Killer Season. Lara Lacombe
the book to hold her place, then hopped off the stool. As the only employee on duty, she should offer to help him retrieve his bottle. Although she mopped the floor every night, it was still wrong to make a customer crawl around on it.
She rounded the corner and froze, sucking in a breath at the sight that greeted her. Hot Guy was on all fours, his perfect butt in the air while he dug underneath the chip display. She felt her cheeks heat and knew she should look away, but she couldn’t stop staring. Are those custom-made jeans? They had to be, the way they molded to him and fit like a second skin. His shirt rode up on his back, revealing a thin stripe of golden skin and a hint of fabric. Boxers or briefs? she mused.
She cocked her head to the side, enjoying the view with a silent sigh of appreciation. She really should help him, but seeing as he was already on the ground, there was no sense in both of them getting dirty. Better for her to stand here and...supervise. Yeah, that’s what she was doing. She wasn’t gawking like a sex-starved woman. She was supervising.
The door chimed, announcing the arrival of another customer, and she reluctantly turned away to head back to the register. At least she’d have the memory of this moment to keep her warm at night.
She rounded the corner, stopping short as a young man came barreling down the center aisle. He was tall and lean, his hands stuck deep into the front pockets of the jacket he wore with the hood pulled up. She frowned slightly, the hair on the back of her neck prickling. It was chilly in Houston, but this man looked wrong somehow, as if he wore the jacket to conceal himself rather than to stay warm.
Before she could make sense of his odd dress, he caught sight of her standing there. In one fluid motion, he drew his hand from his pocket, pulling out a gun and pointing it at her chest. “Money. Now.”
Fiona stared at the gun, unable to take her eyes from the black, snub-nosed piece. It’s so small, she thought stupidly. How can something so small be so dangerous?
“You deaf?” he asked, grabbing her arm and jerking her forward. “I said I want money.” He shoved her toward the register, and she hit the counter hard enough to make her wince, the pain from the blow piercing through the fog of shock. “Give it to me.”
Back when she had started this job, Ben, the owner, had given her some training on what to do if the store was ever held up. She was supposed to cooperate, offer no resistance, and do everything she could to get the robber out of the store without hurting anyone. If possible, she was to hit the silent-alarm button, which would alert the police that a robbery was in progress. Fiona had listened dutifully, filled with naive confidence that such a thing would never happen to her. But now that she was faced with the reality, her hands shook so badly she could barely open the register, much less find and press the alarm button.
“Faster,” he said, leaning over the counter to monitor her progress as she emptied out the register with numb fingers. He swayed back and forth on his feet, his bloodshot eyes frequently cutting over to the door. Fiona didn’t know whether to hope for an interruption, or pray no one else came in and spooked him enough to shoot her.
His breath wafted over her, the stench of stale beer so strong she almost gagged. She stuffed the rest of the bills into a plastic bag and thrust it across the counter, trying hard not to look at his face. If he thought she couldn’t identify him, maybe he wouldn’t hurt her...
When he didn’t take the bag right away, she glanced up to find him looking at the door again. Was there someone outside? She couldn’t see the sidewalk from this angle, but he was staring so fixedly that something must have caught his attention.
She kept her eyes on him, trying to control her breathing as she fumbled with one hand under the counter. Where was that damn button? Her fingers skimmed across the flat surface, searching vainly for the alarm. When she finally found it, she bit her lip to keep from crying out in relief. She pressed it with a quick stab of her finger, then brought her hand back up so he wouldn’t see what she’d done.
The man swiveled his head back around and eyed the bag greedily. His fingertips brushed across her skin as he grabbed it, making her shudder. She wiped her hand on her shirt to erase his touch as he placed the bag on the counter and opened it, keeping the gun trained on her while he checked the contents. After a few seconds, he raised angry eyes to her face, thrusting the gun forward with a jerk of his arm. “Where’s the rest?”
She shook her head. “There is no more,” she stammered, taking a step back when he leaned over the counter, peering into the empty register. A movement behind him caught her eye, and when she looked up her heart skipped a beat.
Hot Guy was slowly creeping toward the counter, a gun in his hand and his finger on his lips.
She was calm, he’d give her that. Most people didn’t respond well to a gun shoved in their face, but Fiona was handling things like a pro.
He moved quietly across the floor, stepping lightly to keep the heels of his boots from clacking on the tile. The last thing he needed was to alert the perp to his presence.
The man was growing increasingly agitated, yelling and waving the gun in Fiona’s face. Probably high, if his twitchy, jerky movements were any indication. There was no telling how much money had been in the register, but if he thought Fiona was holding out on him, he was likely to get violent.
As if on cue, the man reached across the counter and grabbed Fiona’s arm, jerking her off her feet with a rough tug. He pressed the gun against her temple as he dragged her across the counter. She kicked wildly, sending the lottery ticket display crashing to the floor.
“Where’s the rest?” the man screamed, yanking her upright before slamming her back against the counter.
She whimpered, the sound soft and helpless. Nate felt his finger tighten on the trigger, but he couldn’t risk shooting the guy when he was on top of Fiona—the bullet might pass through him and hit her.
“Please,” she begged, trying in vain to twist away. “There’s no more. I swear.”
“You’re lying!” He slammed her against the counter while he screamed in her face. “Where’s the rest of the money?”
This guy was hanging on by a very thin thread, and if Nate didn’t act soon, the punk was going to kill Fiona. The thought made his gut tighten as he moved closer, searching for an opening. No way was he going to let her die in this crappy little store. He stepped to the side, trying to find a better angle for his shot.
Fiona caught the movement, and her eyes widened as he approached. “No,” she said, keeping her gaze locked with his while she spoke. “Please don’t.”
Warmth spread through his chest at her brave attempt to protect him. Despite being in very real danger, she didn’t want him to get involved, clearly thinking he would only get himself hurt. His estimation of her climbed even higher, and he nodded, trying to silently reassure her while he crept closer.
The perp stepped back, pulling Fiona as he moved. He came dangerously close to bumping into Nate, but he shifted just in time. He turned and pushed Fiona forward, but before she took a step, he saw Nate. With a cry of alarm, he yanked Fiona back against his chest, bringing the gun up to press against her head.
“Drop it,” the robber demanded, his voice high and strained. “Drop it or I’ll shoot her.”
Nate kept his gun up, knowing that if he lowered it, Fiona was as good as dead.
“I’m a police officer,” Nate said, striving to keep his voice calm. The last thing he wanted was to antagonize the guy further. “Put down your weapon and let the woman go.”
The man’s wide eyes scanned the empty convenience store as he took a step back, careful to keep Fiona in front of him while he moved. “You drop your gun first,” he hedged.
Nate shook his head. “You know I can’t do that,” he