Page 130 of One Secret

Most people would be falling apart by now. Crying or in hysterics. The worse our situation gets, the more at-home Darcy seems to be.

'Is "grump" just your standard mode of operation?' she teases.

'This isn't how I operate on any level,' I admit, pushing aside the boxes and reaching for an old toolbox. Dust still litters its handle, which tells me I chose my hiding spot well.

'Oh right,' Darcy suddenly drawls in realization. 'Sharp-shooter. Not used to being caught in the crossfire?'

'Not used to being caught, period—' I stall to a halt.

On the other side of the toolbox, my hand has hit open air.

'What's wrong?' Darcy says, suddenly getting serious.

'It's gone.'

'What ha—?'

Darcy's boots scrape over stone as she spins on the spot. I yank myself back out from the shelves and jump to my feet beside her. We both stare in frozen uncertainty at the figure stepping out from the shadows.

Lana Caruso looks half-ready for a red carpet event. Her hair is blown into Hollywood elegance and her face made up with exceptional care. Diamonds glitter in her ears. The rest of her looks almost drab by comparison: just a pair of jeans and a simple white tee. The shirt, I notice in a moment of bewilderment, has a line of daisies prancing along the hem.

With an elbow anchored to her waistline, Lana's hand is raised like a Parisian balancing their champagne flute. From one extended finger hangs my bag of ammunition, passports, and go-cash.

More significantly, in her other hand is a Ruger Redhawk. One of the most powerful handguns in the world.

And she has it pointed directly at Darcy's head.

My heart sputters in my chest.

'Not to sound all blockbuster villain,' Lana croons, 'but... "Looking for this?"' She dangles my bag from her manicured finger.

'Hands up,' she adds when we both stand unflinching.

The blonde is handling the Ruger like it's an old friend; a more-than-familiar extension of her own arm. I remember those callouses on her fingers. The ones that give her away as a practiced marksman.

What was it Felix said at dinner...?

"Handles this entire place herself... Not to mention some other more... delicate matters in the business."

"Delicate matters…"

I grind my teeth so hard that pain lances through my molars.

Fucking idiot. Because of her looks, I'd marked Lana as a honey trap. A negotiator. But, staring at her now, my mistake is plain as fucking day. I read how she's aiming the Ruger, not for Darcy's dense frontal bone in the between-the-eyes shot all amateurs aim for, but for the eye socket... The swiftest route to an instant death.

Lana's no diplomat or negotiator. And she's sure as hell no hotel manager.

She's a killer.

I try to take a step to the left, to cover Darcy, but Lana jolts her weapon in warning. I root my feet to the floor, hands coming up in surrender, as instructed.

'"Gabriel", I presume?' I ask.

Lana says nothing to give herself away but her nostrils flare and there's a small flicker to her eyelid.

'You have me impressed,' I offer, with a friendly tilt of my head. I shuffle my weight from one hip to the other, to mask an inching shift in Darcy's direction. Lana's eyes narrow. 'Not a lot of women in this game.'

Those big eyes, framed in a thick fan of lashes, flash blue fire in the shadows.

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