Or maybe it was just the sight of Mitch Foster, standing a few feet away. Completely naked. Dripping wet.
Holy . . .
Shit . . .
“Mitch?” Heather barely breathed the shocked word before darting another glance around the empty bathroom. Reality check.
She refocused on him with narrowed eyes. For some insane reason, her gaze darted to his right shoulder and searched his skin. The sight of that familiar tattoo—the Major League Baseball Association logo inked in red, white, and blue glory—confirmed that Mitch Foster was the man glaring back at her from the shower.
“What in the fuck are you doing here?” Her mind cleared and a million questions hit her at once, but she could only get out the most important one. “And why have you been stalking me for two days?”
“I wasn’t stalking you, for God’s sake.” He slammed off the water controls.
Heather startled and realized she’d lowered her weapon. She took aim again, her heart skipping as she stepped back.
Mitch leaned down and swiped the towel off the floor. Before he swung it around his hips, her gaze swept over him again. Just a quick once-over, soaking in the sheer male beauty of his body. That’s all it took for his raw sexuality to sink into her consciousness and take hold. Her breath eased out of her lungs with a low sigh of pained pleasure.
“I was watching you so I could find a time, an appropriate time, to talk to you, Halina. Unlike some people, who decide to jack a man in the middle of a shower, I have manners.”
“You call watching me through my windows at night ‘manners’? Have you forgotten how to use a phone?”
Hands on hips, he glared at her. He glared at her.
“And you would have returned my call, right? And we would have met at Starbucks like normal people, right? Had a regular, civil conversation, right?” He gestured between them, making a point to stare at the gun. “Because normal people always use silencers on their forty-fives during civil conversations.”
“You’re not pulling that lawyer shit with me. You’ve been watching my house for two damned days. What are you doing here? How did you . . . ?” Fear singed her nerve endings. “How did you find me? And why?”
One part of her mind scanned for her misstep even as another kicked up in alarm. He stepped out of the shower.
“Don’t move, dammit.”
“Or what, Halina? You’ll shoot me?” A cynical grin cut across his face. Bright white. Gorgeous. He was simply gorgeous—a perfect blend of godly and devilish. “Give me a break. And stop waving that thing around before you shoot me by accident.”
“If I shoot you, it won’t be an accident.” What an ass. “Are you working for him? Are you here to bring me back? Because I’m not going. And what I do next depends on your answer.”
His gaze went hard and dark. All humor vanished, replaced by taut anger. “So you were working for Schaeffer. Then what, Halina? It went bad? He turned on you? Like that would be a big surprise.”
“I don’t have time for this.”
She stuffed the gun into her waistband and turned, exiting the bathroom and skirting the bed on her way toward the front door.
Mitch followed and grabbed her arm just before she reached the handle. He jerked her around hard. “Make time.”
She moved automatically. A kick to his shin, a jerk of her arm, and she was free. Her stance instantly settled again, hands up and ready for a longer, harder fight. “Bring it on, Mitch, but make it fast.”
A familiar edge of excitement lit his eyes. She’d looked into so many opponents’ eyes over the years; she recognized the rush of adrenaline. But if she thought too much—about who this was, what was at stake—she might just cave.
His hands came up, palms out in partial surrender, with a half-assed grin of sardonic apology. “Whoa, whoa. Forgot I’ve got a little martial arts expert on my hands.”
“How do you know that?” Her mind scattered as the implications of his presence sank in.
He dropped his head and raked all ten fingers through the too-long, deep black mass of his hair, pulling it off his face. The muscles of his biceps and pecs rolled with the movement, and her thoughts pinged in another direction. Damn, he was beautiful. So much more beautiful in person. The newspapers and magazines didn’t begin to do his looks justice. High cheekbones and deep-set eyes from his Japanese mother. Straight nose, square jaw, olive-toned skin from his Italian-Irish father.
Her stomach squeezed as a flash of want seared her body.
“Halina”—he looked up, his gaze flat, serious—“Max Gorin and Andre Rostov are dead.”
Panic trilled along her nerves, a violin off key. I’m next.
“Wh—? How do you know their names?” She couldn’t think straight. Could barely think at all. “It doesn’t matter. None of this matters.”
She reached for the door again. Frantic for air. For space. Her vision doubled and she almost missed, but plunged the handle and jerked on the door. Mitch slammed a hand against the wood above her head and the door shut with a loud pop.
Heather gritted her teeth against rising panic. She hadn’t been prepared for this. For him. She could fight anyone else. Anyone.
“But it does matter, Halina. It matters to me.” He was breathing hard, his minty breath fluttering the hair that had fallen from her bun. “It matters to the people I care about. Because whatever you did seven years ago, whatever alliances, enemies, promises, or lies you made, are now messing with my life.”
Confusion drained some of her fight. She turned her head and found his lips nearly touching her temple, outlined by a full day of dark whiskers. He smelled clean, a little spicy, all male, all Mitch.
She leaned her forehead against the door. For an instant, just an instant, her mind flashed back to his body, dripping water. Desire flashed through her system, so explosive and hot she groaned. Her eyes closed. She swallowed. That strong body was stretched the length of hers at her back, heat pouring off him.
“No,” she said. “That’s . . . not possible.”
“Tell that to the dozen other people who’ve been suffering Schaeffer’s wrath for the last five years.”
Her eyes opened to the warm wood. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but it can’t have anything to do with me.”
“I already know it does, Halina. That’s why I’m here.”
And that stunned her silent. Trapped her in a damned-if-she-did, damned-if-she-didn’t scenario. But she’d been here before, and her past decisions had kept them both alive.
“I’m sorry, Mitch. I can’t help you.”
“You can and you will,” he said. “You’re not going anywhere until you answer my questions, Halina.”
“Heather. It’s Heather.”
“I am never calling you Heather.” His tone ground back into glass. “Fuck that. And fuck you while I’m at it. What the hell happened to going back to Russia with your husband, Halina? You’re a little far from home.”
Oh, hell.
He wasn’t going to let this go. Wasn’t going to let her go. Heather gritted her teeth. “Mitch . . . step back. Please. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.”