Hot As Sin (3 page)

“I’m not looking for a saint,” she assured him. “I’m looking for you.”

Emily Quinn had been too far back in the crowded bar to hear every word said during the fight, but she’d heard enough to get the general drift of the discussion. Her knees had actually buckled for a moment when she realized that the
bartender
had been a Navy SEAL, that—against all logic—he had to be Patrick’s
retired
buddy. The photo in Patrick’s wallet had been stuck to the plastic and grainy, but it clearly showed a man who was gaunt and tired and emotionless. A spit-and-polish military man. A man she thought would be older by now.

She had elbowed her way through the crowd without any thought to how her behavior might look or where her elbows landed. By the time she had a clear view of the action, one drunk was crawling toward the exit, and the other was in the process of crumpling to the floor. Christian Gabriel was supposed to be retired, but the man had barely broken a sweat.

Suddenly the casual L. L. Bean clothing that had fooled her originally couldn’t disguise the military discipline
that shaped his reflexes. His opponents had been in no condition to offer resistance, but his feet had still been braced apart, his knees bent, his hands ready. She doubted he’d even realized that people were crowded around watching with varying degrees of awe.

Staring at him, she had remembered something her dad said while she was growing up.
It’s not over until I say it’s over
. This man was like her father. He didn’t walk away until he was ready or sure.

Christian Gabriel might look detached and emotionless, but he wasn’t. He was controlled. He kept his emotions on a very tight leash, but he had them. She’d already seen them. Emily wasn’t looking for a saint, but she wasn’t looking for a man like this either. Unfortunately, she no longer had a choice.

Emily saw surprise flicker in Gabriel’s eyes a second before she heard him laugh. The laugh was obviously a mistake. He winced.

“Looking for me? Now, what would a nun want with me?” he asked, his eyes narrowing and studying her.

Suppressing a shiver, Emily realized that he radiated a power that felt every bit as dangerous to her as a loaded weapon. She had an uneasy premonition she’d be damned if she trusted him and dead if she didn’t. Her life felt like Russian roulette, and asking for help might be pulling the trigger.

“I’d like an answer, Sister. What’s a nun want with me?”

“I’m not—”
A real nun
, she almost blurted out before instinct clamped her mouth shut. Pretending to be a nun had kept her alive and gotten her this far.

Emily pushed up the ill-fitting glasses and smoothed the wrinkles from the shapeless habit as best she could. Irrationally she wanted to be less desperate, more in control. She wanted to look like anything except what she was—on the run.

Taking a deep breath, she said, “I need your help, Mr. Gabriel.”

“If you’d come for help, you could’ve said something when you walked in.” Retrieving her coat and purse from the barstool, he held them out to her. “And if it’s a donation you want, you’re out of luck. I really am broke.”

Emily stood her ground, meeting his hard gaze without flinching. She slipped a hand into the pocket of her habit and touched the dog tag. The tag was her proof, but caution kept her from showing it yet or telling him that Patrick was dead. Promises to dead men were easy to ignore.

And there was always the chance he’d want revenge. Revenge wouldn’t bring Patrick back or keep her safe. So she told only the beginning of the truth.

“Patrick Talbot sent me.”

Every hair on the back of Gabe’s neck stood up at the name from his past. He let the coat and purse slide out of his hand and back onto the stool. “What are you talking about?”

“Patrick sent me,” she assured him, her voice stronger. “He just didn’t tell me Christian Gabriel was the bartender. And you don’t look like your picture.”

As he listened, Gabe felt the urge to swear. His old SEAL buddy was one of the few people who knew his full name or his retirement address. He owed Patrick.

Patrick sent a nun?
Yeah, well … she didn’t
feel
like a nun, and Gabe was an expert on nuns. More than anything else, she felt like one of Patrick’s infamous practical jokes.

“The name’s Gabe.” He closed the distance between them, towering over her once more. “Exactly what kind of help do you need, Sister?”

“I need to disappear.”

Calmly Gabe waited for a laugh and a “gotcha” that never came. He waited for her to pull off the veil and grin. She didn’t. The woman in front of him seemed small and frightened, not bursting with a need to spring the punch line.

