Hotshot by Catherine Mann

to her, mind games over for the night. “You had also just been held up by someone with a machete.”
    “I know what to expect in my job, and I hate seeming like a wimp.”
    “Especially in front of me, I’ll bet.”
    “Nice to see your ego hasn’t suffered over the past seventeen years.” She shot him a schoolteacherish glance. “I may have thrown myself at you a while back, but you can be sure I haven’t built a miniature altar with your picture and pink heart candles.”
    He thumped his chest. “I’m crushed.
    She jabbed a thumb toward her front door, covered with a wrought-iron gate. “Pop the damn trunk, so to speak. You’re a lot scarier-looking than I am, anyway.”
    Scary? If she felt that way about him, she sure hid it well.
    Once she unlocked the door, he angled past her as she tapped in the security code. “Hold tight to that chick gun until I call the all clear.”
    The apartment echoed with silence other than a trickle, trickle, trickle that he soon realized was a wall-mounted waterfall rather than a leaky faucet. He walked down the narrow hall, past the wall fountain made of stone, a blue glow emanating from the pool at the base.
    He clicked on the switch, track lighting rippling to life in the—so far—empty apartment. He scanned the simple brown sofa, strewn with bright pillows, a blanket over the back.
    And a dog curled in the middle staring back with wide eyes.
    Vince scratched the mini mutt with wiry fur behind the ear. “You’re a rotten watchdog.”
    The bristly pup lapped his tongue over Vince’s wrist. With a final pat, he walked away, past the kitchenette with a decorative butter churn. “You okay there, Shay?”
    “Still holding up the doorframe.”
    “Keep talking to me so I know you’re all right. I’m heading back to your bedroom.” He sidestepped an antique spinning wheel.
    “Just ignore the trapeze and the garter belt hanging from the ceiling fan.”
    His pulse surged, even though sarcasm dripped from her words. “No dominatrix whip? How sad.”
    He flicked on her bedroom light. The ceiling fan circled to life without a piece of lingerie in sight. He strode past the old-fashioned wooden bed tightly made with a quilt. “Talk. I can’t hear you.”
    “Vince, hands off my panties.”
    “Yeah, yeah.” It was easy enough for her to joke when she didn’t know the full extent of the danger. He resisted the urge to lock her in her apartment until he could share details. He ducked to check under the bed and found nothing but wicker baskets neatly aligned.
    A trapeze definitely would have been a shocker in this Amish decor.
    He scanned for anything linking her to the dead kid, any evidence of her participation in the gang-terrorist connection. He tugged open her bedside table and found a stash of community center stationery. Could be innocent enough.
    His eyes roamed her CD collection in a spinning tower, searching for anything that looked like the cheap training footage the Feds had found in the dead kid’s apartment.
    Nothing suspicious, which meant she could either be innocent or careful.
    “Shay? Is there a back door?”
    “Nope, and if you take much longer, I’m going to grow roots here. I don’t know about you, but I just want to go to bed and put this day behind me.”
    He really didn’t need an image of her curling up in that bed wearing . . . Stopping that thought midflight, he checked the two bathrooms and computer/guest room until he was content everything was as it should be, all the way down to the doilies. “All’s clear.”
    “Thank you. I appreciate the look around, but I think we can finally turn the page on this strange reunion.” She stepped inside, giving him a wide berth.
    “Rearm your security system and double-check those dead bolts. I don’t believe you’re going to get much protection from this yippy yard shark.” He ruffled the mutt, maybe ten pounds of steel wool fur.
    “Yard shark?” She parked herself by the small dining table,