Isabelle closed the front door as the last of the police officers returned to their cars. She wasn’t used to having large groups of people in her home, and having strangers poking around her life was uncomfortable. Despite the reassurance and safety they provided, she wasn’t sorry to see them go.
The officers had been thorough, but she knew there was little they could do. No shotgun shells had been left behind, and there were no footprints on the concrete in the alley outside her fence. They had taken great pains with a pile of old mattresses, long abandoned and probably what the shooter had stood on, but no one was particularly optimistic they would discover the assailant’s identity. They had asked a million questions about her life and people she knew. Had anyone ever said, “Oh yes, I know who might want to kill me,” when the police asked? Surely, that only happened in movies. She assured them it must have to do with the bounty hunter and bail jumper who had landed in her pool seconds before the shooting. Obviously.
The anger and lust that had carried her through her earlier encounter with Holt Lasher were long gone. Sadness and fear replaced them, and every shadow in the backyard looked like a masked gunman, every car backfire was an attack missile aimed for her head. She slid the door open and ventured onto her back deck. Her personal Eden had become a war zone.
She shuddered as she saw the buckshot in her siding. The repairs wouldn’t start until Monday, an eternity away when there were bullet holes in her house. Once the siding was fixed, she hoped she could get on with her life. This house had been her home for five years, and she didn’t want one incident, quite outside her control, to ruin her sense of peace every time she opened the door.
Deciding there was nothing better to distract her than the pile of work she brought home with her for the weekend, she closed and locked the back door and plopped down at her desk in her cozy office next to the living room. Sitting down, however, provided a jolt of arousal, one that shot through her too quickly to chase away. It was an annoyingly pleasant reminder that she was feeling vulnerable because a criminally sexy woman had decided to get shot at while taking a dip in her pool. It irritated her that Holt hadn’t stuck around. She had figured she would come off like a crazy woman to the police, talking about a bounty hunter with a stupid name. The police, however, had surprised her when they had practically bowed at her feet just for mentioning Holt Lasher. They said they knew where to find her and would stop by her office the next day.
Isabelle wished Holt were there now. She didn’t know whether she would strangle her or kiss her, but she was sure either would make her feel better.
“Did Lois Lane have to put up with this?” Isabelle asked her reflection in the darkened computer screen. “Lusting after some stupid superhero trying to save the world? At least Holt wasn’t wearing tights.” Revisiting what Holt had been wearing when Isabelle met her set off a new pang of arousal. “Oh, honestly,” Isabelle chastised her reflection. “Pull yourself together.”
She picked up the file for one of her most boring clients, Decker Pence. He was a local well-respected businessman. He owned a methadone clinic, a pizza joint, a gas station, and a sub shop. His financial records had always been impeccably organized, and she felt a little guilty charging him for her services. The man barely needed an accountant. He had a bookkeeper who took care of the daily transactions of his businesses. She largely filed his taxes and advised him on more complicated issues. Every year, she offered a lesser package of services, more commensurate with what she actually did for him, but he refused. He always said she was the best in the state and he was willing to pay for that. He explained that she was on retainer and if anything ever happened, he wanted her available. Now he was being audited and, somewhat strangely, his bookkeeper hadn’t immediately sent over all his business files. Wasn’t this the kind of big thing he paid her to be available for? She made a mental note to speak with Mr. Pence as soon as she returned to the office.
Armed with work to do, Isabelle tried her best to forget bounty hunters, masked figures, and shotguns. She hoped digging through line after line of business transactions would help calm her. She quickly looked over the business records for Mr. Pence. The first three looked as they always did, organized and profitable. When she got to the methadone clinic, however, she burst out laughing. His secretary had sent a file she needed for part of the audit, but she hadn’t had a chance to open it until now. The methadone clinic wasn’t part of her initial request, but after speaking with Mr. Pence’s bookkeeper, she had agreed to handle a larger part of the audit for him.
As with the other business, it looked neat and well documented, but as far as she could tell, the file was a record for a combination bubble factory/circus/professional sports team. Despite the absurdity, a niggling feeling, one she couldn’t pull forward, dug at the back of her mind. Something seemed off. She drummed her fingers on the desk, willing herself to see what had caught her attention. She tried writing it off as anxiety after her stressful day, but the feeling wouldn’t go away.
