Murder Under The Mistletoe. Terri Reed

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СКАЧАТЬ tangle of thick ebony curls cascaded about her shoulders like a cloud, and the most amazing hazel eyes regarded him with stark fear. Her gaze moved to the gun in his hand, then back to meet his scrutiny.

      Forcing himself to a sitting position, he reholstered his weapon and let his head sink into his hands with a groan. “You hit me.”

      “I’ll do it again if you don’t tell me who you are and what you’re doing here and how you have a key to my house,” she growled.

      Feisty, considering he’d had her at gunpoint. Lifting his head, he started at the sight of his hands covered with blood. Apparently the knock over the head with the pan had broken the skin on his scalp. Hopefully, that was the only thing she’d broken.

      He reached for his ID wallet and held it up for her to see. “Agent Tyler Griffin, DEA. You must be Heather.”

      One lip curled up. “Obviously.” Her dark winged brows dipped as she took a step closer to inspect his credentials. She danced back and frowned. “How do I know that’s real, and how do you know my name?”

      “It’s real. You can check it out if you’d like.” He held the leather case out for her to take. “There’s a number on the card you can call.”

      “Throw it over.”

      Smart, too. He liked that. He tossed it so it landed at her feet. Keeping her focus on him, she picked the wallet up. Her straight white teeth tugged on her bottom lip. “You didn’t answer me. How did you get a key, and how do you know who I am?”

      “Your brother.”

      Her eyes narrowed. “What?”

      “Seth gave me the key.” Tyler probed the tender spot on his head. “He was working with us.”

      Disbelief skipped across her lovely face. “Right. Seth was working with the DEA? Why would he give you a key to the house?”

      “Yes, he was working for us.” He cringed. He loathed explaining why he had the key, but there was no help for it. He had to tell her. “He gave me the key in case anything happened to him.”

      “I don’t believe you. The sheriff’s on his way.”

      Perfect. Could this operation get any more complicated? They’d purposely kept the local law out of the loop in case there was corruption within the department. Tyler hadn’t wanted to blow his confidential informant’s identity.

      He mentally snorted as the sharp blade of guilt twisted in his gut. Seth’s cover had been blown just the same.

      “Look, call the number on the card. Then we’ll talk.”

      “Put your gun on the floor and kick it over to me,” she said, her eyes sparking with challenge and distrust.

      “No way. That’s not how this works.” An agent never handed over his firearm. He stood. The world swam. His vision blurred. He reached out for the desk and missed.

      He toppled face-first onto the floor and fell into darkness.

      * * *

      Oh, no. He’d passed out. Or had she killed him?

      Horrified by either prospect, Heather remained rooted to the floor. Her first impulse was to help him. But the need to protect her son was a fierce force, urging her to turn tail and run, grab Colin and head for the car.

      She couldn’t leave the intruder lying there without making sure he wasn’t dead. Or that he didn’t die from the wound she’d given him. She would not feel guilty for clobbering him with the pan.

      Stuffing his wallet into the deep pocket of her robe, she tentatively moved closer. Her foot bumped up against the gun holstered at his hip. Carefully, she slipped the weapon from the leather holster and clicked on the safety before tucking it into her pocket next to his ID.

      Her muscles and nerves tensed, on high alert, ready to jump away if he so much as twitched. He didn’t move. She laid two fingers against his neck. His pulse beat with a strong rhythm. Good. He wasn’t dead, only unconscious.

      Which wasn’t good. She’d probably given him a concussion.

      She gently turned him onto his back. He’d made an intimidating picture awake, but now with his features relaxed, she noticed the chiseled strength of his jaw, the angles and planes of his brow and cheekbones. Handsome. Though his eyelids were closed now, she’d noticed his striking blue eyes were the color of the sky on a clear day.

      He had to be at least six feet tall. The black cargo pants and black long-sleeved T-shirt beneath the leather jacket showed off a well-conditioned physique. Was he really a drug enforcement agent? What did he mean, Seth had been working for them?

      She grabbed a kitchen towel and used the material as a makeshift bandage for the laceration on his scalp. Then, after undoing the ties to the dining room chair cushion, she slid the cushion off the seat, gently lifted the injured, unconscious man’s head and slipped the pillow beneath him. His eyelids popped open. Startled, she scuttled back and slipped a hand into her pocket to cradle the gun there.

      Keeping a close watch on him, she called the number on the card placed opposite his badge inside the brown leather case and even though the man that answered identified himself as Deputy Director Moore, she asked, “How do I know you’re who you say you are?”

      The agent sat up and rubbed his head. She stared him down, and he met her gaze, waiting.

      “Excuse me? Who is this?” Irritation threaded through the tone of the man on the other end of the line.

      Not willing to give her name, she said, “I’ve a man here claiming he’s a DEA agent and that you are his boss. But how do I know you two aren’t in league together and this isn’t some elaborate scam?”

      “Madame, call this number.” The man rattled off a ten-digit number. Thankful for the memorization skills she’d learned in college, she put the number to memory. “You can confirm for yourself who I am. Once you have, ring me back.” The man hung up.

      Still disbelieving, she input the number into the phone and waited a moment until a woman answered, “Department of Homeland Security, how may I direct your call?”

      Surprised, she hesitated, then hung up. Was this for real? Homeland Security? No way.

      She quickly called 411 and asked for the main number of the Department of Homeland Security. The automated voice gave her the same number that she’d just dialed.

      Stunned but not quite ready to accept that the man sitting on the floor watching her was really law enforcement, she redialed the number for Homeland Security and asked to speak to Deputy Director Moore.

      “The deputy director is not in at the moment. Would you care to leave a name and number for when he returns?”

      Heather chewed on her bottom lip for a second before she said, “Uh, can you tell me if there is an agent name Tyler Griffin working for the DEA?”

      “I’m not at liberty to give out that information. Did you want to leave a message for the deputy director?”

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