Out of Character (24 page)

However, he had a feeling the lessons would be unpleasant enough without using strong-arm tactics. “I’m not advocating you try a shoot-out. If you see someone, you need to run like hell. I just want you to have every possible advantage.”

“Isn’t it more likely I’ll shoot myself than someone else?”

“Not after I teach you.” He said that with a straight face, although how much an unwilling novice would learn in a few lessons was anyone’s guess.

She crossed her arms again. “I can’t shoot anyone. I’m a doctor, for God’s sake.”

“You’d be amazed how fast the urge for self-preservation kicks in when someone’s trying to kill you.”

Jillian’s defiant expression didn’t budge. So much for reasoning with her. “Look, I’ll cut to the chase. You’re learning to shoot, no matter what I have to do. End of discussion.”

If he’d still had the mustache and beard he’d worn in Keystone, the heat in her eyes would have singed them. She glowered at him for a long moment before she spoke. “Am I allowed to have a cup of coffee first?”

Paul kept his face expressionless—any indication of the triumph and relief he felt would probably reignite her. Besides, winning this battle didn’t put the war in the bag. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen in half an hour.”

* * * *

Precisely thirty minutes after he’d left her, Paul strode into the kitchen, and Jillian’s muscles tensed. She got up from the table, set her empty coffee cup by the sink, and trudged behind him to the four-car garage behind the house. He opened the side door, and they stepped into a spacious, nearly empty room.

“What is this?” The place clearly wasn’t used for storing expensive automobiles. Unfortunately, the odor of gunpowder and the paper targets on the wall opposite a long railing gave Jillian a pretty good idea.

“It’s a shooting range. It used to be a garage, but it’s been redecorated. And soundproofed.”

She needed to relax. Jillian leaned against the concrete block wall, breathing deeply as Paul opened a wall safe and removed a revolver.

“I’m going to teach you how to load the gun.” He held it out to her. “Here.”

“Let me watch you first.”

He demonstrated, removed the clip, and held the gun toward her again. “Now you do it.”

She stared at it and took another deep breath. She could do this. She’d had her hands on worse things during her medical career.

She took the gun, and her stomach heaved. She’d never touched a gun in her life, never realized they were so heavy. And cold enough chill her entire body.

Paul rested a hand on her shoulder. “You’ll get used to it.” His voice was unexpectedly gentle. “This is important. You have to learn to load it before we can concentrate on shooting.”

Shooting.
She had a feeling it was going to be a long morning.

* * * *

It was a very long morning, at least from Jillian’s perspective. After she’d mastered loading, she’d put on a headset to block the noise, then advanced to raising the gun, aiming, and pulling the trigger. Paul had pointed at a paper target with several holes in the mid-chest region and told her to try to hit the heart.

Hit the heart. She never even hit the target. She hit the wall, the ceiling, even the floor once, everywhere but that blasted paper. She hated every damn shot, the feel of pulling the trigger, the kick when the gun went off, the distinctive blast the headset couldn’t totally block, the nauseating smell.

“Aim. Take a deep breath, let half out then slowly squeeze the trigger.” Paul’s constant commands were another annoying sound the headset didn’t block.

Jillian’s shot hit the wall two feet above the target. “Why don’t they make guns that are easier to aim?”

“You just need to get the hang of it.”

“I don’t want to get the hang of it. I hate guns.” She glared at the offending piece of metal.

“Come on, Jillian. Concentrate this time.”

“I am concentrating. Don’t you get it? I can’t do this.” Her shot hit a few inches to the left of the paper.

“You’re getting closer. Again.”

Her next shot hit the edge of the target.

“Good job,” Paul said. “Try again, a little to the right.”

She set the gun on the railing, jerked off her headset, and turned on him. “Good job? I barely managed a flesh wound, and you’re calling it a good job? What do you think I am, a five-year-old you can pat on the head, and I’ll keep trying? I’ve been doing this for hours. It should be evident I’m not getting better.”

“We haven’t been working that long. And you’re getting—”

“I’m getting sore arms and tinnitus, and I smell like a gunpowder factory.”

“I think we need a break.” Paul picked up the gun and carried it to the wall safe.

