now you die

Lucy Sharpe woke to the sound of gunfire. Steady. Distant. Infuriating.

In less time than it took for the shooter to load the next round, she rolled out of bed, and strode to the window, totally naked, completely awake, and royally pissed.

Sleep was such a brutal battle she waged every night, and she’d just dipped into a decent slumber when some idiot decided to take target practice at three in the morning.

She squinted at the training compound that sprawled a half mile away, over the eastern acreage of her estate, a few security lights casting yellow circles around the perimeter, but otherwise dark. Only one man had the nerve to do something like this.

Jack Culver. A master at worming his way into places he didn’t belong.

At the thought, she made a conscious effort not to look at the empty bed behind her. Instead, she scooped up the satin drawstring pajama pants she’d shed a few hours earlier, and stepped in, then yanked the matching camisole over her head.

As she flipped her hair out from underneath the thin fabric, she snagged her G23, checked the magazine, and headed into the night -- barefoot, armed, and riled up enough to scare the crap out of that son of a bitch.

She didn’t bother with a light. She padded down the long, wide hallway that separated her private living quarters from the rest of the ten thousand square foot estate.

At the top of the stairs, she paused at the library doors, considering a change in plans. Most nights when she couldn’t sleep, she fought the demons by working, coordinating the resources of her successful security and investigation firm and focusing on problems she could solve. Present-day problems, not ancient ones that were out of her control.

But tonight wasn’t most nights. And the demons weren’t in her head, they were in her compound. One demon, anyway.

And this one was staying at the Bullet Catchers’ guest house, invading the Bullet Catchers’ war room, and infiltrating her carefully constructed, perfectly organized, highly efficient world. And using her firing range as his personal playground in the middle of the night.

How the hell had he managed it? She’d fired him. And yet…he’ managed to wrangle an invitation back. A temporary one, anyway.

Another gunshot echoed.

He wasn’t even allowed to fire a gun. She stabbed at the alarm pad in the kitchen and stepped outside into the night air, the temperature in the Hudson Valley suspended between the final dog days of August and the first nip of autumn.

The stone path was cool under her feet as she moved soundlessly, passing the guest house first. This smaller version of her own Tudor mansion was dark for the night, the bodyguards and security specialists at headquarters for training or assignment briefings all asleep.

Well, not all of them.

Another round popped. Slower, this time, like he’d switched to a .45 and the recoil had changed his rhythm. The recoil and, of course, that wounded trigger finger. The echo confirmed that he was in the back of the two-story live fire house they used for training, on the straight range.

Breaking every rule and pissing her off.

That would definitely be Jack.

She stayed in the shadows, following a half-mile hilly path to the training compound, reaching the classroom and situation simulation facility before he’d finished the next round. She moved stealthily, pressed against the building, ignoring the dirt scraping the bottoms of her bare feet.

Five more steps and she’d be in position to see him, assuming he was firing from the berm, in the proper place for the outdoor targets.

Proper? Right. He didn’t know the meaning of the word.

From her position, she could see the target silhouettes, five of them static, more moving on a cable between them. She heard him rack the slide of a semi-automatic that he had no right carrying let alone firing, and then the shuffle of his foot as he took his stance, aiming at some imagined wrongdoer who needed justice meted out the Jack Culver way.

She inched out and lifted her Glock, her eyes on the central moving target as she steadied her aim. All she needed to do was smack that silhouette right in the heart and he’d get he message to stop. She slipped her finger over the trigger just as a nearly full moon dipped out from a cloud, spilling silver light all over the range.

Instead of a shot, she heard him let out a soft grunt. She took one more step from her cover to look at him.

And she couldn’t look away. In fact, she could barely breathe.

Bathed in nature’s high beam, with every exposed and chiseled muscle sheened with sweat, Jack looked like a native on the hunt.

His dark hair tumbled down to broad, bare shoulders, the carved angles of his back shadowed and smooth like the sculptor had just finished the job. He aimed his gun with steady, tensed arms, his legs in a wide stance. He had nothing on but jeans worn down to a pale blue, low on narrow hips and fitted over his hard, curved backside.

Backing up, she closed her eyes, leaning her suddenly warm face on the cool cement, the black and white snapshot still vivid in her mind.

Wait a second . Something was wrong with that picture. Not the specimen of a man, no, there was very little wrong with Jack. But something wasn’t right…

He was shooting left handed.

She popped around the side of the building again to make sure. Of all the arrogant, stubborn, stupid things.

Did he think she’d change her mind and let him carry if he fired with his other–

The shot cracked, powder flashed, and the moving human silhouette stopped dead on its cable, shot to the heart.

All right. Everyone gets lucky once in a while. Especially Jack. She waited, her weapon down now. Before she surprised him, she wanted to watch him.

He fired. Hit the head. Fired again. Hit the heart. Fired again. Hit the kidney. Fired again. Right between the eyes.

He lowered the gun, shook his head and his black hair caught the moonlight as he let out a little hoot of victory. The sound broke the night in a different way than the gunfire, and reached into Lucy’s gut and twisted something she did not want to have twisted.

At least not by a man she loathed, blamed for almost killing one of her best men, and fired because of it. Still, as much as she hated him, as much as she vowed he would never work as a Bullet Catcher again, as much as she regretted the one night she allowed him to enter the ultimate place he had no right to be – her body – she couldn’t completely fight the little tendril of respect that curled around her heart.

He’d taught himself to shoot left handed, and damn straight, too.

Did he really think that would change her mind? Impress her? Earn his old job back?

Get real, Jack.

The only reason he was staying here was because he had information that could help her on a case and the briefing was early tomorrow morning. Very early, and this three AM playtime would no doubt make him later than usual.

Once more, she drank in the vision of his half-dressed body in the moonlight, then turned and started home, moving as silently as she had on her way there.

Forget sleep. That was a lost cause.

She followed along side the building, planning how she would run tomorrow’s meeting and not let Jack steal it

The hand clamped over her face so hard she bucked backwards, instantly raising her weapon only to have it knocked right out of her hands and thud to the ground. She whipped her elbow around aiming for the throat, but her attacker ducked at exactly the right instant.

She coiled to throw a kick, but he twirled her effortlessly and slammed her flat against the wall, pushing a shocked breath from her lungs.

Then he got right into her face, spearmint-tinged breath warming her mouth, and firm, confident hands pinning her against the wall. “Leaving so soon, Ms. Sharpe?” “