Isabelle’s focus was so complete as she stared at the computer screen that she screamed at the sound of a gentle tapping on the glass of her back door.
Her instincts screamed for her to sprint to the living room and dive behind the couch, but she was also tired of feeling like a helpless victim. She settled for shaking legs, rapid breathing, and a death grip on the edge of her desk. But she forced herself to remain calm.
When no shotgun blast immediately disrupted the night and a second gentle knock sounded at the door, she steeled herself, took a deep breath, and boldly poked her head around the corner. When she saw the scruffy hair, baggy jeans, heavy boots, and clean, dry, white T-shirt, her heart leapt into her throat. She had no idea why the sight of Holt was so comforting; she didn’t even know her, but after endless police questions and reports, feeling afraid, drained, and aroused, the living reminder of the kiss they shared was wonderful. An apology from Holt would go a long way to making Isabelle feel more comfortable. She needed to know the buckshot was meant for Holt.
“I have a front door you know,” Isabelle said as she opened the door to a sexy creature with a stunning grin. She hoped it wasn’t obvious how badly her legs were still shaking.
“Couldn’t figure out which house was yours from the front. Never been invited in, after all.”
Isabelle hesitated before resigning herself to welcoming trouble into her house. “Consider yourself invited,” she said, stepping aside. “If you have any weapons, after the excitement, I don’t want them in my house. Check them at the door. How did you get into my backyard, by the way? The side gates are locked.”
“I got in your yard the same way I left it earlier. Over the fence. And no weapons,” Holt said as she stepped inside. “I don’t carry a gun, but if you’d like to search me just in case, I would be very cooperative.”
Isabelle was tempted. She really wanted to see that tattoo she’d glimpsed through Holt’s wet T-shirt. If possible, she was even sexier in dry clothes. They outlined Holt’s frame so magnificently, Isabelle figured her pants were the only place she would be able to hide a gun, and a concealed weapon was probably much safer than Holt Lasher without her pants.
“You’re a bounty hunter and you don’t carry a gun? How do you shoot the bad guys?”
“Bring them in dead or alive really had its heyday in the Wild West. Today, the emphasis is really more on alive,” Holt said, looking over every inch of Isabelle’s home.
“But what about when they shoot at you? You could shoot back then, right?” Isabelle wasn’t totally comfortable with Holt’s scrutiny of her home. It made her feel vulnerable, something she’d had enough of today. She glanced around, trying to see what Holt saw.
“Sure, I could shoot back, if I had a gun, which I don’t.” Holt seemed to be enjoying herself.
“Wait, you could have shot back at the guy today. You could have stopped him. If you had a gun, he wouldn’t have gotten away.” She stopped before adding, “And I wouldn’t have to be so terrified being home alone tonight.” Her legs were no longer shaking, and the anger from earlier in the day bubbled back to the surface, a much more comfortable emotion than fear.
“Maybe,” Holt said, “or I could have killed him and then we’d never know why he was shooting at us, or I could have hit someone innocent in the alley, or the bullet could have ricocheted and hit you, or me, or Peanut. I don’t like guns.” Holt’s eyes looked haunted and empty, Isabelle fleetingly noticed before her anger took over once again.
“Shooting at us? They weren’t shooting at me. No one shoots at accountants. They shoot at bounty hunters.”
“Why would anyone shoot at a bounty hunter?”
Isabelle glared at Holt, who seemed immune to her anger. Isabelle looked over the strong body in front of her. When their eyes met, Holt winked. Isabelle closed the distance between them, grabbed Holt’s face, and kissed her roughly. Before Holt could deepen the kiss, Isabelle pulled away and slapped her sharply across the left cheek. Holt grinned even wider, seemingly immune to pain as well as anger.
“Feel better?”
“Not at all.” Isabelle felt wretched. She had never had the impulse to strike out at another person, not since she left home. If she was scared before, she was terrified now, and buckshot had nothing to do with it. “I’m so sorry. You didn’t even flinch. I’ve been slapped. It hurts, and you didn’t even flinch.” In the moment, both kissing and slapping Holt had seemed like perfectly reasonable reactions. How could she have let herself get so out of control?
