Free Rules of Engagement by Ann Bruce

vest. Warmth, but no wetness.
     
    No longer writhing in pain from the impact of the bullets, he reached out a hand, found hers and squeezed. His voice raspy and his words choppy, he whispered, “I learn from my mistakes.”
     
    Her tears spilled over. She sat down on her heels, her legs folded underneath her, and pulled his head onto her lap.
     
    “I’ll be fine.”
     
    She nodded, still unable to speak. He was the one who’d been shot and he was comforting her . She swallowed and wiped her cheeks with the backs of her hands.
     
    A howl of rage drew her gaze to the porch. Psycho Bitch was glaring at them with murder in her eyes, but that was all she was capable of doing.
     
    Katarzyna turned back to Jake. “You have lousy taste in women,” she murmured to him, faint amusement warring with the tears in her voice.
     
    He squeezed her hand again. “I learn from my mistakes.”
     

Chapter Five
     
Six Months Later
     
    On automatic pilot, Katarzyna unlocked the back door of her townhouse, stepped inside her kitchen and knew she wasn’t alone. She glanced at the white panel beside the door. Her security alarm was deactivated. Without hesitation, she snapped open the thumb break on her holster and drew her sidearm.
     
    In the dark, she moved to the swing door that led to the tiny dining room and living room. Crouching low, she eased the door open an inch, then another, then a few more until she could slip through the opening. From her low position, she swept the dining room and found it empty.
     
    A soft snick and light spilled from the living room onto the dining room floor.
     
    She hit the floor, rolled and came up with the Glock held in the standard two-handed grip, aimed at the figure in the living room. She faltered.
     
    “Please put the gun away. I’ve had my fill of being shot,” Jake Duquesne said from where he sat cozily ensconced in her armchair. Golden light from the lamp on the side table washed across the planes and angles of his face.
     
    Katarzyna felt as if she’d taken a fist to the stomach. She slowly straightened up, unable to tear her eyes away as she greedily drank in the sight of him. He looked tired and thinner than the last memory she had of him. Part of her wanted to run to him and throw herself in his arms.
     
    That, however, was before six months of utter silence from him and five months of her trying to keep his memory vague so she could function with some semblance of normality.
     
    That final night in the mountains, they’d waited for what seemed like forever for the authorities to arrive. They hadn’t been the local authorities because they’d arrived in black helicopters that had blended with the darkness and the agents had moved with impressive efficiency. Jake had handed her over to one of the men, who’d bundled her up, debriefed her, made her swear to secrecy and had taken her home. Not the cabin, but home, as in her townhouse in Somerset. She’d been transported to a small airstrip, loaded onto a private jet where her personal belongings had been waiting for her, flown into Somerset and driven to her residence. Her car had appeared in her garage a day later.
     
    In the following days she’d scanned print and online newspapers and watched the news, but not a word of the events that had been seared into her brain reached public attention. Somehow, some way, Jake and the organization that employed him had managed to keep a lid on the violence that had taken place in the Blue Ridge Mountains.
     
    Sometimes the need to share, to discuss, to unburden herself made Katarzyna feel like exploding. Those times she went to the gym and took out her frustrations and anger and hurt on either a punching bag or some unsuspecting sparring partner.
     
    And here was the man who’d caused it all, sitting calmly as you please in her home.
     
    Katarzyna slipped her finger from the trigger guard and returned the gun to the holster. “How did you get in?” she asked, her inner