beginning to see the attractions of being a spy.”
“I’m not a spy.” She slipped her clutch piece into its holster and straightened. “And James Bond isn’t exactly a realistic version of what I do.”
“Hell, Cupcake, you’re not a realistic version of what you do. You’re more like FBI Barbie.”
“Cupcake?” She tore a pair of jeans out of her duffel and dragged them on, then whipped her dress over her head. “FBI Barbie,” she fumed, shimmying into her bra and whipping around to face Cole.
It was pitch-black away from the door, but it felt like she was standing in a spotlight, bright and hot and exposing. She fumbled her T-shirt on and slipped into her shoulder holster, feeling a lot better when she tucked her Smith & Wesson into it. Nothing like a loaded firearm to inspire confidence.
“Don’t call me Barbie again,” she said.
“You kicked me in the shin,” he shot back. “If that’s not a Barbie move I don’t know what is.”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
“Yeah, right up to the moment the cop jumped back up and came after you.”
“And if you hadn’t horned in I’d have dealt with him.”
“How? Scratched his eyes out? Or maybe you could have strangled him with your designer jeans.”
That stopped her. “How do you know these are designer?”
“Even in jail there’s television. Any show with supermodels was real popular.”
“There’s a mental picture I could live without. And just for the record, I was taught there’s no wrong way to handle a situation as long as you come out of it alive and with your goal accomplished.”
“Next time ask for help.”
“Next time I’ll just pretend it’s you.”
She slung her jacket back on and pushed her feet into a pair of running shoes, stuffing her dress into her duffel before she shouldered it, along with her laptop. “So, how do we do this?” she asked, stepping into the open doorway, the wind whipping cold across her skin.
“They don’t teach you how to jump off trains in FBI school?”
“They don’t teach any of this in FBI school.”
Cole came to stand beside her, looking, as she was, down at the ground rushing by. “Just jump,” he said. “Gravity will take care of the rest.”
“Just jump,” Harmony repeated. Or get shoved, which was what Cole did when she balked at the idea of flinging herself into the darkness and taking the landing on faith.
She slammed into the ground feet first, tried to go into a tuck and roll but wound up flopping uncontrollably, arms and legs windmilling, until she came to a graceless stop. In a marsh. Facedown. If not for the cold water seeping through her clothes she would have stayed where she was, taking stock and getting her breath back, but she jumped up immediately, only to have Cole blunder into her and knock her down again—and then fall on top of her.
“Oh, there you are,” he said, not making any effort to get off her. In fact, he was resisting her efforts to shove him off, laying the whole hard length of his body on hers. The parts of her that had managed to stay dry were losing that battle. And Cole was getting aroused. Big surprise. The man had been in jail for eight years, a picket fence with a convenient knothole would probably turn him on.
“We’re in the middle of a swamp,” she said. “It’s cold and wet.”
“Not from where I am.” His hand crept up from her hip, spreading heat and making her forget about the cold air and the frigid water and the possibility there were state troopers combing the railroad tracks for them. Until she realized his fingers were inches from her gun.
She slipped her left leg out from under him, braced her hand on his left shoulder, at the same time hitting his right arm at the elbow and when it collapsed she flipped him off her. He landed on his back next to her with a satisfying little splash. “How about now?”
“Let me guess—they taught that in FBI school?”
“You’re lucky I used my FBI training,” she
“I’m not a spy.” She slipped her clutch piece into its holster and straightened. “And James Bond isn’t exactly a realistic version of what I do.”
“Hell, Cupcake, you’re not a realistic version of what you do. You’re more like FBI Barbie.”
“Cupcake?” She tore a pair of jeans out of her duffel and dragged them on, then whipped her dress over her head. “FBI Barbie,” she fumed, shimmying into her bra and whipping around to face Cole.
It was pitch-black away from the door, but it felt like she was standing in a spotlight, bright and hot and exposing. She fumbled her T-shirt on and slipped into her shoulder holster, feeling a lot better when she tucked her Smith & Wesson into it. Nothing like a loaded firearm to inspire confidence.
“Don’t call me Barbie again,” she said.
“You kicked me in the shin,” he shot back. “If that’s not a Barbie move I don’t know what is.”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
“Yeah, right up to the moment the cop jumped back up and came after you.”
“And if you hadn’t horned in I’d have dealt with him.”
“How? Scratched his eyes out? Or maybe you could have strangled him with your designer jeans.”
That stopped her. “How do you know these are designer?”
“Even in jail there’s television. Any show with supermodels was real popular.”
“There’s a mental picture I could live without. And just for the record, I was taught there’s no wrong way to handle a situation as long as you come out of it alive and with your goal accomplished.”
“Next time ask for help.”
“Next time I’ll just pretend it’s you.”
She slung her jacket back on and pushed her feet into a pair of running shoes, stuffing her dress into her duffel before she shouldered it, along with her laptop. “So, how do we do this?” she asked, stepping into the open doorway, the wind whipping cold across her skin.
“They don’t teach you how to jump off trains in FBI school?”
“They don’t teach any of this in FBI school.”
Cole came to stand beside her, looking, as she was, down at the ground rushing by. “Just jump,” he said. “Gravity will take care of the rest.”
“Just jump,” Harmony repeated. Or get shoved, which was what Cole did when she balked at the idea of flinging herself into the darkness and taking the landing on faith.
She slammed into the ground feet first, tried to go into a tuck and roll but wound up flopping uncontrollably, arms and legs windmilling, until she came to a graceless stop. In a marsh. Facedown. If not for the cold water seeping through her clothes she would have stayed where she was, taking stock and getting her breath back, but she jumped up immediately, only to have Cole blunder into her and knock her down again—and then fall on top of her.
“Oh, there you are,” he said, not making any effort to get off her. In fact, he was resisting her efforts to shove him off, laying the whole hard length of his body on hers. The parts of her that had managed to stay dry were losing that battle. And Cole was getting aroused. Big surprise. The man had been in jail for eight years, a picket fence with a convenient knothole would probably turn him on.
“We’re in the middle of a swamp,” she said. “It’s cold and wet.”
“Not from where I am.” His hand crept up from her hip, spreading heat and making her forget about the cold air and the frigid water and the possibility there were state troopers combing the railroad tracks for them. Until she realized his fingers were inches from her gun.
She slipped her left leg out from under him, braced her hand on his left shoulder, at the same time hitting his right arm at the elbow and when it collapsed she flipped him off her. He landed on his back next to her with a satisfying little splash. “How about now?”
“Let me guess—they taught that in FBI school?”
“You’re lucky I used my FBI training,” she
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