Fit for a Sheikh

Fiona mentally cataloged all the bad pickup lines she’d experienced in her twenty-five years. Mind if I suck your lips off your face? Too obvious. Could I show you the back seat of my sedan? Too Benny Jack. Besides, her car was temporarily out of commission. And apparently so were her seduction skills.

Come-ons were not her forte, but she decided it was now or never. She would engage him in a conversation. Something simple. The weather. Jockeys or briefs?

Inhaling a cleansing breath, Fiona grabbed a moderately clean rag and began working her way back in his direction. When she was only inches from his hand, she asked, “Would you like more coffee?”

“Not presently.” He subtly surveyed the area, something that might be lost on any casual observer, but not on Fiona.

“Are you looking for someone?” she asked.

He shifted back around to face her. “Yes.”

A man of few words. But that would not deter her. Tonight she would become Fiona the Fearless Flirt. “A woman?”

“No.”

Fiona wanted to cheer. “Okay. What does your friend look like? Maybe I’ve seen him around.”

“He is definitely not a friend.”

From his acid tone, Fiona wondered if she would soon have a fight on her hands. “I’m guessing he’s an enemy, right?”

He gave her a questioning look. “Are you interested in astrology?”

A totally unexpected question. Fiona didn’t see him as an astrology kind of guy, and frankly she was hard-pressed to believe that planet alignment controlled fate. Where was the tall dark stranger who was supposed to enter her life when Mars was in retro-something? Sitting right in front of her.

What the heck. She’d play along. “I find astrology somewhat intriguing. In fact, I’d bet you’re a Scorpio.” The oversexed sign.

“Correct.”

Bingo! Darn, Fiona, you’re good.

His eyes narrowed. “Are you a Leo?”

No, she was a Pisces. But if he wanted her to be a Leo, she could do that. She liked lions. In fact, he made her want to growl. “How’d you guess?”

He hesitated a moment then said, “I did not realize you were a woman.”

Ouch. Did she look that awful? And did he think she had bowling balls stuffed in her shirt? Granted, she’d always considered being a bit top heavy somewhat of a curse for someone with such a small frame, yet she’d never expected anyone to believe they weren’t real, or that she was a cross dresser. But, after all, this was Vegas. And it would be just her luck if he was gay. “Yes, I’m a woman. If you want a drag club, you might try downtown or the Strip.”

“My apologies.” His gaze settled on her breasts. “It is quite obvious you’re a woman. I meant I was not informed of your gender.”

Okay, she could forgive him. But she was still a trifle confused and a whole lot warm when he leaned forward and asked, “Have you seen anything?”

She saw the crease framing the right of his mouth that probably turned into a dimple when he smiled, something he had yet to do. But Fiona smiled, a coy one, or at least she hoped it looked flirtatious and not forced. “I’ve seen just about everything. What exactly are you looking for?”

Before he could answer, the drunk Fiona had ousted not more than hour ago picked that inopportune time to burst through the door, clamoring for a beer.

Fiona pushed back from the bar and said, “You don’t need to be in here, Chuck. I’m not going to serve you.”

Ignoring Fiona, Chuck staggered behind the bar. “Just one more brewsky.”

Fiona scowled at him and pointed at the door. “You’ve had enough, now leave.”

“Aw, come on, Fee-Fee.”

He was pushing his luck now. “Go home, Chuck.”

“After you give me another drink,” he slurred, bringing his foul breath with him as he leaned forward and pointed a bratwurst finger in her face.

“Do what the lady asks or you will have to answer to me.”

Fiona glanced at Scorpio who now stood by the stool, looking and sounding like a dark knight bent on coming to her rescue. And they’d said chivalry was passé. What did they know? Regardless, even if she didn’t have a black belt in karate, or any color of belt for that matter, she was quite capable of taking care of herself. “He’s harmless,” she assured him before regarding the drunk again.

When Chuck clutched Fiona’s collar in both beefy fists, Fiona grabbed his wrists and shouted, “Back off!” thrusting her knee upward toward the intended target, but Chuck moved back before she could do any damage. No, not moved back. Yanked back by Scorpio who had somehow scaled the bar and now had the drunk pinned against the counter. He muttered something in a language that Fiona couldn’t understand, but she didn’t think he was telling Chuckie to have a nice night.

