Killing Time by Linda Howard

repeated, and she actually laughed as she opened her purse and removed both cards from her wallet, handing them across the desk.
    He studied the license with its holographic seal, closely examined it for signs of tampering, then compared the signature on the bottom with the signature on the back of the credit card. They matched, of course. He was beginning to feel foolish, while she was not only relaxed, she was amused as well.
    “Good,” he said as he returned the cards to her. “Now I don’t feel as if I need to take your weapon away from you.”
    “
Try
to take my weapon,” she corrected. “There’s a point at which I stop being a good citizen and become a pissed-off agent.”
    “Then don’t do anything that makes me nervous, and we’ll get along fine.”
    She picked up another fry. “If I wanted to shoot you, I could have done it this morning when we were the only two people around, and my weapon was already unholstered.”
    “There’s that,” he conceded. “Have you had any other thoughts about how Taylor Allen’s murder ties in with your other cases, and why someone in your office would obviously leak your whereabouts to a sniper who might or might not be the killer?”
    “On the surface, I can’t see any connection between Mr. Allen and the other cases. As for wanting me dead, that doesn’t make any sense at all. Assuming I did find something that is threatening this someone in my office, I don’t know what it is, and killing me would only result in someone with a lot more experience taking over. Killing me isn’t cost-effective, as far as I can see.”
    “You’ve been pretty calm about the whole thing,” he observed.
    “What choice do I have? I suppose I could get hysterical and cry on your shoulder, but what would that accomplish, other than a stuffed-up nose?”
    She hadn’t been rattled when she was shot at, either, he remembered. He liked that kind of steadiness in anyone. There was a lot about her he liked, including that friendly smile. He just wished that damn verification would come in so he could feel better about liking her. Until then, he’d already let his guard down as far as he could without crossing over into total unprofessionalism.
    The phone rang again and he answered it. He listened, said “Thanks,” then hung up and smoothly pulled his weapon and leveled it at her. “Use two fingers and remove your weapon, then place it on the desk and step back,” he said in a cool, level tone. “You’re under arrest for impersonating a federal agent.”

7
    Nikita’s heart gave a quick thump and adrenaline burned through her veins. This was it; she’d hoped events wouldn’t bring her to this, but she was a realist and she’d prepared. She had to be more convincing than she’d ever been before in her life, or her ass was burnt. No, that wasn’t it. A cooking term, though . . .
Burnt, cooked, baked
—oh, yeah: her ass was
toast.
    The ridiculous thought calmed her a little. Without protest she opened her jacket and awkwardly used the first two fingers of her left hand to pull the heavy weapon from the holster. She laid it on his desk, barrel pointing to the side. His big hand closed over the weapon and moved it out of her reach.
    “You have the right to remain silent,” he began as he lifted her to her feet and secured first her right wrist, then her left, in a set of handcuffs. The cold steel bit into her, so tight it felt as if her bones were squeezed together. She didn’t bother listening as he recited the Miranda; she knew the drill by heart.
    “Please empty my purse onto your desk,” she said softly, looking up at him. He was still standing close, gripping her arm, so close she could feel his body heat. Cops were taught to use their own bodies to subdue and control, to grip, the agonizing holds that paralyzed a struggling suspect with his or her own pain. She didn’t make even a tiny move of resistance, in fact leaned even closer to him, so close her hair brushed