The joint was a dim little hole-in-the-wall decorated in whatever leftover junk had lost a bidding war at a yard sale. Christmas lights drooped across the ceiling in sagging rainbow strands despite being months past the holiday. And the cushion he sat on was ripped and digging into his ass.
An odd choice for her.
Or so he’d thought at first.
After some observation, it had become clear that Lura’s buttoned-up façade was just that. A façade.
Off-duty Lura preferred Costco-brand joggers and New Balance sneakers. Her apartment was cozy and colorful, but her furniture was purchased for comfort instead of fashion. And when she went out for a night of fun, she didn’t choose a nice restaurant or any of the fancy cocktail bars frequented by the government elites. She chose this dive that made him feel like he might contract hep B from the toilet seat.
It was amazing.
She was amazing.
She was also perfect for the job he’d been sent to offer her.
She was well-connected because she was the right-hand woman to the president’s right-hand man. Since she was single, no boyfriend drama would steal her focus from the mission. And she was equally well-liked by her superiors and her peers, which meant folks tended to let their guard down around her.
No one gave her a second glance when she walked into a room with the likes of the president, the vice president, or the Joint Chiefs. She was important enough to warrant a relatively high security clearance, but not important enough to need a security detail. And everyone was used to seeing her at the office at all hours, so if she happened to stick around after all the others had left for the day, no one batted an eyelash.
Which meant…survey says?
It’s time.
He drained the last of his beer, set his jaw, and slid to the edge of the booth.
Before he could stand, however, some jackass sidled up beside her at the bar.
The shitbird looked like all the other shitbirds in Washington. Tall, square-jawed, hair styled like he’d just walked out of an ad for overpriced cologne. His suit jacket was pulled tight over a set of gym-built shoulders, and his grin…
Yeah, he practices that in the mirror.
Lura didn’t return the man’s smile. At best, her expression was what might be called politely interested. And when she bent to pick up the earring that dropped on the floor after she brushed her hair behind her ear, Graham would swear the asshole smacked her ass with his eyes.
Graham’s hands stayed loose on the tabletop, but his right boot shifted, crossing over his left knee just enough to bring the pistol strapped to his ankle into easy reach.
Accuracy depended on a shooter’s skill and the range to the target. Graham was a skilled shooter. But even a kindergartener could hit a man fifteen feet away. Also, with twelve in the clip and one in the throat, he had thirteen tries to get it right.
His focus narrowed to the point of a pin in the center of the douchecanoe’s forehead. He couldn’t help thinking how good that spot would look with a neat little hole drilled through it.
Not that Graham could really blame the guy for ogling. Lura Dougherty was five feet eleven inches of boom and pow. She had it all in all the right places. And all of it was explosive to a man’s senses.
Deciding he’d seen plenty—and letting go of the fantasy of putting a lead round through the asshat’s brainpan—he slid from the booth and threaded his way through the crowd, boots tacky against the beer-soaked floor.
He wasn’t sure how he’d expected Lura to receive him when he stepped up beside her. But he certainly wasn’t prepared for her to squeal his name and throw her arms around his neck.
37
What the ever-loving hell are you doing, woman?
The thought ripped through Lura’s head the instant she launched herself at Graham Coleburn.
Her only excuse? She’d been thinking about him pretty much nonstop since leaving Chicago. Plus, she was grateful for the easy out when it came to Bryan. Or did he say his name was Ryan? And also, Graham smelled really, really good. Like charred vanilla and warm leather and…
Okay, so fine. Those were three excuses. But still.
Stepping back, she carefully arranged her features and tried to cover her blunder by quickly asking, “What in the world are you doing here?”
“Came to see ya.” His growly voice cut clean through the hum of clinking glasses, bluesy music, and the chatter of three dozen conversations.
