by Denise Wells
“Name’s Mack.” He holds out his hand.
I take it in mine, surprised when he leans down to kiss the back of it. A slight tremor runs through my body. The second time in as many minutes that this man has affected me.
“Daria,” I return.
The tremor can only be an effect of the alcohol. Or the slight cool in the air. Because I don’t allow men to impact me in such a manner. They are distracting.
“What do you do, Mack.” I put unnecessary emphasis on his name liking the way it falls from my lips.
“I work in security.”
“Oh. Like alarm systems?”
“Among other things. It requires that I travel a bit, but I’m based here in Seattle. What about you?”
“I own a bar. It’s not quite open yet, we are finishing some remodels.” I don’t tell him that I bought the bar to stay in the US and search for my sister. At the same time pushing to the back of my mind that I’ve yet to tell my father she’s missing.
28
Mack - Eighteen Months Ago
The Russians are always on our radar for various things. Lately, it’s been sex trafficking and underground pornography. While the FBI doesn’t often send guys undercover, if at all, they have recently with me. My partner, Reed, and I work a lot of the trafficking cases, and for the last year we’ve been trying to find a connection between Ronan Sinclair and a passel of women who’ve gone missing.
There are more women missing than what we’re aware, I know that for sure. Proving it is a different story. Evenings like tonight are supposed to help with that. Andrei Turgenev is a guy on Sinclair’s payroll, sure. But coming to parties such as this at Turgenev’s house are a waste of time to me. Nothing too nefarious happens in the open, before strangers and the public. Illegal drugs? Sure. Not enough to blink at and not why I’m here.
Which is why it’s so fortuitous I found someone, like the lovely Daria here, to pass the time with. She sits next to me, coolly sipping her vodka, watching me with heated eyes. She intrigues me, for sure. And I can’t get a bead on what she’s looking for here at the party. But, like me, she is on alert while projecting a cool and calm façade. We’ve spent the last half hour making conversation, mostly small talk. So I can’t even identify what it is about her that interests me.
She’s gorgeous as fuck. With legs I want to see flung over my shoulders while I fuck her into oblivion. So, about ten minutes ago, I started finding reasons to touch her. Big mistake. All I can think about now is ripping that dress off her and running my hands along every inch of her body. Use my heat to melt everything about her that is cold.
She doesn’t giggle. Or flip her hair. There is no batting of eyelashes, none of the signs that I’m accustomed to women using to show their interest. Which makes her a challenge; it’s more than just that though, and I need to figure out what that more is.
I know I affect her. I can see that. But she doesn’t give in to it. She’s not law enforcement, but she is in total control of herself and her surroundings. I’m willing to bet she’s had some sort of training. That said, I still got the best of her when I sat down beside her at the bar.
A band takes the stage, a popular one given the reaction of the crowd. The singer is a woman whose voice sounds familiar, but I still couldn’t tell you who it is. The melody is haunting and sultry. I stand and pull Daria up and into my arms for a dance.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Dancing, babe.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
I wrap her more firmly in my embrace, my left hand secure at her lower back as I bring our intertwined fingers to my shoulder, forcing her cheek to my chest. It takes a moment, but soon her body relaxes against mine, as though resigning herself to cooperate. I can’t stop the smile that takes over my face.
“Don’t smile,” she says, making me laugh. “It’s just a dance.”
“It’s a victory.”
“How so?” She angles her head back to look me in the eye.
“One, you’re trying not to like me, but you do. Two, I’m willing to bet you don’t usually dance at parties, but you are. Three, you enjoy the way our bodies fit together just as much as I do.”
“What was that thing you said earlier? Pfft?” Her eyes sparkle as she teases me.
I’m captivated.
“You’re gorgeous.”
“My sister is gorgeous,” she says. “I am interesting.”
“Agree to disagree.”
“I hate that saying. Americans love to contradict. Same difference. Agree to disagree. Jumbo shrimp.” She laughs at her own joke.
“You’re confusing oxymoron with concession.”
“Meaning?”
“‘Same difference’ and ‘jumbo shrimp’ are oxymorons. The two words are used together but mean the opposite. Whereas ‘agree to disagree’ is more like a compromise or a concession. We acknowledge the difference in opinion but choose to move on with the conversation anyway.”
“Hmmm.”
I can’t tell if that means she agrees or not.
“Still gorgeous,” I say to the top of her head, her hair tickling my lips. Pretty sure I could stay like this for a while, holding her in my arms, swaying to the music. I haven’t had this kind of reaction to a woman in a long time.
I like it.
We stay this way for two more songs, not talking just feeling. At least for me that’s what it was: feeling content. Which is why, when the next song is faster and she tilts her head up and says thank you, I lean in and kiss her softy on the lips. Letting my own linger a moment on hers before pulling back.
Her mouth stays in a small “o” while she looks up at me with surprise.