“Haven’t you been listening?” Jillian waved her powder-burned hands. “We don’t need a break. We need to admit this was a bad idea and quit.”

“I know it seems hard, but you can do it.” Paul closed the safe and met her eyes. “You didn’t think you could learn to ski, but you did.”

“Look how wonderful my life’s been as a result.”

He turned away. “Take some Tylenol for your sore muscles. I’ll give you another lesson in a couple hours.”

* * * *

The shooting range was even more depressing two hours later than when Jillian had left that morning. The gunpowder odor seemed stronger, as if Paul had sprayed some Eau du’ NRA around. The headset made her feel like she’d entered a vacuum chamber. The gun’s chilly weight still turned her stomach. It was already loaded, so she jumped right into pointing at the paper target and listening to Paul’s commands.

“Aim. Breath, then squeeze the trigger.”

She did. Her shot hit a foot above the target.

“Try again.”

Her next shot hit a foot to the right. She set her gun down. “I’m not doing this anymore.”

Before she realized what was happening, Paul had moved behind her, put his arms around her, and picked up the gun.

“Get away from me,” she said, wiggling to free herself.

His biceps closed like a vise on her upper arms, stopping her struggles. “I’m helping you get the feel of it.” He put the gun into her hands then wrapped his own hands around hers and raised the gun. “This is how you should be aiming. Now squeeze the trigger.”

Her shot tore through the target’s heart, enlarging one of the existing holes.

“See? You can do it,” he said.

“No, you can do it.” Jillian wriggled out of Paul’s arms and returned the gun to the railing. “I can’t, which should be obvious by now.” She yanked off her headset and threw it onto the floor. “It doesn’t matter anyway, because you have no intention of sending me to Denver. You hate being stuck here with me, and you’re punishing me by making me do this.”

“I’m making you do this because yesterday a boat got too close for comfort,” Paul said. “It turned out to be tourists way off course, but it made me worry about you being alone in the house. I want you to have every chance to protect yourself.”

“Because you feel guilty about me and because I’m your responsibility. I can’t take it anymore.” Frustration and anger had Jillian waving her arms like an overwrought television evangelist. “As of this minute, I’m relieving you of any responsibility for me, and I’m absolving you of all guilt. Now leave me alone and let me go to Denver. I’m sick of having you treat me like crap. It’s not my fault I’m here.”

“No, it’s my fault you’re here.” Paul grabbed her shoulders, stopping her flailing arms. “And you know why it happened? Because in Keystone, I let myself feel more for you than I’ve let myself feel for any woman in years. I was so eager to be with you that I convinced myself you weren’t at risk, and look what happened. If I let myself get involved with you again, I might screw up again, and this time you’ll end up dead.”

In her mind, Jillian heard Ryan saying virtually the same thing, words she’d dismissed but deep down desperately wanted to believe. “You’re saying Keystone meant something to you?”

Paul’s hands tightened on her shoulders. “It meant a hell of a lot to me. Even though to you it was just preparation for getting back with Andy.”

“I told you I’m not back with Andy. I slept in the guest room when I stayed with him.” She grabbed Paul’s biceps. “I’d never have slept with you because of Andy, no matter what I said. I’d never sleep with a man I didn’t care about.”

They stared at each other, their breaths reverberating in the tomblike silence. Then Paul’s arms were around Jillian and his lips were devouring hers as she frantically kissed him back.

Jillian’s shirt hit the floor, joined immediately by her bra.

Paul caressed her bare breasts, his touch sending sizzling heat to her stomach and between her legs. He kissed her jaw line, along her neck. “I shouldn’t be doing this,” he said between kisses.

“Don’t stop.” Jillian arched her back, pressing her tight nipples into his palms. “Don’t you dare stop.” Every inch of her skin tingled.

“I can’t stop.” He shoved her shorts below her knees, placed the gun on the floor then lifted her onto the railing. “I want you so damn much it’s killing me.” He yanked off his T-shirt and went to work on his jeans.

She’d kicked off her shorts and sandals and was trying to remove her panties without falling from the narrow railing when he settled back between her thighs. He ripped off the fragile silk and lace, widened her thighs with his palms, and thrust into liquid heat.

She caught her breath as he filled her, her body clutching him.