He shot a glance at Fiona. “What do you wish me to do with him?”

“Just put him out the door. I’ll call the police if he comes back in.”

Chuck looked as if he might blubber as Scorpio grabbed him by the nape and guided him toward the exit. Fiona felt like blubbering, too, as she watched her one opportunity to have some adventure walk out the door, probably never to return.

Darn. Another night in Dullsville.

As Darin stepped into the warm night, he silently cursed the drunk, cursed the fact that he’d been caught off guard by the FBI operative’s gender. He’d expected a man when Kent had told him the agent would operate under the code name Leo, not an attractive woman with hair the color of a sunset, large green eyes and perfect breasts that he had not been able to ignore. But he must ignore her if he intended to complete his mission. He had no time for a liaison or lover even if he’d entertained those thoughts when he had first set eyes on her. That was before he realized she would serve as his partner in apprehending Birkenfeld, not his partner beneath tangled sheets.

As soon as he deposited the drunk in the parking lot, he would return inside to the agent and discuss their plans before Birkenfeld’s scheduled arrival in one hour. He would also attempt to keep his eyes off her attributes, though that might prove difficult. But if all went well tonight, Darin would be back on the plane tomorrow morning and Birkenfeld would be back behind bars. And he would leave the woman behind without discovering if the fiery passion she seemed to possess held true in bed. Under different circumstances, he might attempt to find out.

Darin guided Chuck down the steps while the drunk whined, “Don’t hurt me, man.”

He had no intention of hurting him unless he attempted to harm the agent, although he suspected the woman could handle this troublemaker. After all, she had been trained by the best.

As they reached the walkway at the bottom of the steps, a passing man with a shaved head, his eyes lowered to the ground, muttered, “Excuse me.”

Darin’s blood ran cold at the sound of the voice.

With one hand on the drunk’s neck, the other poised on the gun beneath his jacket, Darin turned and said, “Roman Birkenfeld.”

The man spun around and their gazes connected. Recognition dawned in the demonic doctor’s beady eyes before he shoved Chuck into Darin and took off.

Pushing the drunk aside, Darin gave chase, adrenaline pumping through his veins, his heart pounding with every step as he closed in on the criminal, but not before Birkenfeld disappeared around the back of the building.

Flattening himself against the brick wall, Darin moved into the dimly lit alley, his gun drawn, and came upon two figures struggling on the ground. He saw the shock of red hair then the silver glint of a knife poised above the woman’s chest as she fought to hold Birkenfeld’s arm at bay, shouting, “Get off me, you jackass!” Memories of another place, another time, another woman assaulted him.

Sheer instinct drove him forward to grab Birkenfeld by the arm. In a split second of stupidity, Darin took his attention from the fugitive in order to make certain the woman was not injured, allowing Birkenfeld the opportunity to strike.

The knife hit home, slashing first across Darin’s left thigh, then his side. Anger overrode the pain but he couldn’t see well enough to take a clean shot without risking shooting the agent who’d entered the fray, pummeling the back of Birkenfeld’s neck but doing little to hinder the criminal’s knife-wielding. Darin kicked out, landing the toe of his boot in Birkenfeld’s ribs, and at the same time the blade cut across the back of his right ankle. The blow proved to be too much, dropping Darin to the gravel surface. The gun, wrenched from his grasp at the impact, skittered across the pitted pavement, leaving them both vulnerable.

Darin heard the sound of harried footsteps and rolled to his belly, fumbling for and finding the gun, but not soon enough to prevent Birkenfeld from escaping into the night before he could fire off a round.

He eased onto his back, his chest heaving from labored breaths, his head swimming from the wounds and the tactical errors he had committed. The mistakes of his past seemed bent on recurring whenever a woman’s safety was involved.

Turning his head to his right, he found the agent on her knees next to him. At least she was alive. “Are you hurt?” he managed.

“I’m fine.” She gave him a visual once-over, pausing at his thigh. “Oh, God, you’re bleeding!”

