Love, Tussles, and Takedowns (2 page)

Even more surprising than the museum-quality display cases his mystery woman was walking toward was the presence of the two Spencer’s Antique Arms workers who were clearly doubling as guards. Interesting. Though his brief stateside visits back to Arizona over the last decade had been few and far between, even he knew of the Spencer’s massive full-service shop.

They were the best when it came to rare and premiere antique arms, handling everything from exclusive auctions to authentication, restoration, and fabrication. In fact, his current boss in L.A. subcontracted work to Spencer’s for the antique rifles they couldn’t replicate themselves for the historical documentary films they consulted on.

That innocent little reminder of his present employment was a jarring bungee cord snap bringing Hudson back to his present surroundings with a jolt—the complimentary cup of coffee he’d picked up from the refreshment table was now cold; and Pete, his former mentor-of-sorts during his Ranger days whom he’d come here specifically to catch up with was now nowhere to be seen. Not that he blamed the guy for ditching him. Hudson’s mystery woman had stolen his attention from Pete mid-conversation nearly—he checked his watch—
shit
, ten minutes ago. Dumping the stale coffee in the trash, he went off in search of Pete’s vendor booth.

He wasn’t going to hear the end of this one.

The big-ass company banner advertising ‘high-end custom weapons cabinets’ was easy enough to spot a few rows down, as was Pete’s salesman-of-the-year smile, which looked to be smack-dab in the middle of a sales pitch.

A good pitch, apparently, if the two additional customers hanging on his every word was any indication.

When the kindly old gentleman in the white Stetson started enthusiastically flipping through one of the premium catalogs on display, Pete took that opportunity to look over and give Hudson a brow-raised chin-jut that none-too-quietly called out, ‘welcome-back-to-reality, princess.’

Hudson chuckled. Pete had always been like the big brother he never wanted. After a brief nod back, Hudson automatically began a close-fisted halfway hand motion that he belatedly halted midair.

Much to Pete’s amusement.

Right.

Hudson could use
actual words
now to explain he’d be back in a bit after looking around.

But before he could, Pete’s immediately pouncing response—the exaggerated, but of course army-accurate, tactical hand signals directed back at Hudson with a hyena-grin—had all three of Pete’s customers curiously looking Hudson’s way.

The jackass.

Hudson responded with a one-fingered hand signal of his own as he turned and made his way to the grand ballroom, Pete’s boisterous chortles trailing behind him.

As he passed exhibit after exhibit, it didn’t take long for him to get the appeal of it all. Honestly, he’d never expected a room full of antique firearms to be, well, interesting. But they were. Each historic, each uniquely personal. All strangely moving. Definitely a different glimpse into the world of weapons he only knew as a modern day soldier.

When his perusal around the exhibits finally brought him around to the vicinity of his gorgeous little bouncer’s display, his feet took him closer without conscious thought.

The warm glow that lit her face drew him, and seemingly everyone else in viewing radius, right in. She was confident and passionate, and tickled pink. Captivating them all as she animatedly told them how she’d brought a few rare showcase pieces as an impromptu show-and-tell before her scheduled presentation.

Circling around, he’d expected to see her carrying a musket, maybe an old war pistol.

He
never
expected her to come out with an antique first generation Type One AK-47, a rarity that Hudson had never actually seen before.

The way she then began talking about the ancestor of the assault rifle that had been like his fifth limb throughout his entire Army career showed she understood weapons—and wars for that matter—at a deeper level than most anyone he’d ever met.

Hell, if she’d been on one of his former Special Forces ops teams, he had no doubt she would’ve been his most dangerously valuable double-edged sword—kicking a whole lot of ass while no doubt distracting him to within an inch of his life on every mission. Pity her gender would’ve shot down any chance of her recruitment; he’d bet his last retirement dollar she was fully capable of sneaking past even the toughest defenses.

Lord knew she was already getting past his.

