Spy Games by Gina Robinson

War.”
    “Right.” I grinned back. He was obviously teasing. “But I am worried about the kick.”
    “The kick. Afraid of being knocked on your butt?”
    “Afraid of an accident.”
    He looked confused so I explained.
    “Yeah, an accident, smart aleck. They had one at the firing range in Bellevue a few years ago. A woman was shooting. The gun kicked, sending her hand up over her head and back behind her. She still had her hand on the trigger and kept firing. Fortunately, no one was hurt. Can you imagine what would happen if someone did that with a submachine gun?” That was a true story, but I was rambling to get his goat.
    “Urban legend,” he said.
    “Honest to God true fact,” I countered.
    “Use two hands, you’ll be fine.”
    “Oh, I’m not worried about me,” I said casually.

Chapter 8
    Since the unseasonably warm fall weather continued unabated, the FSC staff decided to serve lunch al fresco on the terrace. Sounds fancy, but it meant we’d be eating at metal picnic tables on a concrete slab outside the warehouse, with a scintillating view of train tracks, miscellaneous equipment, other equally architecturally uninteresting warehouses, and to the south, towering over the tops of it all, Mount Rainier. Besides a great view of the awesome mountain, the terrace’s only redeeming quality was the basketball hoop at one end and an ample supply of balls provided by FSC. For me, engaging in athletic activities has always been a fantastic way to shed stress. I shrugged off my camo jacket, snagged a ball, drove for the hoop, and dropped in a layup.
    As I spun around for a repeat performance, I nearly collided with Van, who crouched in a guard position as if he’d been lying in wait for me.
    “Up for a little one-on-one?” He’d lost his camo jacket, too, and looked not only game ready, but totally delectable. I liked a man with a challenge in his eye.
    I made a point of sizing him up as I dribbled to the top of the key, letting my gaze linger where I liked. For as long as I liked. And I liked the strong set of his shoulders and the tight squeeze of his butt. Liked very much. Sizing up is always a good idea, especially when you like what you see. Size up the right way and you can even psych out.
    Van was doing his share of size-up/psych out, only his gaze lingered in the vicinity of my double Ds, which were nicely showcased in my black 3D tank with built-in shelf bra, which had the same fine push-up, shove-together qualities as a top quality Victoria’s Secret underwire number, only with more freedom for bounce. Actually, he wasn’t so much psyching me out as budding me up. And grinning at his own power.
    “Think you can take me, number boy?” I said and drove left around him toward the hoop.
    “I think I’d liked to…take you,” he said, close behind me, trying to reach around and knock the ball loose.
    I laughed at his innuendo. “Shameless. Catch me if you can.”
    He was quick, but I was quicker. I put one up left-handed before he could check me.
    “The girl’s fast,” he said as he retrieved the ball and bounced it back to me at the top of the key.
    “You wish.” I flashed him a grin as I crouched into position on the balls of my feet. I had a couple of choices—shoot from where I was, or drive past him. Driving had worked once. I faked left and drove right.
    But Van was smart and had court sense. He was on me, blocking my every move and reaching playfully around for the ball, tossing out flirtatious jibes as I flirted back and drove around the court looking for a shot.
    “You move like a girl,” Van said.
    “And you like it,” I shot back.
    He grinned. He reached in for the ball. I spun away. But not before his arm brushed my breast.
    “You missed,” I said.
    “No I didn’t.” From the coy grin he was wearing, the breast brush was intentional.
    “I meant the ball. Keep your head in the game,” I said.
    “Believe me, I’m trying,” he whispered in my ear as he reached around