The FBI Thrillers Collection Books 1-5 - Catherine Coulter [352]
He gave her an irritated look but didn’t say anything.
“Don’t you like to be perfect, Gunther?” She came closer, running her fingers down his forearm, over his hand, to stroke the barrel of the gun.
He stayed silent. She was doing this just to make him crazy, he knew that, but it was tough not to respond in some way, just a small push, just a tiny shove away from him. But he wasn’t stupid. He couldn’t lay a finger on her, no matter what the provocation. No, he wouldn’t even acknowledge that she was playing a game with him.
He had a feeling that Mr. Lord enjoyed these games of hers, even encouraged her. Maybe he was standing in the shadows at the back of the gallery, watching, chewing on an unlit cigarillo, a habit he’d developed since he’d stopped smoking the year before. Gunther slowly pulled away, cradling his gun in his big hands. He liked the feel of the cold smooth steel against his warm palm.
She shook her head, laughing at him. “The way you hold that gun of yours. What is it with you, Gunther? You think that gun is a woman?”
“No,” he said very precisely, “I think this gun is a tool to get my job done.” He nodded to her, politely, as always, and turned away from her. He said over his shoulder, pausing just a moment in the gallery doorway, “Mr. Lord appreciates my tool.”
She stared at him an instant, then doubled over, hooting with laughter. “I sure hope not,” she said. “I sure hope you’re wrong about that.”
His jaw locked. He felt embarrassment flood him, from inside out, as if his guts had turned red before his face. He hated the feeling. A soft voice said, “Yes, Gunther, I do appreciate your tool. Why don’t you go clean your gun. You’ve used it a great deal today and with excellent effect.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mason Lord watched his man leave the gun gallery before turning to his wife. His look was indulgent, his voice amused as he said, “You torment poor Gunther.”
“Yes, but he’s really too easy, Mason. Did you bring my Lady Colt?”
He nodded. “I wish you’d let me teach you how to shoot a real gun, not this ridiculous toy.”
Her voice hardened. It was disconcerting in that she looked like an angel, from that smooth thick pale blond hair of hers to the soft blue eyes, the fragile blue of a summer sky. “If I’m close enough, it’ll get the job done. I don’t want a tool like poor Gunther’s. It’s not elegant.”
He had to agree with that. The recoil from the Spanish Star Ten would also knock her on her butt. He handed her the Lady Colt, stood back, and watched her put six bullets straight through the chest of the target.
She turned, her eyes sparkling, removed her earmuffs, and said in a wicked voice, “And I didn’t even have to fondle it.”
“No,” he said, drawing her to him, “I’m the only thing you fondle.”
But though he spoke the words, he wasn’t responding to her the way he usually did. Usually she would have been on her back by now. She stepped back, laying her Lady Colt on the counter. “I wonder what your daughter is doing?”
He shook his head. “I called Buzz Carmen in Denver just a little while ago. He said the cops are still acting like idiots, mad at her for saving her own daughter, trying to track her down and this man with her. Buzz and three others have fanned out now, looking for her. Molly’s an amateur. Buzz and his people aren’t. They’ll find her. He admitted he hadn’t known she’d left Denver. He said they’d kept their distance because the cops had hassled them.”
“No one’s found her except whoever did this. Maybe the bad guys got them, Mason. You