Gabe frowned, his suspicions working overtime. He studied her for a moment, taking note of the shadows beneath her eyes and the way she leaned against the chair as if she was going to fall down any minute. Not that she would—he also noted the way her chin rose a notch.

Softly he said, “
Patrick
is the U.S. marshal—not me. Making people disappear is his job.”

“He can’t help me.”

“Why not?”

“Trust me. Patrick can’t help me,” Emily repeated dully.

“How can you be so sure?”

Because he already died trying to protect me
.

Before she found a better answer, one of the small windows across the front of the bar exploded inward. Shattered glass flew in all directions. Emily froze in horror, but Gabe reacted.

He grabbed her and dove for the floor, rolling until
they were away from the flying glass. His body formed a shield for hers. Emily fought to slow the beating of her heart which thumped hard in her chest as adrenaline-charged blood pounded through her body and roared in her ears. She didn’t realize she was clutching Gabe’s shoulders until he rose up slowly, head turned toward the door as if he might go and investigate.

“Don’t,” she heard herself whisper in a broken voice she hardly recognized as her own. Emily was scared she’d been found, scared someone else was going to be killed protecting her, scared she’d spend the rest of her life feeling this way. “Don’t go out there.”

Surprisingly gentle Gabe pulled away and drew her up on her knees. He picked up her glasses, which had flown off, and pressed them into her hand. “I’m not going anywhere, but I want you to get behind the bar and stay there. Before anything else happens. And stay down.”

She nodded and did what he said, scooting behind the bar and folding herself into a very small ball in the corner—between the big aluminum beer cooler and the wall.

“Please, God, not again. Please, God, not again.” Over and over she repeated the short prayer. Bits and pieces of what happened that night in Idaho flashed into her mind.

She was crying when Gabe knelt down beside her. She couldn’t stop, even when he raised her chin and wiped the tears that trickled off her jaw.

“Hey, it’s all right. It was just a rock. Probably Sawyer’s clever idea of revenge for the fight tonight.” He
helped her up and around the cooler until they were standing by the register. “See? Everything’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” she said raggedly, and stole some comfort by burying her face against his chest. She wasn’t strong enough to pretend anymore, and he was warm and real and solid.

Startled by her reaction, Gabe was unprepared for the rush of sensations that swamped him. The pain in his ribs and the woman pressed against him were reminders of why he left the navy to begin with. He was tired of hurting and tired of fighting someone else’s battles. He’d done his bit for God and country. He’d spent seventeen years pulling people out of bad situations.

But old habits died hard, and right now—like it or not—she was a woman who needed saving. Slowly his arms went around her, and he rested his chin against the top of her head.

“Shh …” The sound wasn’t much in the way of a brilliant reassurance, but it was the best he could do.

While he held her, he came to three very important conclusions. First, these tears were the real McCoy and not a melodramatic reaction to tonight’s rock-throwing contest. Second, the lady had been terrified when the window shattered, but not surprised. It was almost as though she had expected violence. Third, it appeared that nuns, if she was a nun, didn’t have to cut their hair anymore.

Her veil had been knocked askew, revealing a rich brown mane with hints of gold. Free of its pins, her hair spilled down her back in waves. Gabe plucked the veil off and tossed it toward the counter. Then he bracketed her head with his hands and lifted her face to his.

“If you’re going to cry all over me, then at least tell me your name.” She hesitated a second too long, and Gabe knew she was lying.

“Emma.”

“Sister … Emma”—he upended the stools that had gone crashing to the floor—“sit.”

Then he fixed himself a drink to dull the pain of his ribs. Knowing one wouldn’t be enough, he poured a second and set it down. While he was getting orange juice for the sister, she reached for the shot glass. Her hand trembled, but she knocked it back without a gasp or a cough.

My kind of nun
, he thought.
One who takes her whiskey neat
.

He set the juice in front of her and left her while he taped a flattened box over the gaping hole in the window.

When he finished, she said, “I—I think I need to splash some water on my face.”

He gestured with his head. “Ladies’ room is that way.”