Darin worked his way into a sitting position to assess the damage. The guard light above them provided enough illumination to see the slit in the T-shirt on his right side below his ribs. Fortunately, the jacket had provided enough protection against severe damage to his flesh. His thigh injury was worse, a dark stain fanning from the perimeter of the gash in his pants, indicating blood. But his ankle ached more and he suspected Birkenfeld’s knife had done the most damage there. Nothing that would not heal, but it would hinder his pursuit, at least tonight.

He muttered several oaths in Arabic directed at his carelessness.

“I’ll call an ambulance,” the agent said, her voice surprisingly calm.

Darin clasped her wrist before she could stand. “No hospitals. No doctors.”

Her eyes widened. “Are you nuts?”

“I’ve had worse injury, I assure you. Did you not have your gun drawn when you encountered Birkenfeld?”

“Birkenfeld?”

Obviously she was somewhat in shock. “The fugitive whom you were engaging in hand-to-hand combat.”

She frowned. “First, I don’t own a gun. Second, he ran into me when I was coming out the back with the garbage. Third, I don’t know any Birkenfeld.”

Darin scowled. “Did they not inform you that he was the man we would be apprehending?”

“Who are they? And who are you?”

Darin suddenly realized he had made two grave errors. “You are not FBI?”

She attempted a weak smile. “You have the F and B right, but that would be for Fiona the Bartender.”

He gritted his teeth, braced his elbows on bent knees and lowered his head. Ben had been correct in assuming he was not the right man for this mission. Yet, now more than ever, Darin wanted Birkenfeld to pay.

She came to her feet and wiped her hands over her jean-covered thighs. “Let me get the bartender who just came in to relieve me. He can help me get you inside.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Because the bartender was more than likely the real FBI agent, and Darin did not want the man to know what a fool he’d been. Letting Birkenfeld escape had been Darin’s mistake, and he would correct it. But how? He was injured. He could not do this alone. He would need help, something he hated to admit.

Darin leveled his gaze on Fiona, her expression a mixture of confusion and concern. Even if she was not FBI, she was his only ally at the moment. He would be forced to rely on her assistance, if she was willing to give it. “Do you live nearby?”

“I have an apartment a couple of miles away.”

“Take me there.”

She braced her hands on her waist and stared down on him. “First, you have to tell me who you are and what this is all about.”

He would only tell her what he must to reassure her. He would not subject her to more danger by revealing everything. “If you will see me to your apartment, I will give you details. I will say that I am working for law enforcement. The man named Birkenfeld is very dangerous. I’m here to apprehend him.”

Fiona’s expression brightened. “So you’re one of the good guys?”

“Yes.”

She frowned. “How do I know that?”

Darin lifted his arms from his sides. “In the right pocket of my pants, you will find my credentials.”

She crouched down and rifled in his pocket for a few moments. Had he not been in such pain, he might have enjoyed the activity. After she withdrew the black folder, she looked at the fabricated license, looked back at him, then back at the license. “Frank Scorpio? Texas Peace Officer?”

“That is correct.” He shifted his leg and winced from the pain in his ankle. “Could we possibly leave soon?”

“I have to call a cab. My car’s in the shop.”

“I have a rental in the lot.”

“Okay, but I’m driving.” She rose to her feet again. “I’ll have the new guy lock up. It’ll only take a sec, so don’t go anywhere.”

“I promise I will be here when you return. And do not tell him I am here. The fewer people who know, the better.”

“Okay.” She pointed to the gun still in his grip. “Could you put that thing away? It makes me nervous.”

Darin holstered the Beretta for now, but he would take it out again in case Birkenfeld returned. “Anything else I might do for you before I bleed to death?”

She gave him a self-conscious smile. “I’ll hurry.”

Fiona sprinted back into the building, leaving Darin alone in the alley with his pain and the strong sense that getting involved with this woman could be the third mistake he’d made since his arrival in Vegas.

But he had no choice.

Roman Birkenfeld ran into the night. Ran until his lungs burned and his eyes teared. Ran aimlessly through the darkened streets. His throbbing side slowed his progress somewhat and he paused behind an odious commercial trash bin to feel along his ribs where Shakir had kicked him. Nothing broken, only bruised, he suspected. No punctured lung, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to breathe at all.

