Poison Kisses Part 1

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “As in the Dr. Franklin that set off poison gas in a China subway?” she asks, still not touching her throat that I know has to burn.

  “Yes,” I say. “That one.”

  “Franklin’s dead.”

  “Intel says he’s alive and well in Texas with a plan to contaminate the water supply with a nerve agent that only you and three other people know well. The other three are dead.”

  “My parents and the Russian scientist, Misha Orlov.”

  “Yes. And Misha was working for Franklin when he ended up dead.”

  “And my parents are dead.” Her voice cracks on the words, as if she doesn’t know or didn’t until this moment.

  And damn it, her emotions cut me. Deeply. “Yes,” I say. “They’re dead. You didn’t know?”

  “I thought . . . I hoped . . . I wanted you to tell me otherwise.”

  “Thus why you didn’t pull the trigger.”

  She breathes out. “Did you do it?”

  “What?”

  “Did you kill them?”

  “I was in another state when they died.”

  “Were you a part of it?”

  “You think—”

  “Were you a part of it?”

  “No. I was not.”

  She cuts her stare for the first time since I entered the bathroom, seconds ticking by before she looks at me again, focused on business. “You think Misha is dead because he did his job and Franklin no longer needs him.”

  “An obvious conclusion since you just made it, too. You need to make an antidote.”

  “I can’t promise I can do that and I can’t even try without a sample.”

  “Which is why we’re going to Texas to get one.”

  “I’ll go. I’ll help.”

  “That easily? No battle?”

  “I don’t know if you’ll kill me or I’ll kill you, but we might as well save some lives before we find out.”

  I cup her face, my lips close to hers. “I didn’t kill your parents.”

  “I didn’t kill Danny.”

  “I don’t trust you.”

  “I hate you , Seth Cage,” she proclaims in what I know to be an out-of-character emotional outburst that tells me I’ve rattled her.

  And earns her my cool reply. “There’s a fine line between love and hate, sweetheart,” I say, but I don’t want her to hate me and it pisses me off. What is it about this woman that makes her my weakness? “I wonder if I missed the taste of poison on your lips, or did I just choose to ignore it?” And I need to know that answer. I close my mouth down on hers, my tongue sliding into her mouth, rough, angry, but she doesn’t respond. She doesn’t even touch me, and I won’t allow her that win. I fold her against me, cupping the back of her head, my tongue licking against hers until she finally fucking moans, and responds.

  And damn it, she still tastes just as good as she did, just as right when she’s wrong, but at least I know now. Everything right about this woman will always be wrong, including the moment she bites my lips, drawing blood. “I still hate you,” she hisses.

  Wiping my lip, I’m wildly aroused by what just happened, which proves how fucked in the head this woman makes me. And while I’m certain we’d both be more than comfortable with the idea of me pulling her skirt up and fucking her right now, and letting her think she’s manipulating me again, that has to wait until I have her someplace to myself. I release her, snatching up her gun and shoving it under my jacket, inside my holster. “Meet me at the south exit. If you aren’t there, I’ll kill you and then move on to Plan B and kill Franklin. And yes. This is a test. Pass it or you’ll be in my bed, in handcuffs for the rest of your life.”

  “You said you’d kill me.”

  “After I cuff you to my bed.”

  I move to the door and exit into the staff hallway, and then the main school hallway, the scent of her, sweet jasmine, clinging to my skin. Damn it, I used to love that smell.

  I’m halfway to the exit when suddenly she’s beside me. “As I know you know from whatever file they gave you on me,” she says without looking at me, “I watched people die because of that man in China seven years ago when he set off poison gas in the subway. I’m not sitting back while he does it again.”

  I don’t reply. I just keep walking, but now she’s by my side again, as she was for three solid months, three years ago. Her words and actions are reminding me of what I’d found so damn appealing about this woman: her conviction and her moral compass that were greater than mine, that made her too good for me, and yet, made me want her all the more. Only, it was an act, a façade maintained even now and well. She’s an enemy in an uncomfortable alliance. I don’t believe a word she has said.

  We reach the exit and I pause with her directly to my right, my eyes capturing hers. “You’re with me now and no one gets to take you from me. And I’m the only one who gets to kill you.”

  “You’re so damn romantic,” she says. “No wonder I missed you.”

  “You missed me, sweetheart?”

  “That wasn’t literal.”

  My lips curve. “And yet you kissed me like you missed me.” I don’t give her time to reply. I grab her purse, and unzip it, searching it and removing her phone, which I drop on the ground. “Black Mustang,” I say. “Stay by my side.” I open the door and together we exit the building, and any thought of what I want, or should not want, from her, is out of my mind. I walk. I focus.

  “We’re being watched,” she says, at the same moment I become aware of eyes following us.

  “Yes, we are,” I say, her pace even with mine as we approach the car, and I click the locks.

  “Passenger door together,” I order, and that’s exactly where we head, rounding the car where I hold the door for her and she slides into the seat.