Don’t worry, babe, I shocked myself when I did it too.
Which is why I’m even more surprised when she pulls my head back down to hers and captures my lips in a deeper kiss. One that I quickly take control of. My right hand letting go of hers to move up and cup her cheek, holding her in place while my tongue seeks entrance. She snakes her other hand around my neck, my sport jacket falling from her shoulders to the floor.
I propel us off the dance floor and back to the side of the bar. She pulls away before I have a chance to back her up against the wall.
“Wait.” She rushes to pick up my jacket, slipping her arms into it before returning. Then, as though she’d never left, backs herself against the wall and pulls me to her, resuming the position. I slip my hands down to cup her ass and squeeze.
She moans in my mouth.
My tongue duels with hers. And when I go in for more, she meets me swipe for swipe, bite for bite, and lick for lick in equal measure, making my head spin. My hand slides from her ass to her thigh, I pull her leg up to wrap around my hip. She takes it one step further and wraps both legs around me, her dress riding up around her waist. The tails of my sport jacket covering anything on the sides that might be visible to onlookers. I grind my pelvis against her, the closest I’ve come to dry humping in years, as we continue to make out. Her heat penetrating through my slacks, making me wish I was sinking into it instead of just rubbing against it.
She kisses her way along my jawline to my ear and moans, “God, don’t stop.”
“No chance.”
Her legs tighten in a vice grip around my waist as her teeth sink into my neck and she shudders through her release. The sound that emanates from her chest is animalistic in nature. A man could get addicted to a sound like that. I might be already. Thawing the ice is one thing, melting her entirely until she loses control is mesmerizing.
I hope she doesn’t plan to leave because I have no intention of letting her go.
29
Mack - Ten Months Ago
“I don’t know, how do I tell the woman I love I know she’s lying about who she is without admitting I’m doing the same?” I squeeze the back of my neck with my hand, frustrated. “Shit, dumbass, these are the messes you get into when you aren’t honest with the person you’re seeing.�
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I grumble into the night, not waiting for a response since I’m talking to myself. Instead, I continue to pace in the alley behind the bar, my shoes wearing a path in the concrete with my incessant back and forth. I’ve been here for twenty minutes, playing out different scenarios in my mind and trying to produce one I’m happy with.
I’ve yet to be successful.
At a time when I should be telling her I love her, suggesting we move in together, I’ll instead be confessing I’ve been following her when she heads out late at night. My problem isn’t that she goes out when she should be sleeping, it’s what she’s doing while she’s out. Which is why I’ll have to tell her who I really am. And cause a clusterfuck of epic proportions.
Even though I haven’t said anything before, that all ends tonight. I want to marry this woman someday, and I can’t do that with this hanging between us.
I enter through the front door of the bar instead of knocking and waiting for someone to let me in at the back. Daria is standing at the edge of the bar talking to one of her employees with her back to me. Giving me a chance to drink her in. She’s wearing a tight dress that ends just below her knees. I can’t see her front yet, but her back is completely bare. Which is sexy as fuck.
I lean against the wall just inside the doorway and wait until she’s free. The girl she’s talking to glances over Daria’s shoulder at me, then chin bobs at Daria to tell her I’m here. Daria turns slowly, her lips turning up when our eyes meet. My heart beats faster, and I can’t stop the smile that takes over my face.
I beckon her forward with my finger, wanting to watch her walk toward me. She shakes her head in response. I raise an eyebrow in question. If she’s still working, I’ll wait. But if she’s being coy, I’ll spank the shit out of that beautiful ass later. Right before I kiss it and make it better.
“Come over here and make me,” she taunts, her Russian accent thickening as she laughs, making my dick stir. I not-so-subtly shift myself in my pants, smirking as her gaze drops to watch, then make my way toward her, my steps long and purposeful. Daria is tall and wearing heels, but I still have a few inches on her. She looks up at me through dark lashes when I stop in front of her, her big brown eyes heating when I cup her cheek in my palm.
I pull her toward me, capturing her lips with mine before she has a moment to say or do anything else. Her arms snake up my chest, resting on my pecs as her body melts into mine. My other hand skirting down her back, stopping when my thumb reaches the indentation at the small of her back, my remaining fingers curling down around her ass.
And just like every other time when I’ve kissed her, my cock strains against my jeans, begging to be set free. Daring me to push her dress up and fuck her here against the bar with everyone watching to prove beyond the shadow of a doubt who she belongs to.
I slow the kiss as some jackass starts to cat call and whistle, leaning my forehead against hers to catch my breath. “Hi.”
“Hi back,” she says.
“You ready to go?”
She nods, grabs her clutch from the bar, then takes my hand when I offer it. I can’t help but feel proud to have her with me. She’s beautiful, successful, intelligent—
A killer.
