“We have a client in the boardroom in five.” Gillian stood outside Dean’s office, feet braced apart, arms folded over her chest. Despite the professional stance, she somehow still managed to exude a dangerous sexual vibe that turned him on. Her gaze snapped from side to side, taking in everything, including the pile of crap on his desk—he had no idea what most of it even was anymore.
Dean liked the woman. Really liked the woman, especially when he’d hit on her before their first assignment together, and instead of caving instantly or giving him the sexual harassment glare, she’d simply informed him he couldn’t handle a woman like her, and proceeded to move her things into the lockers they’d set up for the new recruits in the staff area.
He hauled himself out of his La-Z-Boy, tossing aside the resort magazine he’d been poking through for ideas. “You’re eager.”
She shrugged. “I’m on the payroll. I may as well work.”
“God, don’t let Parker hear you say that. He’s going to expect all of us to follow suit if you set the example.”
Her lips twitched. “Bullshit, sir. I’ve only been here for a couple of weeks, but I’m already aware you work very hard at not working.”
“Hilarious.” Her smartass comment only made him smile harder. It was nice to have another person around who he didn’t have to walk on eggshells with. He gestured to the shoulder harness peeking from under her jacket. “You want to lose the pistol while we’re in the building? Or at least while we’re grilling clientele? My desk has a lock, and I’ll get you a key.”
Gillian stiffened. “You don’t think I should be armed while on the job?”
“Of course not.” Dean made a rude noise. “I’m not talking about cutting off your hands, but there’s a metal detector at the front door, and we screen all clients regarding their firepower—we have a no-Uzis-until-the-third-date rule—so, while you’re in the building, stow them.”
She paused a beat before nodding and stepping forward into the room. “Yes, sir.”
“Just Dean is fine,” he reminded her again, looking around for the best spot to offer her. He pulled open the top drawer on the left side of his desk. Fished out the condom packages lying scattered inside and dropped all but two into another drawer. He tucked those into his pocket, glancing back to see she had one brow raised in a perfect Spock imitation.
If he ever felt guilt, this would be a perfect time. Fortunately, he and guilt weren’t on speaking terms. “And now you know where the emergency stash is kept. Feel free to help yourself.”
“Thanks.” Gillian moved closer, crowding him until he had to step back or get pushed over. “You might need to get me another drawer, though. Don’t know if this skinny thing will do the job.”
Dean snorted. She’d kept her gaze leveled squarely at his crotch while she spoke. Yeah, he liked her a lot. Comrade in arms and all that.
Then she took out her pistols, and he got a hard-on—one that was way bigger than skinny anything.
The 9 mm in the shoulder harness he’d known about. She unloaded and slipped the cartridge into the top section of his desk, separating the ammo and body. But then she pulled another pistol from a back harness. Then one from her ankle. And when she revealed two switchblades and a final fixed knife in a sheath on her thigh, he fell in love.
“Sweet Jesus. Are you always this heavily armed?” He admired the arsenal as she expertly disarmed the lot and stored them.
Her dark eyes twinkled mischievously. “You’ve heard of my former unit, right? When you play with the big boys, you master the big toys.”
The remark was accompanied with another pithy glance at his crotch, which brought a burst of laughter. “Marry me?” he asked.
“Sorry, you’re not my type,” Gillian said flippantly.
“What is your type? Because I need to be out of range the day you two fight.”
“Still looking for Mr. Right, but I’ll keep you informed.” She tilted her head toward the door. “Shall we?”
Dean locked the desk and passed her the key, opening the boardroom door a moment later and letting her enter ahead of him. It wasn’t just old-fashioned politeness anymore—he’d found it was always good to mind his manners around women who were deadly with long-range projectile weapons.
And less than twenty minutes later he knew she was smart as well.
“You haven’t known your date for long,” she reassured the client sitting across from them who’d made a dismal job of filling out the standard DreamMakers “everything about your partner” information form. “It’s to be expected you don’t know a lot about the girl yet.”
“But I want to know more about her,” Billy Taylor insisted. “That’s what I thought you helped with.”