  I shut her inside, and quickly walk to the opposite side of the car, where I join her, and the instant I lock the doors, she says, “For the record. You already tied me to the bed, and at the time, I liked it. That’s how much I stupidly trusted you.” She turns those piercing green eyes on me. “That time isn’t now. Don’t kiss me. Don’t touch me. And you aren’t going to fuck me. Not in the literal sense. Ever. Again. And as for who kills who? If I find out that you killed my parents, you will die at my hand. If I find out that you knew they were being killed, the same applies. You might be the Assassin, but I’m the Scientist. And if you think I’m not your match, think again.”

  And therein lies the problem. She was always my match. And I fucking loved it.

  Chapter Three

  Three years ago—the first meeting

  I stop at the door to the luxury hotel room in Rome, a part of my cover as a billionaire diamond exporter, as is the three-thousand-dollar suit I’m wearing, and the fake wife waiting to meet me inside. And while most men don’t wish for a fake wife, it they ever found themselves faced with such a need, I’m pretty damn sure they’d want to know she was a good fuck. For me, I just want her to be able to fuck up my enemies and not be mine.

  Swiping the card, I enter the hallway, the scent of exotic flowers flaring my nostrils even before I bring the table topped with a vase of orange and red blossoms into view. Because it seems everyone wants to put something in my path I can somehow kill. I walk the marbled floor and the few steps required to pass those delicate little things, and eye the walkway to a massive bathroom directly in front of me, finding the lights out.

  Seeking out my agent companion, I turn left into a half-moon shaped room that is impressive for European accommodations, where bigger is still small. Impressive, though, is the bed large enough to accommodate Olympian-style sex to my right, and the patio doors, where sheer drapes flutter in the wind.

  Walking in that direction, I exit to a sizeable though narrow balcony encased in steel and wrapped in ivy, a small table and chairs to my left. My new wife is directly in front of me, only a few steps from my reach, her long brunette hair lifting from her creamy white shoulders. The scent of flowers, jasmine to be exact, flares my n
ostrils, distinctly her, this time.

  “Hello, wife,” I say, which is one of the code sentences for our meeting.

  “Hello, husband,” she replies, her voice as delicate as her tiny yet curvy body in a slim cut, long white gown, with a distinct slit that shows a hell of a lot of beautiful leg. “How was your day?” she adds, finishing the expected reply.

  “I haven’t killed anyone yet,” I say, which is not my scripted reply, but I add it as well. “Not as good as the night will be.”

  And there it is. Our eyes collide, hers green, pale, perfect. Mine blue. Flat. Hard. We’re now a team. “So to be clear,” she states, “we’re to attend the billionaire businessman Ramone Bianchi’s party. We do so on the pretense of being the heirs to a diamond empire, and large donors to his choice for the next Italian president, whom he hopes to influence. And who we need enough ammunition about to ensure is an influence for American interests.”

  “Why you?” I ask, since I was given no file on her before this pairing that I didn’t expect when I got on a plane yesterday from New York to Rome.

  “Why me what?”

  “Why did they choose you for this mission?”

  “Why did they choose you?”

  “He has terrorist links. If we can’t get out of there armed with ammunition to use against him, he dies. And I’m good at killing people.”

  “Then that tells us both why they paired me with you. Because I’m good at making sure killing people isn’t necessary.”

  “And if you have to kill someone?” I ask, needing to know her weakness now, because while she’s with me, it’s mine.

  “I wouldn’t be CIA if I wasn’t willing to do what I have to do.”

  I grab her and pull her to me and the next thing I know, her hand is on my balls and not gently. “I can rip them out,” she says. “I have a martial arts instructor who knew this nifty move that detaches them with brutal efficiency.”

  I reach down and cover her hand where it covers my body. “Sweetheart, if you’re going to put your hands on me, you’re squeezing the wrong place. You lick my balls and squeeze my cock.”

  If I want to rattle her, which I do, what I get is her sexy, soft laughter. “If you have any balls left when I let go.”

  Holy fuck, I want this woman and before I can stop myself, my fingers are in her hair and I’m kissing her, my tongue sliding against hers, and she kisses me back, no hesitation, hot, sexy, sultry. I like it, and a little too much, which pisses me off, and I tear my mouth from hers and tighten my grip in her hair. “Give me a reason to doubt you, and I will kill you.”

  “This from a man who still has his balls in my hand,” she says.

  She’s right. She does. Another thing I like a little too much, and she knows it, considering her palm is resting on my now thick cock. I kiss her again, fast and hard, and release her hair at the same time she releases my balls. But we don’t move apart. “Your tuxedo and a briefcase that was left for you is in the bathroom.”

  “Did you look in the briefcase?”

  “Unfortunately, it’s locked.”

  “Did you look in the briefcase?”

  “I would have, but you arrived too soon.”

  My lips curve. “I’ll let you know what I find inside.”

  “I’m sure you will.” I back into the room and I make it halfway to the bathroom before I hear her voice.

  “I had a briefcase as well.”

  I turn to look at her. “What was inside?”

  “A secret weapon which I hope I don’t need.”

  “What kind of secret weapon?”

  “Poison. My favorite toy.”