“You’ve got decent power, but believe it or not, I’ve been hit harder in the face. I think I’ll survive. How about we call it even for my scaring you so badly by knocking on your back door? Is there anything I can do about the person who has slapped you? I don’t like the sound of that at all.”
Isabelle shook her head, part rejection of Holt’s request, part shame. She couldn’t talk about her past with Holt, a stranger who thus far had brought nothing but trouble to her life. She wanted to blame the slap on the stress of the day, her out of control emotions, but those were the excuses she always heard when it happened to her.
Holt seemed to accept her unwillingness to open up. “An accountant, huh?” Holt looked skeptical. “For the mob? CIA? Save the Whale Society?”
“The what? No, I’m an accountant for normal, boring, rich people. I’m not a criminal.” Isabelle was angry at Holt again, for not apologizing, for asking her stupid questions, and for looking so hot she was having trouble remembering to be angry.
“Neither am I.”
“Oh, right, I forgot. You catch criminals, except the one that shot at you today. That one you let scamper away.” Isabelle stared at Holt’s mouth and thought about kissing her. She chastised herself yet again. The woman in front of her was a bounty hunter, she was dangerous, and she was a jerk. If she wasn’t a jerk, she would have come here and done the right thing. She would have made Isabelle feel better. She would have checked on her sooner. Hell, she wouldn’t have disappeared in the first place.
It looked like it took a great deal of effort on Holt’s part not to bite Isabelle’s head off. Her eyes were razor sharp. She took a couple deep breaths before speaking again. Suddenly, Isabelle was nervous. Holt looked like she could be terrifying when angry, yet Isabelle had just slapped her and Holt had smiled in response. Either she had a very tight grip on her temper, or she was more even-keeled than she looked at the moment. In the past, when Isabelle had seen this potential for anger, she had always pulled away. Her normally nonviolent and peaceful nature came from her upbringing. Although she was nervous, Isabelle wasn’t frightened of Holt, even with the potential for anger, and that surprised her. Holt was intimidating but also a bit sexy in her powerful emotions. Isabelle didn’t know her enough to base this on anything but gut feeling, but Holt seemed like the type who used her power for good and not evil. Something Isabelle found very alluring.
Despite all that, she was still angry at Holt for the earlier gunfire and that Holt had yet to apologize. “You sit your ass on my couch like a civilized person and apologize for getting me shot at or you can leave.”
“Apologize? For getting you shot at? What if you got me shot at?”
“We could play what if all day. What if you weren’t a bounty hunter? What if I was a firefighter? What if we’d never met? I didn’t get you shot at. I don’t have stalker ex-girlfriends, creepy people at the gym, or at work. I have boring clients who make lots and lots of money and don’t do anything illegal.” Even as she was saying that, the same niggling feeling she had had looking over Decker Pence’s file returned. “You are an asshole for coming here and trying to blame this on me. I’m tired, I’m a little panicky, and I’m done with you asking dumb questions and scaring me more. I’m sorry for slapping you and for kissing you. Now it’s your turn. Either apologize and give me some peace or go to hell.” Isabelle suddenly felt exhausted.
Holt looked taken aback. “I’m sorry we got shot at today, and I’m really sorry that you’re so afraid. I promise you’ll be safe tonight. I have a whole crew of people that work for me, and I have to pay them even if they sit in the office and play poker, so I was going to have them move their card game to your neighborhood tonight. No one in or out without our knowing about it. And definitely no shotguns.”
Holt was hard to figure out. Isabelle thought the security detail sounded like blissful overkill, but Holt’s apology was lacking. “Not good enough,” Isabelle said, pointing to the door.
Holt held out a business card, which Isabelle took and dropped in the trash. Holt fished it out and strode to the kitchen. She secured the card to the fridge with a smiling whale magnet. “Save the Whale Society, I knew it. Call me if you need anything, anything at all. And my crew will be around tonight so try and get some sleep. Your neighborhood will be the safest in the state.”
“Go away, bounty hunter,” Isabelle said, close to tears. The first woman to turn her completely inside out had to be inappropriate, unmanageable, and unable to make her feel better. All Holt had to do was apologize and not scare her out of her mind. That was the right thing to do. That was what a decent person would have done. But Holt asked questions instead, making it clear no one knew why her house looked like a drunken artist’s abstract connect the dots.
