Packing Heat by Penny McCall Page A

peephole. She barely made it behind the door when it began to open, and she was blind, the door between her and whoever was coming through it, so she eased out and put her gun to the person’s back.
    “I know I didn’t ask you what you wanted before I left, and the restaurant here is only one of those school cafeteria-style places so there wasn’t a lot of variety, but I’ll give you first choice,” Cole said, his voice unmistakable, both for its depth and the way it made her insides shiver.
    “Cole,” Harmony said, exhaling in relief as she lowered the gun.
    “Who were you expecting? Jimmy Hoffa?”
    “Boris and Natasha. They found us once.”
    “And you figured I was long gone.” He turned to face her, his eyes dropping immediately to her breasts, then lower. “Nice outfit. Is that the way you always greet Russian kidnappers?”
    Harmony glanced down, then did a double take. Even from her vantage point it looked like she was participating in a wet T-shirt contest. “I was in the shower,” she reminded him, adding, “and don’t forget about the gun,” because she almost had, and if Cole kept staring at her like she was a buffet, the gun wasn’t all she’d forget.
    “I thought you were going to start on the bank accounts.”
    He shook his head. “Can’t concentrate on an empty stomach.”
    She pulled her jeans on the rest of the way and escaped to the bathroom before Cole saw her anxiety, her fear, before she put her gun to his head and made him hack into those accounts so Richard didn’t have to suffer one more second.
    If ever there was an occasion for chanting mantras, Harmony thought as she toweled her hair, this was it. Too bad she didn’t know any. She settled for some deep breathing and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.
    She changed her top—and added a bra. Once she’d managed enough control to make a reappearance, she found Cole already seated at the little round table, eating with a focus that amazed her.
    “I thought you were giving me first choice,” she said, taking the seat across from him and surveying the sad array of edibles still remaining: a tuna sandwich, a small salad, two varieties of pie, and something that might have been a chili dog before twelve other kinds of food had been piled on top of it and turned it into a pile of orange glop.
    “That was when you had a gun pointed at my spine. And before you spent a half hour in the bathroom. Not that I’m complaining,” he added, leering at her over the top of the taco he was eating.
    His teeth bit in, strong and white, but he never took his eyes off her, his intent gaze setting off the kind of heat that made her remember what she’d been thinking in the shower before she heard him leave the room. Suddenly her clothes felt too tight, every movement rubbing cloth across sensitive places, and food was the furthest thing from her mind. Luckily for her, she hadn’t forgotten about Richard.
    Cole finished off his taco, dusted his hands together, and got to his feet all in one motion. “I’m going to take a shower.”
    And she was going to take a walk so she didn’t have to hear the water running and think about him all wet and naked and muscular.

    BY THE TIME SHE RETURNED, BETTER FOR A HALF HOUR of fresh air and solitude, Cole was standing by the table with her duffel bag open in front of him, a pair of her panties in one hand, her notebook computer in the other. And so much for her fantasies, because it wasn’t her panties that had him all hot and bothered. If there’d been anything personal between them, she’d have been jealous.
    “Like what you see?” she asked, going over and pulling her bag across the table.
    He didn’t even look at her, still staring at the computer, face flushed, pulse pounding in his neck. “Do you know what this is?” he said, then proceeded to tell her, his voice low and reverent. Seductive. “It’s a Pentalon A1A. State-of-the-art, custom built, largest memory of