Page 149 of A Story of Love

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“He shot you?” Lori squawked. “Wait! The first bullet? Just how many bullets were there? And why did you leave this out of the story you just told me?”

Fast winced. “Not so loud in my ear, darling. And yes, Lorelei, he shot me. That’s usually how bullets do their damage.”

“Quit being so cavalier and tell me what happened.”

“Moreland paused too long to gloat, and while he was prosing on at me like a villain from a gothic novel, I threw a knife at him and—”

“He let you have knives?”

He gave her a pained look. “He didn’t let me. He searched me and found the pistols and other knives, but he—”

“A pistol and knives? How many knives did you have?”

“Darling?”

“Yes?”

“If you would stop interrupting, then I could finish telling you the story.”

“Oh. Sorry.” She pursed her lips to illustrate her silence.

“He searched me but neglected to find a small knife I had strapped to the inside of my wrist and—”

“A wrist knife? How did you—Oh, sorry,” she blurted again. “I’ll be quiet. I promise,” she added when he cocked his eyebrow in that odiously attractive way he had.

“I was a privateer in my former life, sweetheart. Er, you knew that, didn’t you?” he asked, his tone more than a little arch.

Lori clucked her tongue. “Now, now, don’t be testy.”

“Of course not, dear.”

She laughed at his martyrish expression. “I really will be quiet now.”

“There isn’t much more to tell.” He shrugged and then grimaced. “Ow.”

“Poor darling,” Lori murmured. “Where does it hurt?”

He pointed to his shoulder and Lori kissed the expensive superfine of his coat.

“Mmm,” he said, smiling at her with heavy-lidded eyes. “That feels better already. Perhaps you might do that to all my injuries. But with my clothes off. Yours, too.”

“All your injuries! How many times did you get shot?”

He sighed. “You are focusing on the wrong part of what I just said, sweetheart.”

“Fast,” she said in a warning tone. “How many times?”

“Just twice.”

“Just. Twice.” Lori had to take a deep breath and hold it to calm herself before she could say, “Explain.”

“It’s not a pretty story, Lorelei.”

“When will you understand that I am a newspaperwoman and accustomed to dealing with unsavory subjects?”

“Fine,” he said in a flat voice. “If you must have it, I brought him down with the knife and then I beat his head against an anvil until he was no longer breathing. And then I set the building on fire, with his body inside it.”