He strode back toward the bar, waiting only long enough to hear the click of the bathroom door before opening Emma’s purse. Ordinarily he’d be the first one to say: If she dresses like a nun, walks like a nun, and talks like a nun, then she must be a nun.

Emma did all of those things. She also downed whiskey like water, obviously lied about her name, didn’t need those glasses, and an evening in a smoke-filled bar hadn’t bothered her eyes.

A quick tour of her wallet revealed nothing. As he’d half expected, the normal identification—driver’s license,
social security card, credit cards—were all missing. A photograph of an older couple standing in front of a frozen winter pond was stuck in the currency section, but there were no bills. She had forty-eight cents in the coin pocket.

Setting the wallet down on the counter, Gabe went fishing again. This time with better results. He found six tickets for departures from Boise, Idaho, under six different names. None had been used, and each was dated three days before. Emma was playing a game of fox and hounds with someone.

When he pulled out a small gold case containing a tube of lipstick, Gabe shot a speculative glance at the bathroom door. Her halo was slipping. It finally fell all the way off when he found a receipt from a store called the Necklace Connection. The crucifix around her neck had cost nineteen ninety-five.

“Well, there you have it, folks,” he said under his breath. “Innocent Emma is not a nun, and she is definitely on the run. But from what? And why the nun bit?”

As he heard the faucet being turned off, he shoved the contents back in her purse. When she came out of the bathroom, she pulled something out of the side pocket of her skirt and walked toward him, holding it in front of her like an offering.

“Patrick said to give you this as proof.”

Gabe reached, but even before he touched it, he realized what it was—the dog tag.
Patrick’s dog tag
. The one neatly drilled by a bullet that had been meant for Gabe. The one Patrick kept on his key chain as a reminder that he was invincible, and as a reminder that
the Archangel owed him.
Archangel
—a nickname from a lifetime ago and a world away.

Gabe’s gaze captured hers, uneasiness stealing over him and leaving a coldness in its wake. “Patrick wouldn’t have given you this.”

“If there had been any other way, I’m sure he wouldn’t have.” She didn’t let go of the dog tag even though his fingers had closed around it. “He had to move a witness. He couldn’t talk about the assignment, and he couldn’t stick around to help me. So, is it true?”

“Is what true?” he asked, stalling for time, his mind racing. If Patrick was transporting a hot witness, he could be gone for two days. If he was on the security detail, he could be gone for two weeks.
Or longer
.

“Is this dog tag a promissory note like he said it was?” she asked. The flat metal ID was still suspended between them like a bone between two dogs. “Do you owe him? Anytime, anywhere?”

Frustration rolled through Gabe. He hated the way she’d boxed him into a corner, and he hated the debt he owed Patrick. Physically, the cold metal dog tag weighed almost nothing and yet weighed so heavily on his conscience. For Gabe the bottom line was the same now as it had been ten years ago. How much was his life worth?

“I owe him.” The words were tight, forced out of him.

She let go and closed her eyes for a second in relief. “Then keep your promise and don’t ask any questions. Make me disappear. Help me create a new identity”—her voice hardened—“and then forget you ever saw me.”

“Create a new identity?” Gabe snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”

“Patrick said it wouldn’t be hard.”

“Of course not!” Gabe exploded in disgust. “Patrick was a plank owner—an original member—of SEAL Team Six! He doesn’t admit that anything is hard except his head and his—”

His sentence hung in the air, incomplete but mentally finished by both of them in the awkward silence. Emma blushed. Gabe ran his fingers through his hair, pulling it back from his face and tugging slightly in frustration before letting go.

“You want me to break—” he floundered for a number and finally said, “I don’t know how many laws for you and then simply forget you?”

“You’ll be safer that way.”

“Oh, really? According to whom?”

“Patrick. He said to take his advice for once.”

One of Gabe’s eyebrows shot up involuntarily.
Safer?
Since when had Patrick cared about “safe” in relation to a SEAL? According to him, safe was for paper pushers and ship drivers, not for the men in the teams. Playing it safe ate up time and got you there a half-second too late to do more than present a nice target for the enemy. Patrick didn’t care about safe, and he never gave advice. Which meant Patrick was trying to tell him something without the woman knowing.