Without a word, Holt spun around and left the way she had come, through the back door and into the evening.
“I have a front door you know,” Isabelle called after her.
*
“You gonna tell me what happened to your face?” Moose asked when Holt slid back into the truck after leaving Isabelle’s house.
“Not at the moment. Just drive.”
While Holt was talking with Isabelle, Moose had moved to the driver’s seat of the large black truck. The person left in the car always occupied the driver’s seat when they were working. That way, if they needed a quick getaway, they were prepared. Keeping people safe was all about planning ahead.
Holt didn’t say a word as Moose drove across town to the boxing gym Holt owned. Moose always understood when she didn’t want to talk. They had been working together for ten years and had a level of unspoken communication not many people could replicate.
The encounter with Isabelle had left her cranky, horny, and confused. Her lips still burned from the wild and unexpected kiss, and her cheek smarted from the sudden assault. There was undeniable chemistry between them, but Holt knew nothing about Isabelle except that someone was shooting at her, at some point in her past she had been hit, and she had an unpredictable way of managing stress. Although getting slapped in the face was amusing, Holt didn’t like how much it had upset Isabelle. In fact, she didn’t like how much she seemed to upset Isabelle. No one liked to be unpopular. It really wasn’t any of her business who was shooting at Isabelle. She wasn’t a client, and if someone was shooting at her, it would be wiser to stay a million miles away from her than try to help her. But the idea of her being someone’s target practice made Holt’s stomach churn. It pissed her off when nice people got caught in the bad guys’ crossfire.
She grabbed her cell phone and dialed her office. Max answered.
“I need a team sitting on a house tonight. I’m sending you the details.”
When the call ended, Moose looked at Holt questioningly.
“It’s just for tonight,” Holt said. “Until I can figure out which fucking way is up. The cops will drive by a few times I’m sure, but I’d rather know our people are watching over her until the morning.”
“Does that woman know how lucky she is?” Moose asked.
Holt tilted her head, not understanding.
“Most people who slap you wake up a week later in the hospital. Unless you left her unconscious on the floor, which isn’t your style, then not only did she get away with hitting you, but now you’re protecting her as well. What’s up, H?”
“I need ten rounds. Ask me then,” Holt said, already gearing up mentally for the workout her body craved.
As a teenager, Holt found the gym a safe harbor against the turmoil in her life. The men from the first boxing gym she frequented as a teenager didn’t care that she was a girl, and they didn’t care about her race, her economics, or that she had assholes for parents. When she was in danger, they held her safe for a few hours, allowing her to regain her strength. When she was hurting, they alone understood her need to beat it out. She had gone on to become one of the most feared female fighters in the country, three times winning the women’s Golden Gloves amateur boxing tournament. If women’s boxing had been an Olympic sport when she was in her prime, she would have had medals hanging on her wall.
When she had told Isabelle she didn’t carry a gun, she failed to mention she had rarely needed one. In close quarters, there was no one in New England, male or female, who was more effective with their fists.
While she changed clothes and wrapped her hands, Moose turned on the music and started the round timer. It didn’t matter how loud the rap music pounded in the small gym, every boxer could hear the bell signaling the end of a round. He helped her into her well-loved, red, sixteen ounce, lace-up training gloves and tied them off.
“Only give me fifteen seconds rest,” Holt said. She needed to reach exhaustion quickly.
For six rounds, she pounded on the super heavyweight bag, which tipped the scales at one hundred and fifty pounds. It hung from the ceiling on a ten-foot chain, and when hit hard enough, started swaying with the rhythm of the punches. The larger men at the gym, Moose included, often struggled to move the bag more than a few inches. Today, Holt had to stay on her toes, dodging and weaving her way around the violently swinging bag.
After the heavy bag, Holt stepped under the ropes and into one of the two boxing rings, her sweat-drenched gym clothes stuck to her body. The old building housing the gym was previously used as a swimming facility, so the boxing rings were sunk deep in what used to be the pool. Holt chose the ring in the deep end. Moose stepped in the ring after her, the training mitts already on his hands.
