Her gaze bounced from the red tape to the weapon in his hand. “Hatchet throwing?”

“You told me you have a lot of skills.” He’d bet this woman could adjust to most situations, including this one. And if not, fine. He wasn’t really in the mood to unload about his life anyway.

She shot him a sexy smile. “I meant the indoor kind.”

The ground crumbled beneath him. He was amazed his knees didn’t buckle from the force of the need driving through him. But he somehow forced his arm to lift and held the hatchet out to her, handle first. “Unless you want me to take you inside and test both of our control, you should think about throwing.”

She took the hatchet and spun it around in her hand by the handle, looking far too comfortable with the lethal instrument as they moved back. “One of these times I’m going to accept your not-so-subtle offer before you rescind it again and hide behind your moral code.”

The back-and-forth, the flirting . . . so dangerous. Every time he let his mind wander and slipped in a bit of innuendo, she rose to the challenge. One of these times he’d lose the will to walk a line back, then the real fun, and all the trouble he feared, would start.

He kept guiding her back until they reached a distance that guaranteed this wouldn’t be an easy task for either of them. Unless she had experience with this. He didn’t. Other targets, others games—yes. Not this particular one, but he guessed the skills would transfer. “I’ll look forward to that.”

“Not very professional of you.” While walking, she turned and dropped the blanket on the steps before looking at him again. “I thought you said you didn’t fuck on the job.”

Hearing the harsh word in her soft voice shoved him right to the edge. She was playing with him now. Playing and winning. “One hit and you get a question.”

“I think I’m familiar with the rules.” She let out a low whistle. “You are a man who likes his rules.”

When she finally reached the start line he drew with the toe of his boot, he moved around her. Let his lips travel over her soft hair as their arms touched and he shifted to stand behind her. His mouth lingered by her ear. “Oh, and when I hit the target I get to ask one of you.”

She kept her focus on the target a rough twelve feet away. “Most of what I know is classified.”

“Spare me the theatrics.” He hated to pull back. Had to mentally order his muscles to obey and put some room between them. “You get three chances. Yes or no?”

She spared him a quick glance that let him know she’d accepted the challenge before stripping her gloves off and dropping them by her feet. “What you mean to say is I’ll get three questions. Because I will not miss.”

“I like the confidence.” Hell, he was starting to like everything about her. Even those times when she got all haughty and demanding. He definitely liked her now, when her playful competitive side came through. “Hot.”

She aimed. Really aimed. Lined up her feet then shifted her weight right before taking a step forward. Her arm rose over her shoulder and ended empty as if she’d just shaken someone’s hand.

Gabe’s gaze went from her wrist to the target. The blade wedged into the log, cutting right through the tape. Of course she could throw a hatchet. Why didn’t that surprise him? “Even hotter.”

“That will teach you to underestimate me.”

“Yes, it will.” He walked over and jimmied the blade out of the log.

She waited until he stood beside her again to say anything. “Where are we?”

He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Montana, east of the Continental Divide.”

“Huh.” Her gaze traveled over the horizon. “Not what I expected.”

“I’m an enigma.”

“Not quite the word I’d use.”

He’d debated going somewhere closer to D.C. but decided they needed unpopulated and away. “But it’s colder than usual for this time of year, and there’s much more snow than I anticipated.”

“You couldn’t check the weather report before the plane took off?” Her eyes narrowed. “And you’re still not forgiven for drugging me, by the way. That one is going to haunt you. It will circle back around and bite you in the ass. Be forewarned.”

He had a feeling her real level of anger didn’t match her threats. She could have woken up in a rush and come after him. She hadn’t. Not really. It was as if, on some level, she understood how the operation spun out.

“I wanted snow. The easier to hide you in, my dear.” And that was true, so he stopped there and held out his palm to prove he held the hatchet. “My turn.”

He skipped the big show and the perfect form. He’d been throwing things at targets since he could walk. His father, the perfect military man who vowed to raise the perfect future soldiers, would drag all three boys outside and teach them how to shoot at cans and throw knives. The hatchet weighed more, but the technique should be about the same. He squinted, lining up the target as he concentrated, then let go.

As the blade hit, she swore under her breath. “Figures.”

She wasn’t a great loser, but that didn’t exactly surprise him either. He guessed she didn’t get all that much practice. “Why join the CIA?”

“To serve my country.” She didn’t miss a beat. Threw out the answer then reached for the hatchet.

No way was he accepting that answer. “Bullshit responses not allowed.”

She glared. He glared back.

She finally broke the stare-off with an eye roll. “There are men who need to be tracked down and killed. Forget the excuses about hard childhoods and not having enough milk when they were babies or being told the truth about Santa too early or whatever ridiculous excuse passes for a reason not to take personal responsibility these days. Some view human destruction as a game, and those men need killing. They have to be stopped.”

The way she said it mirrored how he would have said it. On this, they were on the same page. “And you joined to stop them?”

“Yes.” She held up two fingers and wiggled them in front of his face. “That was two questions, by the way.”

Before she could say anything, she grabbed the hatchet. Performed the same drawn-out routine. Ended with her arm out and in perfect alignment with the target. With the blade embedded in the pseudo-circle she matched her first near-perfect throw with a second one.

She spun around on the heel of her boot and smiled at him. “Why did you leave the Army?”

“I was done being the government’s bitch.”

Her smile fell. “Now who’s giving a bullshit response?”

He held up his hands in fake surrender. “Totally true. I had been trained to track, to hide and to kill. I did my time and was done. Reached my limit and got out rather than re-upping.”

Maybe it sounded like a line, but it wasn’t. Every word rang true. He’d been raised to join the military and serve his country. There wasn’t an alternative plan, according to his father. Forget college or taking a year off. They had a responsibility, and each one of them, one after the other, lived up to it.

His dad died of cancer before Andy ever joined, but the man’s stern discipline and unbending belief system had rubbed off on all of them by then. It took Gabe years to break free from his father’s oppressive mental hold. Watching him push Andy to the point of cracking with all those “be a real man” comments finally did it.

“How many people have you killed?” she asked, without a trace of judgment.

Still, no fucking way was he answering that one. A number flashed in his mind and he had no intention of sharing it. “It’s not your turn.”

He took off for the target and slid the hatchet out. He barely made it back to the line before turning and letting the hatchet fly. Didn’t even look to see if it hit the circle before he started with his next question. “Who taught you that some men need killing?”

She hesitated as she stared at the handle sticking out from the target. A few seconds passed, then she looked at him again. “My father, but I’m guessing you knew that.”