Damn the woman who’d run into him. He should’ve killed her. He would have, had it not been for that bastard, Shakir. The recollection of his knife slicing through the man’s skin gave him added strength and a good deal of purpose as he continued on at a sprint. He didn’t have to guess how Shakir had found him. The idiot Larry Sutter. The blood-sucking attorney had no doubt ratted him out, setting him up with a promise of money, enough money to purchase passage out of the country. He should have known not to trust him. Should have known that Sutter had lied when he’d said he was leaving the hospital, the meeting tonight a ruse to protect Sutter’s ass.

Damn Shakir and Sutter. If Shakir wasn’t dead, and he hoped he was, he would find a way to take him out. He would take them both out, beginning with Sutter. But how? He couldn’t get close to the hospital; they would recognize him.

Tommy Stokes. The ex-con had escaped from Texas but no doubt he would be back in Vegas by now, frequenting his favorite haunts, keeping company with less-than-upstanding citizens. Places where anyone could get anything, if the price was right. Business was good for a man with a thirst for blood and the absence of a soul.

He didn’t have money to pay Stokes, but one thing was working in his favor—the thug hated lawyers. Stokes would agree to off Sutter for the sheer pleasure of watching him suffer as payback for the attorney who hadn’t saved him from a five-year prison term. Now he would just have to find the ex-con, and he would. Tonight.

As it had been all of Roman Birkenfeld’s life, people had tried to thwart his goals. They hadn’t succeeded until now. His medical career was a bust, all the years of hard work and struggle gone down the tubes because of some determined East Coast loan sharks and a woman who’d enlisted a group of Texas vigilantes determined to destroy him. It always came back to a woman, in this case, Natalie Perez.

Natalie was out of reach this time, but Shakir wasn’t. Someone would have to pay. It might as well be him.

Two

Fiona had finally composed herself enough on the drive to the apartment to stop shaking and help Frank out of the car. Well, she’d wanted some adventure, and she’d definitely gotten it when she’d been rescued from a crazed criminal by a dark stranger with biceps bulging from his iron-man arm now thrown over her shoulder. Thank goodness she lived on the first floor of the complex. No way would she have been able to drag him up the stairs. At least she was still in one piece, thanks to him. If he hadn’t come along, the guy might have killed her. But she sure as heck hadn’t intended to give up without a fight, especially when he’d held her down. Fiona could not tolerate being held down, and that had been more frightening than his knife.

After leaning her savior against the wall outside her apartment, she said, “Hang on a sec,” then turned the lock, pushed open the door and was immediately greeted by Carlotta, her slobbering, over-fed, Shar Pei who possessed enough wrinkles to keep spray starch in business for years. She stopped long enough to pat the dog’s tan head and ask, “Hey, Lottie, what did you destroy today?” The answer to the question came in the form of random scraps that had once been a textbook scattered in the corner on the living room floor.

Fiona pointed a finger at the guilty hound. “Bad, bad girl.” As usual, Lottie responded to the scolding by feigning innocence.

Taking Lottie by the collar, Fiona guided her into the lone bedroom and closed the door on her mournful expression before going back to Frank.

Frank. Ha! That just didn’t fit. In fact, she hadn’t bought that bogus name any more than she was buying his story about being a Texas cop. But she really hoped he was a member of some law enforcement agency and not some drug dealer from the back side of the law. She’d already taken a huge risk by not taking him to the hospital. And she’d be taking a bigger one if she allowed him in the apartment. But she couldn’t in good conscience leave him bleeding on her doorstep. He was hurt and he needed her help. Maybe she might even earn some commendation for valor. Just getting a good look at him in the light would be enough reward.

On that thought she turned around to find he’d already made himself welcome on her green chintz sofa, his long legs stretched out in front of him, head tipped back against the cushions, his dark lashes fanning out below his closed eyes. The man was just too gorgeous for his own good. He also looked a little pasty, and she worried he’d passed out from the loss of blood. If that proved to be the case, she was calling 911 whether he wanted that or not.

Fiona closed the front door and double locked it in case the creepy criminal had followed them. Or had she locked herself in with a criminal?

Fiona, you are a fool. But she had to trust her instincts and her belief that she was safe with her friend, Frank.

