Page 3 of Lesson In Forgiveness

There was a nagging feeling in his gut warning him that this assignment might actually be the death of him.

*

Tabitha

Nighttime was her time.

After landing in Philadelphia and reluctantly catching the layover flight to Phoenix, Tabitha was too hyped up to even think about the contract. Hours of endless farting from the disgusting prick on one side, and the pneumatic snoring from the woman on the other, meant her temper was still dangerously frayed hours after they parted company.

She wanted a shower to wash the smell off her, although there was nothing to rinse it out of her nose, and her body insisted it was starving. Tiredness dogged her heels, a result of jetlag and the stress of this clusterfuck of a journey.

The first thing she actually did was hire an SUV and drive it to the nearest shooting range. For the safety of the general public, she needed a violent release before she attempted to mingle with another crowd.

The noise in her head wouldn’t be quiet, even with the ear protectors muffling the sharp crack, crack, crack of gunfire. The voices wouldn’t shut the fuck up despite the kick of the gun in her hand, the hard jolt running up her arm with each precise squeeze of the trigger.

Everything you are is a lure to your prey, Tabitha. Your looks, your voice, your eyes. This body…

A shudder ripped through her spine as the memory resurfaced. Skin shivering as though Dominic’s hands were stroking down her twelve-year-old arms, she clenched her jaw until her teeth ached, and pumped the trigger until the pretty Beretta 80X Cheetah was empty.

Your body is more than an incubator. I’ll teach you how to use your wiles to hook your target, blind them to the blade at their throat. Sex is not an expression of love, do you understand? It’s a weapon, nothing more.

Hands shaking in a way she hadn’t experienced in years, Tabitha fumbled to reload. She remembered all too well the lessons he’d taught her—Dominic and his wife hadn’t just taught her how to read, write, and do all the educational shit they insisted made a well-rounded killer. They’d gone beyond teaching her how to attack and defend through martial arts.

When her next volley of shots missed the heart of the target by a mile, she snarled and resisted the urge to throw the pistol instead.

This was all Anarchy’s fault, she thought viciously. If her interfering sister-in-law hadn’t stuck her nose in where it didn’t belong, she’d have flown home in first class where her personal space remained unviolated.

There wouldn’t be this itch under her skin, her boundaries would be intact, and she wouldn’t feel as though something vital had shifted under her feet.

In her mind, the fault needed to be fixed.

Immediately.

Returning to the weapons locker, Tabitha set the gun down on the counter, slapping her hand down on it when the muscular guy behind the safety glass tried to take it. Flashing him a smile that wavered at the edges, she flirtatiously swept a lock of faux hair behind her ear. “This is some gun.”

Brown on brown, about six-one, biceps like Christmas hams. There wasn’t much intelligence sparking in those dark eyes, which suited her just fine. “Boss likes his Berettas.”

“Mmm, a man of good taste.” Fuck, she hated acting like a simpering, no brained female. She traced a fingertip along the barrel. “He attached to this one?”

“Doubt it. Keeps his favorites stashed in the office safe.”

“I bet.” God spare her from witless fools. “Think he’d sell this one?”

The beefcake scratched his head. “Guess so. Gonna need ID and a background check.”

“Now that’s a shame. I’m only here until tomorrow.” Licking her lips suggestively, she hummed softly, then reached into the small travel bag crossed over her body. Pulling out a wad of cash, she placed it beside the gun. “Why don’t we say that this is a private sale? There’s fifteen hundred dollars here; a thousand to cover the cost of the gun, and five hundred for a guy who knows a good deal when it’s in front of him.”

“Well, I dunno if that’s legal.”

What the hell was this imbecile doing working in a shooting range? Sure, it was the night shift, but as slow as business was, it was still damned irresponsible to have someone like him watching over things.

“Arizona law states that a private sale doesn’t require a background check. Only a commercial firearms dealer needs one, and this isn’t a commercial dealership, right?” Trying to keep her sickly-sweet tone light and convincing, she batted her fake eyelashes at him.

Beefcake looked at the money, then at her. Shrugging his hefty shoulders as though he didn’t give a shit one way or the other, he slid the wad of cash under the glass. “You want ammo with that?”

Oh yes, she thought darkly. Yes, she really did. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

Ten minutes later, she tossed her bag—now stuffed with a handy box of ammunition—onto the passenger seat of the SUV, and shoved her shiny new Beretta into the glove box. Starting the engine, she let it idle for a few moments before strapping herself in, taking a deep breath to try and quell the unsettled feeling she couldn’t escape.

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