  And just like that, she’s warned me that she can kill me as easily as I can kill her. Or so she thinks. I laugh. “Poison,” I say, thinking of how damn good she tastes. “Somehow it’s fitting.” I turn and exit the room, entering the bathroom, but I don’t shut the door. Aside from the fact that I want to hear what she’s doing, the woman has already had her hand on my cock. If she wants to look at my ass, I won’t complain.

  Standing inside the doorway, I find a spa tub in the center of a shower and a toilet area. To my left and right are sinks, and since my tux is hanging on a rack near the right, I go right. The briefcase in question sits on the sink, and I know the passcode from my mission directives. In a matter of a few clicks of that code, I have the case open and do inventory:

  Several well-selected weapons.

  A cellphone.

  Two passports.

  A case with data-collecting microchips in various forms.

  A map of the event tonight, and two velvet cases.

  I flip open the passports to find Mr. and Mrs. Jones. How original. I set them back down and open the map, studying the marked locations and the general setup. Once I know where I’m going, what I’m doing, and how to get there, I toss the map in the case and start undressing, the sound of an espresso machine lifting in the air, my new wife’s desire to caffeinate up receiving my approval. I want her alert and ready to fight if need be. In all of sixty seconds I’m in my tuxedo, tying my tie, when she appears in the doorway, and in this light, she’s even more beautiful than on the balcony. “Café?” she asks, holding up a cappuccino cup.

  “Only on your lips, sweetheart,” I say, reaching for the passports and holding hers up.

  She downs her coffee like a shot of booze, and sets the cup down before moving to stand beside me, that jasmine scent of hers all-consuming and yet just right. She reaches for the passport. “Jennifer Jones.” She smirks, unzipping the small silver bag at her hip and sticking it inside. “How original.”

  I glance at her purse that is too small to hold a gun. “Where is your weapon?”

  “I’d let you look for it, but I’d have to shoot you before you found it, which really is the point, isn’t it?”

  I’m entertained by the response but with time ticking, I simply hold up my passport and say, “Collin Jones for me,” before slipping it into my pants pocket. “What’s your real name?”

  “Jennifer,” she says. “Because my passport says it is.”

  Smart answer, and so far, she’s passing every test I give her. I hold up the map. “Our target’s office is on the third level of the house. His bedroom is on the second.”

  “And the party is on the first, but the house is the size of a small city with three separate entrances and stairwells. I was given a map as well, which I’ve already burned.” She grabs a lighter from the briefcase that I was given for that very reason. “Shall I get rid of yours?”

  I hold up the map and she does the honors, and once it’s in flames I toss it into the sink and let it burn. It fizzles into nothingness, and I wash it down the sink before reaching for the velvet boxes and flipping open the lids, a massive oval diamond ring in one of them. “This job does have a few perks,” she murmurs.

  I reach for the ring, before catching her hand in mine, and sliding the band onto her finger. “Mrs. Jones,” I say, glancing up at her, our eyes colliding, the charge between us downright combustible.

  “Mr. Jones,” she says, softly, her pink-painted lips somehow more temping this second than the last. “Too bad they expect me to return all the accessories.”

  I’m not sure if she means me or the ring, nor am I supposed to know, but my answer is the same. “That’s why you enjoy what you get when you get it.”

  “This job is about the moment,” she agrees. “I always think that one moment we’re alive. The next you’re dead.”

  She’s right. That is the life we live. That is why there will never be anyone who matters. Just someone who gets you through one night. My gaze slides over her lips once more and I contemplate leaning in to kiss her again, but the phone I’ve slid into my pocket beeps with a text message. “And how quickly a moment is lost,” I murmur, pulling away from her, and glancing at the screen. “Our ride has arrived,” I add, returning the cell to my pocket and sliding the ring meant for me onto my hand before shutting the case that is worthless fro
m this point forward. Exactly why I plan to leave it behind. “Shall we?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she says. “We shall.” She turns and heads for the exit, every move she makes graceful, and yet, somehow lethal. She might not be the killer that I am. But she will kill if she has to. And while I’ve never even considered what qualities I’d want in a wife, one I don’t plan to ever have, I decide this woman fits them like a glove . . . for tonight.

  I catch up with her at the door, and open it for her. “We won’t be back here,” she says, exiting into the hallway.

  In other words, we complete this mission in one night. I like how she thinks. I join her outside the room, letting the door shut behind us, the potential that we’re being watched only partially why my arm wraps her waist. “How long have you been doing this?” I ask, setting us in motion.

  “Twenty-eight years ago as of last week when I turned twenty-eight.”

  “You were born into an agency family.”

  “That’s right,” she says, as we stop at the elevator and I punch the button.

  “And you?” she asks.

  “Recruited out of college at nineteen,” I say, facing her, my hand at her hip. “I’m thirty-three.”

  “Why’d they choose you, Mr. Jones?” she asks, stepping closer to me, her palm over my heart.

  “Must have just been a look in my eyes,” I say, when the truth is much more complex, and far too personal to share with a woman I plan to fuck and leave right after we fuck over our enemies.

  “The look in your eyes,” she repeats, studying me. “Yes. I see it. The one that says you’re the killer you claim to be.”