He stood perfectly still, breathing hard. No doubt trying to regain his control so he could push her away, like he’d done in his bedroom.

That was not happening. Jillian wrapped her legs around his waist, locked her heels together, and rocked her pelvis against him. “You said you wouldn’t stop.”

“I’m not stopping. I promise.” His voice sounded strained.

“Then move.”

He thrust once, stilled.

“Not like that.” She gripped his shoulders. “I want it faster. Harder.”

He sucked in air through clenched teeth. “I’ll be lucky to last ten seconds if I do that.”

“I don’t care. Move faster.”

He thrust into her, retreated, thrust again.

She shook his shoulders. “Harder. I want it harder.” She didn’t know what she was saying, just what she was needing.

“Hold onto me.” He picked her up and carried her so her back was against the cinderblock wall. Supporting her buttocks with his palms, he rammed into her hard. “Like this?”

“More.”

He rammed again and again and again, the delicious friction making Jillian hotter. The smell of gunpowder suddenly seemed unbelievably erotic.

She was on fire, ready to snap, but each stroke somehow wound her tighter. Then Paul fingered her clit. She exploded, flashes of light overwhelming her brain, electric charges shooting through her in hot spasms, pleasure consuming her.

“Jillian.” Paul shouted her name then jerked against her hard.

Her back barely skimmed the wall as he slid her slowly down until she was sitting on his lap on the floor, still impaled on him. He lay back and pulled her down on top of him.

She put her cheek on his damp chest. His breathing was ragged. His heart thundered under her ear, against her skin.

Pleasure faded, replaced by apprehension. Now what? Was he going to order her to leave like he had in his bedroom?

“Jesus,” he said. “I thought I was building it up in my mind, but that was even better than I remembered.”

Jillian let out the breath she’d been holding and opened her eyes. She raised her head and rested her chin on his chest. “I thought you didn’t want me.”

His eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline. “Not want you? Hell, I’ve taken so many cold showers the government’s going to start deducting the water bill from my paycheck.” He rolled them both onto their sides so they were facing each other, his thigh and arm cushioning her from the concrete floor. “I was determined to keep our relationship professional, but I had problems remembering that whenever I got near you. So I did everything possible to drive you away.”

“That’s what Ryan said.” Jillian stroked his cheek, the rasp of stubble against her fingertips triggering goose bumps along her arm and spine. “I thought he was crazy, that you resented me because I was a painful reminder that your wife was dead.”

“To be honest, I didn’t like Helene much when she died.”

“Ryan told me you were getting a divorce.”

Paul tensed beneath her. “What else did he tell you?”

“How she died. Her death wasn’t your fault.”

“She was killed by a car bomb meant for me. Did Ryan tell you that?”

“He also said you weren’t even working for the government then.”

His hand fisted on her bare back. “I still always checked my car.” His knuckles pressed into her skin. “I was so angry at Helene that morning, I didn’t even think to do it, and she ended up dead.”

“According to Ryan, she wouldn’t have waited long enough for you to do it.”

“But I should have tried!”

Jillian propped herself up on one elbow. “You’re blaming yourself when the only difference is you’d have been in the garage trying to stop her and ended up dead, too?”

“You don’t understand.”

He had the same stony expression as when she brought up going to Denver. Jillian gave up. “Maybe I don’t.”

Paul was silent for a moment. Then he kissed her hair. “I don’t feel like talking about Helene at the moment.” He gave her a rueful smile. “Unfortunately, I need a little recovery time for what I do feel like doing.”

“As long as you don’t plan to kick me out like after your nightmare.”

His mouth tightened, all traces of humor disappearing. “Would it help to tell you that was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done? That I’m sorry and still feel like shit about it?”

She stroked his cheek again. “It helps.”

He caught her fingers and held them still, his eyes fading to a bleak November gray. “Actually, I’m sorry to have involved you in this at all. Sorrier than you can imagine.” He let out a long breath. “To be honest, I did approach you on the slopes for my cover. I knew you’d be safe in broad daylight. But everything after that was for me, because I liked being with you. I convinced myself it was safe, that no one had spotted me. I’ve usually got a sixth sense about that, but this time it malfunctioned. I never should have done more than ski with you that first day.”