Page 5

The quick tightening of his gut reminded him that he had to stop looking for the one woman with whom he’d hoped to make a go of it. She’d had a killer bod, too.

Stop. That was years ago, when he’d left North Dakota to grab the opportunity of a lifetime to work for the FBI. He’d eventually landed back out West, but in Southern California. Too far to—

Let it go, man. You’re Hawk Masters and these are two very bad people. They were bad players, for certain, but nothing more than speed bumps to maneuver en route to the big fish he was assigned to land.

The woman’s high cheekbones were another reminder of the woman he’d left behind.

Ever since he’d set boots back down in Stark County he’d found it more and more difficult to keep the memories dammed, to hold back the remorse that had plagued him since he’d abruptly left his native state. To not expect to see her—

No.

He’d do whatever it took to do his job, to break the tenacious hold of the drug ring over Stark County, North Dakota. And then he’d leave again, just like he had five years ago.

No looking back.

Veronica longed for her pistol, tucked safely in the glove compartment. There was no way she could reach for it, not when she had to get out of the car so quickly, not when the drug traffickers she and Hank were meeting would see her lean over.

The heat from the sun-drenched concrete burned through her cheap stiletto boots as sweat dripped down her calves inside the thigh-high faux leather. What was appropriate—and admittedly, fun—inside an air-conditioned nightclub was beyond impractical in this situation. Meeting a rival to not only Rex but most likely Slim, Rex’s superior. Rex would kill her on the spot for this, before Slim would ever find out one of his hires had gone rogue.

Since she’d already taken stock of Hawk’s security squad, she decided to focus on Hawk himself. He’d be the one to make the call on whether or not they’d go into business together.

Whether you live or die.

The man in question was too far away yet for her to make out any distinguishing details, so she gathered the intel that she could. He was approximately six feet tall, maybe a bit more; his dark hair was back in what she assumed was a tight ponytail; he had broad shoulders, a torso that screamed he spent time with weights. Dressed in a black tee and weathered jeans, and the only things that indicated he was from around here, or at least the West, were his cowboy boots, which were polished to a high sheen. She’d have to get closer to him to get the details that were specific enough for her to pass on to the sheriff’s department for follow-up and identification.

“Stop. Hands up.” The first gangster stopped no more than ten feet away, rifle drawn and aimed at them.

“Hang on.” The second guy sounded annoyed, but at his partner, not them, from the dark glance he shot the first one. “Do either of you have any fire on you? If you do, now’s the time to throw it down.”

“Uh, yeah. Hawk don’t like—”

“Shut your gob!” Hoodlum one cut off hoodlum two, as he was clearly in charge. Let them think they have the upper hand.

“Disarm, if you please.” The third punk, standing between these two and the man she assumed was Hawk, spoke over both of his colleagues, pointing his weapon at her, while the other two aimed at Hank.

Time to put on the charm.

Veronica raised her arms, hands palms-out. “I’ve got nothing, gentlemen.” She figured they’d pat her down, which was why she’d put her handy-dandy, tiny pocketknife into the push-up padding at the bottom her bra cup. It would be easy to miss, especially if her low-cut blouse was distracting enough to whichever cretin had the duty of frisking her.

On cue, hoodlum two stepped forward. After he briskly patted down Hank, he turned to her. Pure lust shone from his beady eyes—how could any pair of eyes be beadier than Hank’s?—and she forced the salacious smile she’d practiced for an occasion like this.

“Go ahead, sugar. I’m clean as a whistle.” She winked, eliciting a deer-in-the-headlights stare from the twerp who’d kill her without a second thought.

“Uh—”

“I’ve got it from here.” Hawk Masters cut through their exchange and motioned with his head at Hank. “Take him into the building.” A frigid tremor shook her. He was stealthy, evidenced by how he’d walked silently up to them. Hawk’s demeanor, from his obvious command of the situation to his low, snarling voice, was threatening enough. But the way the other punks reacted was what made her take notice. They cowered in abject fear, as if their leader wouldn’t hesitate to harm them for the least transgression.

Or worse.

Channeling the rage she experienced when facing down any soulless criminal, Veronica turned her gaze to Hawk, prepared herself to look into the eyes of yet another loathsome scum of the earth. A man who made his living by killing others, directly or indirectly, as he facilitated the distribution of drugs. All for the sake of profit. And relentless power.

He wore dark sunglasses, so she couldn’t see the devil in the windows to his soul, only a reflective black surface. His skin was bronzed either from the sun or the windburn so common in North Dakota as to be considered normal. He had a distinctive chin, heavy shadow and cleft included, topped by chiseled cheekbones she hadn’t been able to see until standing this close. His mouth was full, but in a grim line at the moment, not uplifted as she’d remem—

Remembered? What is so familiar—

Hawk set his sunglasses back on his head, exposing a pair of blue eyes. From the depths of which shone icy, arctic shards of silver. The unique combination was unforgettable, even five years after she’d last seen him.

A new emotion shocked tremors through her midsection. Shocks not from fear, but of recognition.