* * *
Trace swore under his breath. This was not going as planned. He’d brought the princess to his favorite shooting range and made her sit through three hours of gun safety class before he ever let her step outside with a gun in her hand. Sweetly appealing in her jeans and rose-pink sweater that hugged her curves, with her hair piled with seeming carelessness atop her head in a way that let a few curls dance tantalizingly every time she moved her head, she’d listened intently to every word he said. She’d even asked questions that proved she was following what he was saying. He’d shown her different kinds of pistols, talked to her about ammunition, about rimfire versus center-fire and various calibers of bullets. He’d had her load and unload bullets into a clip, and had demonstrated how to load a clip into a pistol and chamber a round. He’d explained what a safety was, and the importance of utilizing it.
But the minute she stepped onto the range with a Smith & Wesson 22-caliber pistol it was as if he’d wasted his breath. No one can be that incompetent with a gun, he told himself. Either she hadn’t really been paying attention, or he was a lousy teacher.
“No, Princess, you’re holding it all wrong,” he said with a touch of exasperation. “And never point a gun at a man unless you intend to shoot him,” he added when she swung around in his direction. “Even if the safety’s on.” He grabbed her gun hand and forced it downrange.
She removed her headphones, letting them hang around her neck, and stared at him. “Would you have shot him?”
Trace removed his own headphones. “Shot who?”
“The man at the lake. The one who took my photograph,” she explained. “You just said I should never point a gun at a man unless I intend to shoot him.” Her face was solemn. “So would you have shot him?”
He thought about it for a moment, wondering exactly what she was asking. And why. “If that had been a gun in his hand and not a camera—yes. He would have been dead before he got off a shot. Dead before he hit the ground.”
“But it was a camera,” she said stubbornly. “So would you have shot him?”
He shook his head. “But I had to make him think I would. I had to scare the hell out of him so he’d give me the camera.”
“Why?”
“Because I—” He stopped, not wanting to tell her the truth, but not wanting to lie to her either. He remembered her soft cry of dismay when the shutter had clicked, and his protective instincts had kicked in. Nothing was going to be allowed to hurt her in any way when he was around to prevent it. No matter what he had to do.
She was still looking up at him, a question in her eyes. “Because it’s my job to protect you,” Trace said finally. And while it was the truth, it was a far cry from the whole truth.
She didn’t say anything, just nodded, as if his answer matched her expectations. She turned back to the gun range and slipped her headphones back on. “Can you not help me?” she asked again in a sweetly helpless way.
Trace sighed and positioned himself behind her for the third time, fitting his right hand around hers. “It’s not that difficult, Princess,” he told her with as much patience as he could muster. He brought her arm up with his and aimed at the target. “You just find your point of aim and shoot.”
This close to her the smell of her delicate perfume was mesmerizing, not to mention what the feel of the back of her body cuddled up against the front of him was doing to his breathing. He quickly disengaged and stepped backwards, slipping his headphones back on. “Now you try it,” he told her with a voice that wasn’t quite steady. “No, take the safety off first.”
She complied. This time she faced the target, aimed, and for the first time, fired. She didn’t hit the target, but she didn’t flinch—and that’s when the suspicion hit him. Despite the noise-canceling headphones she wore, she should have flinched at the sound and kick of the pistol she’d just fired for the first time—most newbies did. Which meant she probably wasn’t a newbie with a gun. So why was she pretending she was? Why had she dragged him out here? Why had she patiently sat through gun safety class? And why had she asked him to demonstrate by positioning her arm time and again?
Then he figured it out, and he wasn’t sure if he should swear or feel complimented. While he was still trying to decide, another question came to him. Should he tell her he knew the truth, or should he let her go on pretending, wasting both their time? She turned to him just then, looking for direction. “Again,” he told her automatically. “Keep trying until you empty the clip.”