Page 3 of Lock ’N’ Load

Unable to tear her gaze away, she continued watching the cop, alternately fascinated by both the infinite gentleness he showed to Alvin and the rippling play of thick muscles in his forearms. She’d definitely never seen him before. His was a face she could never have forgotten. He was unbelievably gorgeous. The man was like a living, breathing Greek statue cut from marble by the most gifted stonecutter in history.

Her perusal momentarily paused at the gold, rectangular name tag on that incredible chest. Sgt. M. Connors. When she looked up at his face, he was staring at her intently, almost…thoughtfully. She froze, her throat clogging. Oh, pooh. Her face heated with embarrassment.

Why can’t I be as fluent around men as I am with computers?

Yet another major flaw in her social abilities, or lack thereof. Getting outcast as a brainiac early on in school had led to social awkwardness—the source of her hot-guy anxiety. The minute she found a man even remotely attractive, she got flustered, and her ability to converse like a normal Homo sapien went totally out the window, as if someone had switched off the power button to her brain. Sadly, that had only worsened over the years.

She quickly averted her eyes from his and moved up in line until there was only one person standing between her and the scanner. She couldn’t wait to get upstairs and escape to the comfort of her office—the one place in her world where she felt truly competent.

Dark brows drew together as Sgt. Connors stepped aside for her to access the scanner. That’s when she noticed it. A tan-and-black dog sitting obediently at his side. She’d seen the other CIA K-9s before but never so close that she’d have to pass within inches of the animal in order to move through the checkpoint.

Unable to move, she froze. Dogs were definitely not her thing. Ever since a horrifying encounter with a dog when she was a little girl, she went out of her way to avoid them entirely. The fact that this one was a badge-carrying K-9 didn’t alter her perspective on the animal in the slightest, and she intended to give it a wide berth.

“Good morning, Miss Gold.”

Sgt. Connor’s smooth, rich voice was so in sync with her whole melty chocolate analogy it wasn’t funny, and Trista could swear she felt the reverberation of his words like a warm caress on her skin. Sure enough, goose bumps zinged up her back to her neck, and wow did it feel good.

How does he know my name? Duh. Cops know everything.

“M-morning,” she mumbled, averting her gaze as she sidestepped both man and dog. In reality, she was more flustered by the man than the dog. She swallowed hard, gripping the ID card tighter in her hand. Her nervousness around Sgt. Connors was ten times worse than it had been around any other man.

No, make that a hundred times. A thousand. For crying out loud, what is it about this guy?

Trying not to appear flustered—yeah, good luck with that—she raised her now-trembling arm to insert her ID card into the scanner when she was shoved roughly aside and found herself falling ass-first to the floor.

When she landed on her butt, the abrupt jarring knocked her glasses off and sent her tight hair bun flying apart in disarray. Everything went blurry. Something big and dark blue dove past her, followed by something tan and black.

A dog barked, followed by a loud grunt as something—or someone—hit the floor. People shouted, and heavy boots pounded past her.

Trista got to her knees, skimming her hands along the floor’s cool surface, searching for her glasses. Her hair had come undone, and her blurry vision was that much more obscured by her own hair, making efforts at finding her glasses completely futile.

“Tris! You okay?” Bonnie shouted from beside her. “Here.” She shoved Trista’s glasses into her hand.

Her fingers closed around the plastic frames, and with shaky fingers, she pushed them on. Despite the audible chaos seconds earlier, the scene she focused on now was unexpectedly controlled.

Face down on the floor, not five feet in front of where she kneeled, was the same kid she’d rightly surmised would stupidly try to bolt through the employee entrance.

Bonnie sighed. “Will they ever learn?”

“No,” they both said in unison, then laughed.

It had become trendy to try to blow through Langley’s security, then post the video on social media.

The doofus was lying on his belly, his face plastered to the floor. The K-9 had its jaws clamped around the kid’s forearm while Sgt. Connors had his knee planted solidly in the boy’s back.

“Ouch. That’s gotta hurt,” Bonnie said, grimacing. “Although I don’t see any blood.”

“Sheba, pust,” Sgt. Connors ordered.

The dog immediately released its jaws from the boy’s arm, backing off and lying down, but still uttering an occasional growl. Even lying down, the dog’s body quivered with obvious readiness to re-engage if necessary. The thought of all those sharp teeth clamped around her own soft flesh made Trista shudder.

In a matter of seconds, Sgt. Connors expertly and efficiently handcuffed the kid and hauled him to his feet. She noted that the boy’s sleeve didn’t appear to be torn by the dog’s teeth. Amazing.

“Did you see that?” One of the other boys in line laughed and pointed to his friend.

“That was so cool,” another said, laughing with his buddy.

“Young man”—one of the building’s assigned tour guides shook her finger—“needless to say, your participation in this tour is over. Permanently.”