Johnny caught her close, bracing himself to keep the both of them from tumbling. It didn’t take much. If he hadn’t been following her so closely, she could have done her “spinning top” imitation without making any contact with him at all.

Thank God he’d been following her so closely.

She smelled great.

He hadn’t had a chance to notice when he’d been hauling her across Wynkoop and into O’Shaunessy’s, what with the cars, and the noise, and Dovey hot on their tails-kind of like now. But in the dark quiet of the stairwell, with the building’s walls coming up close on each side, with the two of them plastered together, and her just one stair above him with her face and neck right there in front of him, it was all about the scent of summer gardens and honeysuckle.

“That sonuvabitch is out of prison?” she whispered, her voice harsh.

Honeysuckle and summer gardens wrapped around one very angry woman, he realized.

“And he’s in the bar?”

Yes, he was. Johnny hadn’t forgotten what Kevin Harrell looked like, even if he had changed his hair color to blond, and the asshole had walked into O’Shaunessy’s and headed straight for Dovey. Franklin Bleak must have recruited him right out of Canon City.

“We need to-” he started.

“I know,” she snapped, and in the next second, she was moving back up the stairs, almost at a run, bitching under her breath.

Good. He liked a woman who knew how to prioritize, and escape always trumped a temper tantrum. But he had to wonder, for just a moment, while he was climbing up the stairs behind her, if he’d missed something all those years ago when Kevin Harrell had slammed her up against the lockers.

Had that sonuvabitch actually had the time to do something to her that he didn’t know about? And really, if he thought about it, just how far up had her skirt been when he’d called Kevin out? And where had that asshole’s hands been?

And what in the hell was he doing, really, chasing Easy Alex up to the O’Lounge, hoping Dovey Smollett wouldn’t remember about the damn double dog dare, all so he could get her out of this frying pan and throw her straight into the fire.

She still had an appointment to deliver whatever she’d put in the messenger bag bandoliered across her chest. He hadn’t forgotten.

This girl … he thought, taking the damn short stairs three at a time. This girl is nothing but trouble, scary trouble. Scary for her. He wasn’t scared of anything, except of letting his men down, but his men, the guys in Third Platoon, weren’t in O’Shaunessy’s outrunning three mopes from Commerce City, and his men weren’t his anymore. They were back at Benning, most of them, and he was heading to his home team, SDF.

Most, but not all-the thought skirted the edge of his mind, and he just let it go. For now, all he could do was let it go.

But hell, this girl-he should have played hardball with her right from the start, right when she’d first let him into her dad’s office. He should have called for backup as soon as he’d seen that damn German. He should have gotten somebody into that room and found out what was going on.

He should have called Creed. The jungle boy was in residence at Steele Street, and the German might have appreciated someone with a big, sharp knife to cut him free-and if having Creed standing over him with a knife in his hand hadn’t given the old guy a heart attack, Johnny would have figured the German was tougher than he’d looked tricked out in a thong and a dog collar.

On the other hand, General Grant was due in Denver tonight, a real short-notice visit, and even though Johnny wasn’t officially part of the team yet, and probably wouldn’t be part of any meetings, he was pretty damn sure he didn’t want SDF’s commanding officer to get the impression he was the kind of guy who chased hookers out of hotel rooms filled with deviant foreigners. Or actually, considering the slot he was hoping to fill, being able to run a “honey trap” wasn’t such a bad skill. Far worse to Grant would probably be that he was running around the streets of Denver and heading for the rooftops with a woman without knowing why. Even with the thought he’d given it, he wasn’t precisely clear about his motives.

Not precisely clear at all.

Yeah, that didn’t look so good on an operator’s resume.

What he should have done was call Loretta, Lieutenant Loretta Bradley of the Denver Police, and let her clear up the mess at the Oxford. He would have plenty of intel to work with then.

A sudden pounding sound coming up from below told him Dovey had remembered plenty about the O’Lounge, and that he was going to get another chance to play hardball real damn quick if he and Esme couldn’t outrun these jokers. From the sound of the grumbled cursing he heard between the scraping open of the pantry door and the sliding of the olive tubs, it was going to be Mr. Kevin Harrell up first at bat, which suited him just fine.

Johnny’s money was still on Esme. The girl was in shape with a capital S. They’d just passed the second landing and were on their way to the third, and even in heels and a tight skirt, she hadn’t so much as blinked, let alone slowed down.

She’d hitched her skirt up to give herself some room to run in, and her flashlight gave off enough illumination for him to catch a glimpse of her legs about every other step. He shouldn’t have noticed. Under their current circumstances, hoping to see up her skirt was just another dumb-ass move the likes of which had gotten him into this mess in the first place. Geezus, it had barely been more than half an hour since he’d sucked down the last of his beer at the Blue Iguana and gone outside to decide where else he could go and spend a couple of hours.

Anything to keep from going home-yeah, he knew he was avoiding it. But hell, his place at Steele Street ’s Commerce City Garage was just too damn quiet to face alone.

Way too damn quiet. He just got in trouble when he was trapped with that much quiet. Red Dog and the Angel Boy lived upstairs, but they were out more often than they were in, and they’d been out for the last two weeks, running the security on a senate subcommittee’s junket through Bolivia.

Still, the O’Lounge was so far back in his memory banks, it wouldn’t have occurred to him in a week of Sundays as a place to go, let alone as a place to meet up with Kevin Harrell and Dovey Smollett for old home week.

Easy Alex was a different story. He actually thought about her quite a bit for a girl he’d never actually had sex with-or maybe those were the girls a guy tended to mull over in his mind, the ones who’d gotten away, especially the ones who’d barely gotten away.

Heavy footsteps started up the stairs below, accompanied by a fair share of swearing. Kevin and the Chicago Bear had to be scraping both sides of the narrow stairwell. Those boys were pushing well over two-fifty each, and it wasn’t all muscle, not even close.

He’d actually thought about Esme once in the middle of a firefight during this last go-around. It had startled the hell out of him at the time, that little lapse in his concentration. He’d been in a bunker in the Kunar Province of Afghanistan. They’d been getting pounded by enemy machine guns, and an image of Esme had flashed in front of his eyes, a really sweet image of her looking over her shoulder, smiling at him, wearing a little summer dress that barely covered her ass, her blond hair cascading down her back-hips swaying, her dress lifting in the breeze, sunshine lighting her like a halo.

It had unnerved the crap out of him. Third Platoon had already gotten hit seven times in twelve hours that day, and she’d shown up in the eighth firefight, like a messenger from God, an angel come to tease him with a vision of home, or maybe a Valkyrie waiting to claim a fallen warrior.