Killer Designz had a massive front window, so even while still a dozen feet away, he spotted Peterson—he would never get used to seeing her dressed like that—talking to presumably a tattoo artist. She stood with her hip cocked out, an “I’m up for grabs” smile on her painted mouth, and her hands on a counter so she could lean forward, which effectively kept the artist’s attention glued to her rack.
Rowdy stood a few feet behind her, glancing through a book of designs. The two hoods were off to the side, pretending to peruse the body jewelry in a glass-enclosed case.
Like either of those goons had piercings.
A little bell jangled when Reese walked in. Cool air-conditioning washed over his heated skin. Rowdy glanced up and away, doing a good job of dismissing him. Peterson stalled a second but not for long. Her gaze moved to the two thugs and then away again.
Was that to let Reese know she was already aware of them? Maybe.
“Well,” she said, her voice somehow throaty, “you’re getting busy, and I don’t want to hold you up.”
The thugs, it seemed, were more concerned with Rowdy than Peterson, which made sense. Rowdy stood six-four, only a few inches shorter than Reese, with a fit physique that promised capability. In comparison, the Lieutenant was a diminutive little lady, and in that getup, she looked more like fluff than a ball-busting, high-ranking cop who’d damn near single-handedly cleaned up a very corrupt department with cold-blooded determination.
Shit. “Hey,” Reese said. “You the only one working?”
The artist nodded at him. “I’ll be right with you.”
“Great.” Hooking his sunglasses to the front of his T-shirt, Reese did his own perusing. That gave him an opportunity to surreptitiously scope out the interior in case they had to make a hasty getaway.
The lieutenant put a finger to her lips. “I like all of these,” she said of the designs shown in a free-standing swing panel display. “But I saw a really unique pattern the other day, and I think I want something like that.”
The artist watched her finger on her mouth as she dragged it back and forth over her bottom lip. “Can you describe it to me?”
“Sure. It was sort of long and narrow, with lines and numbers.”
“Numbers?”
“Mmm-hmm.” She rested her arm on the counter—which dipped her forward even farther until Reese feared she’d fall right out of the dubious constraint of that sheer blouse.
He stopped staring only long enough to realize that Rowdy and the two goons were also paying very close attention to the straining buttons on her blouse.
“Like this,” she said, and she used her damp fingertip to draw the size of the tattoo on her arm. She looked up with a slow smile. “Got anything like that?”
The guy concentrated on breathing for a few seconds. “Yeah, I think I might.” Something glittered in his eyes. Lust, yes, but more than that? “Hang on a sec while I go get a different pattern book.”
Was he onto her?
Staying loose, his ankles crossed, Reese leaned back on the counter as he flipped through a catalogue.
The artist turned and went through a curtain to a backroom.
Rowdy looked up at her. “Where you getting your tat, honey?” He used the excuse of a conversation to move closer to her—something Peterson didn’t appreciate, given how she took a step away.
Heat flushed her cheeks, and damn if that didn’t look genuine.
“I haven’t decided,” Peterson said. “Probably on my arm, but I’m thinking it might look great climbing the back of my leg, too.” She turned, presenting that snug little ass to Rowdy and the two hired hands. She tipped her hip out again and looked over her shoulder with a smile. “What do you think?”
“I think you shouldn’t mess with perfection.”
Peterson did a slow bat of her eyelashes, and that was so disturbing, Reese almost missed hearing the lock on the front door click into place. He turned fast and saw that one of the men now barred the door. The other man, mouth twisted in a sick smile of anticipation, pulled out a Desert Eagle .50 cal with a long black suppressor attached.
Reese didn’t wait for questions, for a better opportunity, or to see what Rowdy and Peterson would do. He thought only of controlling that deadly weapon.
Full force, he launched his considerable size and weight at the armed man. The complete lack of hesitation took the goon by surprise. Reese topped him by several inches and probably forty pounds, so the impact of his assault crashed them to the ground hard. As they fell, Reese heard a near-silent pop, pop and the shattering of glass.
He trusted Rowdy and Peterson to handle the other one, not that he had much of a choice.
While holding on to his wrist so that the bastard couldn’t lift the gun, Reese deliberately thunked the man’s head to the floor, then landed an elbow to his face. That slackened the guy’s grip, and Reese wrested the gun from his hand.
“You’re a dead man,” the idiot snarled, renewing his effort to get the upper hand.
Reese used the gun to slug him hard in the jaw.
The man went limp at the same time something crashed behind him.
Twisting, Reese looked over his shoulder—and Peterson was all but naked!
Somehow, while he’d had his back turned, her blouse had gotten ripped, and yes, those were pale, full br**sts spilling out all right. Jacking up her skirt, she produced her own weapon—a small handgun she’d strapped to her thigh—and pointed it at the man Rowdy had in a chokehold.