“Well enough.” His tone was flat as he shrugged.

“Well enough?” I groaned. Christ, the last thing I needed was him inflating his ego to prove he was a man around me. “I’m sorry, but you can’t carry that when we’re together,” I said, shaking my head.

“Uh, yes, I can. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is you walking around with a gun adds an element of unpredictability that I can’t account for. You can’t have that on you when you’re with me.”

“You’re telling me that in all the years you’ve been protecting people, you’ve never had a client carry a gun.”

“First, you’re hardly a client. And second, no, I haven’t. I’m the gun, they wouldn’t need one. Please, give it to me.” I held out my hand, palm up. “I’ll give it back when this is all over.”

“I’m not a child. No,” he said, his velvety tone became edge with steel.

“Yes.” Despite my reserve, a tinge of irritation entered my voice. “And do you have any idea how dangerous it is to shove a gun in your pants like some street thug? You’re going to shoot your ass off.”

He reached over and squeezed my thigh gently. “Relax.”

He may as well have asked me if I was on my period. I smacked his hand away. “Don’t tell me to relax.” My voice deepened as I ground the words out through my teeth.

He exhaled an audible breath through his nostrils. “I’m not planning on carrying it to the meeting. I just thought it would be better to have it with me rather than leaving it in the car.” His calloused voice softened.

“Look, I’m sorry, I just can’t. It goes against everything I know. Hand it over or get out. I’ll call the whole thing off and you’ll be on your own.”

He mulled the threat around for half a second before reaching into his waistband and retrieving the gun. He slapped it into my hand. We sat for a moment, staring at each other in the ringing silence, before he turned his head and looked back out to the road. The smallest hint of a smile played on his lips.

I turned the gun over in my hand. It was a Glock 9mm similar to mine, but he hadn’t had the safety on. I rolled my eyes, engaged the safety, and slipped it into my arm rest.



. . .



I pulled the car into the outer valet circle of the Hilton Cincinnati Netherland Plaza downtown. The entire car ride I been given a solid dose of the silent treatment.

Growing up, my parents resolved arguments by not speaking, and I’d walk around our house on eggshells until the storm passed. I hated it. I needed to tackle this problem with Stephen head on. If we were going to be in the same hotel room for the next twenty-four hours, I’d extend an olive branch to smooth things over. But for now, I’d give him a small window to cool down. Hopefully, I would have something figured out by the time we got to the room.

I opened the armrest and grabbed his gun and tucked it into the back of my waistband; I had no other option. Then, I slid out from behind my seat. The valet handed me a ticket. Stephen grabbed his bags, and I grabbed my roller case then we started our quiet walk inside.

We stepped on the white and gray marble floors, down a wide walkway flanked with tall walnut pillars topped with lighted sconces toward the check-in desk. Our steps, as we approached a cheeky blond, echoed off the high ceilings. Off to our left was an elegant and winding staircase that glowed under a spectacular sparkling chandelier. It reminded me of something out of an old Hollywood movie. When Cavanaugh suggested this location, I hadn’t expected to get such royal treatment.

At the desk, I asked to speak to Jimmy. The blond picked up her phone, and a minute later a shorter, fit man, not more than forty years old with a receding hairline, emerged from a heavy wooden door behind the desk. He walked around, holding out his hand. “Diana Cain?” He smelled like cigarettes mixed with a heavy, sweet smelling cologne.

“Yes,” I said, taking his hand and reciprocating his smile.