Unable to stop himself now, he steadied his gaze on her in a way that went against both his training and his better judgment…neither of which seemed to be present at the moment. Then expecting it for reasons he couldn’t fully explain, even at twenty paces away, Hudson knew the exact moment his continued,
deliberate
stare permeated her senses.

It was barely noticeable.

Had he not been watching for it, he wouldn’t have seen her entire body skid to a brief, wary standstill, mid-smile. In actuality, she recovered so quickly there was barely any hiccup in her movements at all.

Impressive.

Having spent nearly half his life as a soldier, and the better part of the last decade encountering adept female combatants—scrappy refuse-to-be-victims and ruthless enemies alike—you’d think his coming across one so stunning wouldn’t knock him on his ass quite so hard. But this one did. The subtle changes in her stance, her limbs, and her gaze were all the telltale signs of someone well-versed in martial arts. Not a soldier, but a fighter nonetheless. A good one. The kind self-trained to know when they were being watched, skilled enough to be ready, and patient enough to wait for the fight to come to them.

Yep, this woman was undeniably a fighter.

And right now, she was just waiting to see if the set of eyes tracking her every move belonged to a person bringing a tussle her way.

Hot damn.

Just like that, every male atom in him rushed to the forefront on alert.

Now stuck at all-systems-go, Hudson restlessly glanced down at the exhibit brochure he’d picked up outside the ballroom. Another mystery. No female presenters were listed. A quick match-up of the other presenters in attendance with the ones pictured on the brochure and he was hit with another fascinating blow. The woman wasn’t just using Spencer’s transportation and security services. She was there in place of the owner, Jack Spencer himself.

Curiouser, and curiouser.

She wasn’t just an insider to the antique arms community, she was a rockstar. In fact, a few of her fellow collectors who’d finished their own presentations had come over specifically to chat with her before her scheduled timeslot, each showing her a familiar, easygoing respect.

With only one looking at her like he wanted her naked for his next meal.

The instant landmines of possessiveness detonating in Hudson’s gut over the asshat’s smarmy perusal of her made him do a double-take. Sure, every guy had their inner alpha dom in some shape or form but Hudson hadn’t ever exchanged growling grunts with his until now.

…Now that Mr. Slick Suit and Matching Smile was leaning over to speak into the woman’s ear. Far closer than he needed to be.

When he caught the touch of tired discomfort in her eyes, politely shielded behind an awkward laugh and a firm-but-genial headshake, Hudson barely, just barely, managed to remain where he was. His back molars grinding down to dust.

But then the asshole put his hand on the small of her back.

And the all-metal pen Hudson was holding broke clean in half.

Shit.
Even without looking, he knew her eyes had snapped over in his direction; he could feel her silently
daring
him to meet her gaze.

All but baited, he took that dare. And saw two things clear as day.

One, she recognized him.

And two…that was definitely muffled desire plain and simple searing across her features.

* * * * *

IT WAS
HIM
.

Lia took a second to let out a tightly-trapped breath to get her breathing back to the normal first-in-
then
-out pattern her lungs had grown fond of for daily function.

Momentarily overlooking the disturbing fact that a single glance at a man could so thoroughly rob her of her basic senses, she mulishly kept her eyes trained on him in an epic staring contest that her wholly uneven fight or flight instincts demanded she keep up and
win
.

Meanwhile, some other instinct, a very female one she’d long forgotten she possessed, was demanding she take another approach to the situation altogether.

Forget fighting, and start fantasizing.

What the—

But before her brain could even begin to process the implications of that bizarre reaction, the exhibit coordinator stepped in front of her to call the crowd’s attention her way.

“
And last but not least, Liana Lin, standing in for Jack Spencer, with an extensive collection of war rifles throughout history.”

When the audience clapped their appreciative second welcome of the morning, Lia finally yanked her eyes away from the man to smile and greet the attendees...at the last possible second. It was a grudging declaration of defeat in their staring contest to say the least, but it managed to inspire sexy little laugh lines around the man’s eyes for just the briefest of moments.