She stood over him, her gaze coming to rest on the gash at his thigh where she’d fashioned a tourniquet with two bar towels, there and around his ankle. She took a seat next to him to get a closer look at his injured side, pulling back the jacket a bit to find the bleeding had been minimal. She couldn’t be sure about his thigh unless he took off his pants. Considering they’d only met a few hours ago, disrobing him didn’t seem at all appropriate. But it was pretty darned tempting.

Slowly Fiona lowered her hand toward his fly then drew back. She couldn’t do it, but she could take a peek at the cut by removing the towel, or at least until she had permission to take off his clothes. His pants, she corrected. Only his pants and only to administer some first aid.

As she gingerly gripped the knotted towel with her fingertips, his large hand clamped her wrist with the speed of a cobra, causing her to nearly jump out of her own skin or at the very least, off the sofa.

“What are you doing?” he asked without opening his eyes or releasing her wrist.

At least he wasn’t comatose. “I’m trying to look at your wound. It needs to be cleaned up.”

He raised his head and stared at her with those intense black eyes that made her want to squirm and sweat. “Do you have any antiseptic?”

“You’re in luck. I have that and some bandages.” And limited first aid knowledge thanks to her one-year stint as a volunteer member of Shadowvale, Idaho’s, fire and rescue unit. Of course, she’d probably been on three whole calls during that time, none that had involved knife wounds. “I’ll do what I can, but I’m not making any guarantees.”

“I would appreciate any assistance you might give me.” He gave her a look of concern. “Are you certain you’re not injured?”

She was moved by the sincerity in his expression and his worry over her well-being. At least he had that much honor. “I promise, I’m fine. Nothing more than a scratch or two on my back.”

“I’m relieved. I was afraid he might have cut you, as well.”

“He tried, but I managed to keep him from doing it.”

“Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for myself.”

“But you saved me. I doubt we’d be here now if you hadn’t come along.”

“Had it not been for me, you would not have been put in that position.”

Fiona didn’t care to debate the workings of fate, so she said, “Uh, you might want to get comfortable. I mean, you might need to take off…” Why couldn’t she just say it?

He lifted a dark brow. “My pants?”

“Yeah. So I can see it better. Your cut. The one on your thigh. And your boots and socks, of course.”

“Should I remove my shirt, as well?” He sounded almost amused, but then she sounded like a blithering idiot.

Her traitorous gaze picked that moment to land on his fly. “Sure. Or I could just lift it up.” She yanked her attention back to his face. “Your shirt, I mean.”

For a minute she thought he might actually smile, but it didn’t happen. “Anything else you require of me?”

“Can I have my hand back now?” she asked.

“Most certainly,” he said as he released his grip, but not before he brushed the inside of her wrist with a fingertip. Or at least that’s what she thought he’d done. Maybe she was just hovering in imagination overdrive.

Attacked by a sudden case of the chills, Fiona came to her feet and pulled the throw her grandmother had knitted from the back of the chair. It was lopsided and an interesting shade of lime green, but it should be big enough to provide some privacy for him should he decide to undress. Of course, there was the matter of all those little holes and loose threads, thanks to Lottie’s incessant chewing. But it was the best she could do at the moment.

She tossed him the throw and told him, “You can cover up with this,” then headed for the bathroom before she did something really stupid—like insist he remove his pants immediately so she could get a good look at all his assets. How desperate she must be to consider seducing an injured stranger. At least she’d be assured he wouldn’t be able to move very fast.

Stop it, Fiona.

Once in the bathroom, she rummaged through the cabinet beneath the sink, knocking over several boxes and bottles before she found what she needed. After retrieving bandages, a damp rag and some antiseptic cream, she made her way back into the living room…and nearly dropped the supplies she clutched tightly to her chest.

Two bare, blatantly masculine legs covered in a fine layer of dark hair extended from their owner who had stretched out on his back lengthwise, his head resting on the sofa’s arm and his eyes once again closed against the light. His bare chest, smooth as a baby’s behind except for a slight shading of hair between his pecs, revealed valleys and planes of tanned muscular terrain. No shoes, no socks, no denying the man was prime perfection without his clothes. But Fiona couldn’t see anything vital due to the throw draped across his manly strategic area.