Moose called out punch combinations and moved his targets, which looked like giant stuffed pie plates, around for Holt to seek and destroy. For three minutes at a time, they worked silently, except for Moose’s instructions. During the fifteen second rest period, they talked, one question and answer per round.
“You find out why someone was trying to kill your lady friend?”
“She slapped me, Moose,” Holt said, rubbing her gloved hand against her still tender cheek.
“I had noticed that,” he said before holding up the mitts again as the round timer chimed.
They danced and weaved around the ring for another three minutes. When the bell rang, they both leaned against the ropes and resumed their conversation.
“It’s really none of my business.” Holt wiped sweat from her forehead. “For all I know, she runs a terrorist cell and the guys shooting at her were doing us all a favor.”
“You really think she’s running a terrorist cell? What’s your gut tell you?”
“Okay, no terrorists, but she is creating some malfunction in my gut. I’m too damned hot for her.” Holt was amused for the first time since leaving Isabelle’s. “Fucking blondes.”
The bell rang and Moose held up the mitts in surrender. “I’m tired, and this is more important. She didn’t have any idea why she got shot at?”
“She yelled at me. She wanted me to apologize for bringing trouble to her doorstep. I was minding my own business, chasing Peanut, when her nutcase started shooting. But she’s convinced I’m the one the shooter was going for.”
“You were trespassing, but that’s beside the point. Look,” Moose said seriously, “you dug me out of the gutter when everyone said I was a worthless excuse for a man. You’ve got a pretty good sense of who needs saving. Let’s keep a team on her house for a while, see if anything strange turns up.”
“I don’t know if that’s good enough. Even if someone had been right outside when the shooting started, they wouldn’t have been close enough to do anything except call a rescue. Besides, she says it’s unrelated to her. Unless she’s lying, she’s probably not going to sneak off in the middle of the night and lead me right to the shooter’s door.”
“Why don’t you just go out with her then?” Moose asked. “You said she’s hot, and she likes you enough to slap you. I think you have a future.”
“She’s an accountant, Moose. I’m a bounty hunter. What kind of future could we possibly have? And is that even right? Sometimes I don’t even know where the line is anymore.”
Holt was feeling dejected, but her statement on their possible future wasn’t one of self-pity. It was an observation born from experience. Women like Isabelle didn’t have long-term relationships with women like Holt. Everybody wanted to sleep with a bad girl, but no one ever settled down with one.
“Besides, I give it three dates, which would officially be my second longest relationship. If it’s not my job, it’s my temper. You know how much I hate putting up with women who love the idea of dating a superhero until they realize I work all the time, spend a lot of time doing paperwork, get pissed off at the wrongs in the world, and don’t own a cape.”
“Hey, she’s got balls enough to slap you. Seems like she can handle you better than most. If not, she sounds feisty, and at least the sex will be good. And how can she be mad at you for wanting to keep her safe?”
“Please don’t ever think about my sex life, me having sex, or anyone I might sleep with, ever again.”
Holt was laughing, but thinking about Isabelle as simply a quick hookup was uncomfortable. There was something different in the way she felt about this particular blonde. Although a part of her knew it was probably best to leave well enough alone, the idea of Isabelle in danger, or worse yet, riddled with buckshot, was more than she could take. What kind of self-respecting bounty hunter would let an accountant die by any means but a thousand paper cuts? She would never be able to live with the guilt if Isabelle got shot. Obviously, a peace offering was in order, and maybe another conversation about her wealthy clients. Rich people hid things, and if they made up Isabelle’s client list, she could know more than she thought. Holt hoped she was making the right decision. Particularly since she probably wouldn’t get paid for being a good guy and saving the maiden. She was also fairly sure if Isabelle ever found out she had thought of her as a maiden, a damsel in distress, a princess in peril, or any other such term, she would do more than slap Holt.
With as much bluster as she could manage, mostly for Moose’s benefit, she said, “Fuck it, you’re right. What do I have to lose? At least she’s hot.”
*
“Mr. Pence? Hello, it’s Isabelle Rochat, from CSP Financial.” Isabelle was surprised when the businessman answered her call on the first ring.
“Ah, Ms. Rochat, what can I do for you?”