Lia gritted her teeth and somehow defied the urge to glue her eyes back on the enigmatic stranger in response.

Her only consolation being that the man seemed equally bewildered, and powerless, against whatever was tethering their attention together.

Well played, universe.

While she was thankful to now know whose eyes had been on her for the last fifteen minutes, she was overwhelmingly discombobulated by the ruggedly intense man belonging to those eyes. As Lia was well aware, fate had a twisted sense of humor, with the added kick of bizarre timing to boot. It
did
sound just like the universe’s M.O. to bring forth the man she’d been unable to stop thinking about since first spotting him at her friend Dani’s wedding weeks ago, into a forum where he could hear her geek out about rifles.

Ah yes, the universally sexy call sign of all modern single women.

Just drop it for now, Lia. Focus
. She’d wrap her head around the stranger’s presence here of all places later.

Now what was the audience member in front of her asking? The genetic lineage of the Civil War rifles. Nice.

Her answer for him began overtaking her thoughts and soon her mind was lulled by the facts and stories she’d gathered over the years. This was her favorite part of her trade—watching folks get pulled into the tales each of these weapons had to offer. The discussions that would follow always contained the rewarding intellectual outlets her mind craved just like her body did martial arts.

A calm washed over her.

Her expertise with the war weapons she’d fixatedly gotten to know better than some of the best in her field were what she’d decided to devote her life to nearly a decade ago. It was the bread and butter of her little shop down in Cactus Creek, her own hard-earned pride and joy that was taking off quite nicely.

Unlike her colleagues, Lia didn’t have any official degrees backing her knowledge—a minor detail which always disqualified her from getting invited to speak at international symposiums about these very weapons in their homelands. Fortunately, none of that mattered to her. For Lia, the unique tools of her trade had ingrained themselves in her head in the vast pockets where adolescent memories should have resided. Where some people stored useless trivia or song lyrics embedded from their teen years, Lia held all the historical facts that made her one of the top-requested combat antique arms authenticators in the Western U.S.

That’s why she knew weaponry better than anything in her life. Well, next to martial arts, that is. Of course, the two didn’t ever get to mingle within the same context in her world, due solely to the pact she’d made with herself long ago to never allow any dangerous arm or firearm be
just
a weapon—the tool of hurt and destruction that she knew it could be.

That’s
exactly the way she’d treated every artifact she’d devoted her life to since.

And how her presentation today unfolded.

* * * * *

SHE WAS SPELLBINDING.

Throughout her entire presentation, she’d moved from rifle to rifle with the skill of a soldier and the ardor of an artist, while making sure to lock her eyes on his for the briefest of moments whenever she’d address his side of the audience.

As if to boldly prove to him simply that she
could
.

Hudson had never experienced anything more ridiculously sexy in his entire life.

Or so he thought.

Now here he was, standing outside of the Phoenix Convention Center a good half-hour later, proceeding to have his brain get wiped completely clean. The reason?

His favorite little rifle expert was currently sliding into the pair of jeans she’d apparently had tucked away in the bag slung across her torso. Right there, not forty yards from him, out in the parking lot next to a sleek Kawasaki ninja bike, the woman was pulling the jeans up under the business skirt she’d clearly only worn for the conference...based on the way she rolled the garment up and shoved it into her bag without another thought.

This was yet another facet of the woman he was becoming increasingly enthralled by, yet another difference transforming that positively mythological hair of hers. On the night of the wedding, her silky midnight-black hair had been a seamless raven waterfall down her back that had inspired visions of wood nymphs in the moonlight. Earlier today in the exhibit hall, it had been twisted up in a professional bun that had been just as distracting in how it highlighted her delicate features and intelligent, catlike eyes. Now the chopsticks holding the bun in place were gone, and the soft obsidian waves framing the biker glasses she’d slipped onto her pert little nose was perhaps his favorite look yet.