The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [47]
“Because that’s a jumping cholla.”
Tess glanced at the stubby, fuzz-covered cactus then gazed at his long, tanned fingers still wrapped tightly around her upper arm. “So?”
He shook his head, massaging his temples with one hand. His eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks thick with beard. For a change, his black hair was pulled into a ponytail and he’d donned a worn T-shirt and a pair of sandals. They were his only concessions to civility, however. He’d gone twenty-four hours without alcohol and was hell on wheels. “Jumping cholla, Tess. See all those tiny, furry spurs? Trust me, you won’t think they’re so tiny and furry when those glochids leap onto your arms and hook into your skin.”
“But it’s just a plant!” As she said this, however, she was eyeing the cactus with suspicion and taking a step closer to J.T.
“It’s a particularly talented plant.”
He released her arm, then stepped away. He was definitely cagey.
In contrast, she felt optimistic. She didn’t care how much oatmeal J.T. made her swallow or how many laps she swam, she’d never be able to compare to a man’s strength.
But a gun . . .
As J.T. lifted the small, silvery semiautomatic out of the case, she nodded. She was going to become a master marksman. That would be her advantage. Jim might be stronger than her and he might be faster than her, but not even the omnipotent Jim Beckett could outrace a bullet.
In the hot, dusty desert of Nogales, Tess was going to become the next James Bond—licensed to kill.
And she would stand there in the shadowed room, watching Jim step out of the closet like the real-life monster no one wanted to imagine. She wouldn’t cower anymore. She wouldn’t shake. She would not beg for her life and she would not fear for her daughter. She would stand, tall and regal, her face as cool and composed as Marion’s. She would point her .22, watching Jim suddenly freeze, suddenly pale, and suddenly realize that now she was the one in control.
“Can I hold it?” she asked quietly.
J.T. lifted up the gun, then froze when he saw the gleam in her eye.
“It’s not a toy,” he said sharply.
“I hope not.”
“Keep the safety on, never place your finger on the trigger until ready to shoot, and don’t ever point it at a person, even in jest. Those are the rules.”
“Yes, sir.”
J.T. shook his head. “You just don’t get it. You ju—”
“Is that the target?” She turned away from him, her veins humming with heady adrenaline. Twenty-one feet from her, two bales of straw sprouted from yellow Arizona dust. Red and white ringed targets were attached to the front of each bale by thick nails in the corner. The targets weren’t that far away. They were good-sized. She thought she could take them.
J.T. didn’t say anything, but she felt his gaze on her as he gave her the semiautomatic. She held it out and practiced looking down the sight. She’d held a gun a few times before. Fired one a few times. Hit a man.
She knew more than J.T. suspected. She liked it that way.
“When can I take the safety off?”
“Take the safety off? A—you’re not wearing earplugs nor eye protection. B—the gun’s not loaded. C—where did you learn that awful stance?”
His harsh words briefly dimmed her euphoria, but she nodded. She was there to learn. He would teach her.
J.T. tossed her earplugs and eye goggles, shoved a box of bullets in his pocket, and wrapped his body around hers.
“Here, like this.” His arms sandwiched hers, bringing her arms up straight and adjusting her grip. His groin cradled her hips and his thighs burned into her legs. Something hard and unyielding pressed into her left buttock. The box of bullets, she thought. Her stomach felt hollow.
J.T. adjusted her arms and legs as if she were a mannequin. “We’ll start with the Weaver stance which uses two hands for better control while twisting your body so you make less of a target. Face to the side, feet slightly apart for balance. Now extend your right arm toward the target, using your left to pull your arm against your chest and secure your grip. There you go. Now look down the barrel. Don’t squint. You’ve been watching too many Dirty Harry