Isabelle had always liked Pence’s voice. It was strong and professional, but had a gentle quality to it. Today, it didn’t. He sounded surprised to hear from her. Isabelle wished she were meeting him in person and could see his face. Decker Pence was one of her clients that was much easier to read in person, although even then he kept his expression neutral most of the time.
“One of your employees sent over a file earlier in the week. I spoke with your bookkeeper, Gary, I believe his name is, and I offered to take over a larger part of the audit, but I am afraid the file must be a mistake. It doesn’t make sense. I tried to call your secretary, but she was unavailable.” Isabelle had pored over the files after Holt left, and she still couldn’t rid herself of the feeling something was off.
“Ms. Rochat, I am sorry for the inconvenience. I will make sure the proper file arrives this afternoon. My secretary unfortunately no longer works here, and perhaps this incident gives you an indication why. I will take care of it. Thank you for calling me,” Pence said a little too quickly.
“Do you know what the file was? It was full of silly line items like sports teams and bubbles, but it looked like very technical accounting.”
“I do not know, Ms. Rochat. I can’t say I’ve ever seen a file quite like that. Perhaps it is one that Gary was using to train his new assistant. If you wouldn’t mind deleting that file, I’ll make sure this is the only time you are bothered by a mix-up.”
Pence sounded relieved.
“Mr. Pence, I’m happy to provide any additional services you need. I know you have a bookkeeper, but if it’s easier, I can take over a more active role in the finances of your company. Or my company offers many other services such as financial planning and business management, precisely for clients such as yourself.” Although what she said was all true, there was something about Pence’s voice that was unsettling her. She wanted a closer look at his total finances.
“Ms. Rochat, I am satisfied with our current professional arrangement and the services you offer. Please delete the file and continue to work on whatever parts of the audit you and Gary have discussed. I will ensure you receive the correct file this afternoon.”
Pence’s voice had lost any of the charm Isabelle had once detected. He sounded cold and more than a little scary. Isabelle had a flash of Decker Pence in a ski mask with a shotgun, but she pushed it away. The man was well known in the community. He was probably just embarrassed by such an error by one of his staff.
“Of course, Mr. Pence. If your bookkeeper has further questions about the file I requested, please have him give me a call.” She wasn’t ready to delete the file. There was something that still didn’t seem right.
After she hung up the phone, she wandered to the kitchen and stared at Holt’s card on the fridge. Was this the kind of thing she could help with? Isabelle quickly shook off the thought. Help with what? She had no idea what she was looking for, or if there was anything to find. She couldn’t explain to herself the cause of her concern, much less to Holt. The file was made-up names and gibberish. Besides, they hadn’t parted on the best of terms. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to see her again. She decided it was best if she kept this to herself. If anything changed, she could call then.
*
“Gary, you stupid fuck,” Decker yelled into the phone at his moronic underling. “She thinks your bookkeeping code is as stupid as I do. You could have gotten those files back, or let her keep it and she would have forgotten about it, but you shot at her instead. Now she’s asking questions.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her I didn’t know, but that it was probably a file you used to train your assistant. I told her to delete it and get back to work. I wish I could delete you.”
“Did she figure it out? Does she know anything?” Gary’s voice had taken on a quaver, most likely from visions of what Pence would do to him if Isabelle was going to expose them. Decker was picturing them himself.
“I don’t think so. She said the file made no sense. I guess it’s good you still use those inane codes. They’re finally paying off.”
“I told you an extra layer of security was a good idea, Decker. She’ll never crack that code.”
“Security is a password or encryption, Gary, and before you congratulate yourself on your Fort Knox of bookkeeping, I don’t think she is going to do the smart thing and rid herself of that file. At the first sign of trouble, you will have to get it back, carefully.”
“I’m always careful. But computer files aren’t like paper files. She could have copies in twelve different places, not to mention her e-mail. I’m not a hacker.”
“Yes, the police tape and buckshot attest to your discretion.” Decker had his voice under control again. “I don’t care how you recover those files, if and when I ask you to. That is one of the reasons I pay you as much as I do, and we both know how well my money was spent last time you thought for yourself. But if she thinks she’s being targeted, she’s going to dig deeper.”
“I trust my code. The code’s safe. She can’t break it.”
“For your sake, I hope so.”