She nodded and tried to stop shaking from the chill in the air on her bare skin. Way too much bare skin, but she’d been undercover. “Get on your knees.”
Intrigue leaped into his glittering eyes. “Not garing ta happen.”
Was that a true Irish brogue? It fit him somehow. “I will shoot you.”
He shrugged a massive shoulder beneath a leather duster. “That’s your choice, lass.”
Did he just fucking call her lass like some lady from a century ago? “Oh no, Irish boy. Get on your knees. Now.” She put every ounce of command she possessed into her voice.
“Well now. At least you knew I was from Ireland.” He glanced down at the dead man and his foot slid forward as if to kick. Then, apparently changing his mind, he focused on her again and smiled. “As opposed to Australia.”
Okay. She really didn’t want another body on her hands, but in the dress and heels, she was at a physical disadvantage. The last thing she needed was to spend all night filling out more paperwork than had already been created. “Down. Now.”
He cocked his head to one side. “I can’t help but ask where you were keeping your weapon.” His gaze, dark and intense, roved over her entire body.
Tingles. Damn weird and very unwelcome, tingles cascaded wherever his gaze landed. She might just have to shoot the bastard and fill out the paperwork anyway. “I don’t want to shoot you, but I can live with the decision. Get on your knees or say a quick prayer to your maker.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “I don’t suppose you have backup coming?”
No. Her backup had followed the dealer. She shook her head to provide warning and lowered her aim to his right leg. “I guess losing one leg won’t kill you.”
His focus returned to her. “You shoot me, and we’re going to have a problem.” He spoke slowly and clearly, without a hint of distress.
A chill wandered down her back. The man was damn serious . . . and damn scary. Yet she couldn’t let any fear show. She sighed and tightened her arms to shoot. “If you’d just get on your knees, this night would go so much more smoothly.”
“Say please.”
She blinked. Seriously? Hell, if it got him to cooperate, she’d chirp a Haiku. “Please.”
“As you wish.” Graceful as any dancer, he dropped to his knees. Water splashed up.
Funny, but the guy didn’t seem any less dangerous. She cleared her throat. “Cross your ankles.”
He sighed and crossed huge boots behind him. “Why were you trying to entrap this guy?”
Her handcuffs were in her purse in the bar, and she hadn’t had a chance to grab it before rushing out so the junkie would take the bait and follow her. Her gun, on the other hand, had been strapped to her inner thigh. “Clasp your hands together on the back of your head.”
He kept her gaze and clasped his hands on that thick black hair. His shirt pulled tight over defined muscles in his chest, and he seemed more in control of the situation than ever. “You don’t have cuffs.”
Yep. Might just have to shoot him. “My partner will be here soon.” She hoped Bernie would be there soon.
“Aye, I’m sure.” The man glanced at the body. “Do you know how he died?”
Duh. “Overdose. What’s your name?”
“Kellach.” He lifted both eyebrows. “What’s yours?”
“Detective Alexandra Monzelle.” Everyone called her Lex. Between the disappearance of her adrenaline rush, the chilly rain, and her aching arms, the gun became heavy. Yet she didn’t twitch. “What do you know about the drug?”
“What drug?” The man’s eyelids half-closed as if she were boring him to sleep.
Heck, she’d like to plug him one in the leg just to get his attention. “You asked about the drug. It’s too late to play dumb.”
He shrugged.
“Okay, then how about explaining all that fire. Did you douse yourself with some weird accelerant?” She couldn’t quite come up with a reasonable explanation for the strange glow over his skin and the corpse’s, so he’d better damn well explain, because she hadn’t gotten a good look with their backs turned to her. “Where’s the weapon?”
“No weapon. It’s a chemical that looks like fire but obviously isn’t.”
True—no burn marks marred his skin or the dead guy. Who was Kellach? Was he a rival dealer or something else? He wore a leather duster, flack boots, and faded jeans. Motorcycle gang member?
His head lifted, and his nostrils flared just like a German shepherd she’d seen scouting for drugs once.
Long shadows mingled on the alley floor, and two men drew nearer. Deep blue flames morphed along the arm of one of them. More of the damn weapons?
“Ballocks,” Kellach muttered before launching himself off the asphalt and right at her. He cleared the dead body, wrapped himself around her, and tackled her to the ground. One hand cushioned her head, while a rock-hard arm banded around her waist and kept her from injuring, well, anything. He rolled, released her, and jumped to his feet in front of her.