My own thoughts interrupt my musings as the reminder of what’s bound to go down tonight slaps me upside the head. She’s going to hate me for lying to her. She’s going to hate me for following her. And while I hate to admit it, there’s still a part of me that wonders if I should turn her in.
The restaurant is one of those quaint and inviting little places situated on a street corner, with soft music flowing from overhead speakers and where the bulk of the lighting comes from candles. We’re shown to a private booth in the back and both gravitate toward the middle from either side.
“Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?” I ask.
Daria shakes her head in response, her long brown hair swishing back and forth.
“You look incredible, it’s all I can do to keep my hands to myself.”
“Who said you have to?” She smiles saucily, her eyes sparkling as she looks at me with such affection my chest aches. I must be the luckiest motherfucker alive to have someone so fantastic look at me with such warmth and devotion. You don’t just fuck that up over conflicting career paths, right? Talk about love-life-suicide. . .
Before I realize I blurt out, “God, I love you.”
Oh shit.
My hand flies up to cover my mouth and I close my eyes.
Why did I say that? How fucking stupid.
Deep breath.
It’s out there now. I can’t take it back. I open my eyes slowly, hesitant to fully take in her reaction.
She looks at me, her eyes wide, brows arched, and mouth agape.
Her shock could not be any clearer. Which means it was too soon. I spoke too soon, because I’m an idiot who doesn’t think things through. This is going to ruin everything.
How do I take it back?
I look around the dimly lit room frantically, hoping the answer will jump out at me. Because, also, what the fuck am I thinking telling her I love her on the same night I plan to confront her about being an assassin? How can I—
“I love you too.”
I look at her, hoping that I heard correctly.
“You do?”
She nods, her head bobbing rapidly. “I do.”
“Oh.”
Well, shit. That changes everything, right?
Love conquers all. This will be fine.
I grab her by the back of the neck and pull her face to mine, capturing her lips in the softest kiss I can muster. Trying to convey as much love as I can just in case I’m wrong and what I’m about to say won’t really destroy everything.
When we separate, it’s like we are the only two people in the world, she’s the only one I see. I caress her cheek with my thumb, memorizing her face.
“I’ll just leave these here,” someone says as they set down our drinks. I don’t look. I don’t care. This moment right here is all that matters. We’re together, we love each other, she’s looking at me like I’m the most important thing in the world. And she’s seeing the same emotion reflecting from me.
I lean in to kiss her again, my hand moving up her thigh until I reach the edge of her panties. I run my knuckle across the front, across her clit. Daria’s breath catches and she looks at me batting her eyelashes in an exaggerated motion.
“Why, Mr. Murphy, are you trying to touch me in a public place?” Her voice is breathy and low.
“Not trying, beautiful.” I lean forward, my forehead touching hers, my other hand cupped around her neck. She has one hand squeezing my thigh and the other clutching the edge of the bench seat. Someone drops off our salads, neither of us pay them any attention. I move my finger under the edge of her panties and sink it inside her.
She gasps in response.
“I’m going to get you off before the main course.” My thumb finds her clit and starts to massage it.
“It’s a bet.” Her eyes already at half-mast, the challenge she issues is closer to a joke than anything else.
I slide a second finger inside her, curling them forward as they pump in and out. Her breath heavy against my face, her muscles contracting around my fingers. She’s close whether she wants to admit it or not.
“Oh god, Mack.”
I capture her lips with mine to drown out any further sounds as she finds her release, her core squeezing my fingers, her juices coating my hand, her body convulsing slightly. I wait for her to come down before removing my hand. Then lick my fingers as she catches her breath. I wink when she looks at me.
“You are my favorite flavor.”
She blushes slightly at my words, which always surprises and endears me. I hold off until she is situated and has taken a bite of her salad before making my next move.
“How long have you been assassinating low-life criminals, beautiful?”
30
Daria - Ten Months A
go
“How long have you been assassinating low-life criminals, beautiful?”
I blink rapidly, not sure if I’d heard him correctly. There’s no way he could have just asked me what I think he did.
“Uh, what?”
“Daria, I know.” The look on his face is curious yet determined. Surprisingly, I don’t see any judgment. Or approval for that matter.
“How long have you known?”
“A while. I’ve been following you at night. Since you took out the guy on forty-third street.”
“That long?”
He nods.
Bile rises in my throat. How is it possible that he’s known for that long and not said anything to me? And more importantly that he’s known for that long and I haven’t caught on. That he’s been following me and neither myself nor my girls have seen him. We are too good for that. We don’t miss things like tails.
“What are you going to do?” I hate that my voice shakes.
“Why don’t we start with you telling me why.”
So, I do.
“My great-grandmother is Lidya Limonov.”
The ways he nods tells me he’s not getting it.
“The original femme fatale,” I add.
“The sniper?” The shocked tone in his voice a sign that he’s starting to understand.
I take a deep breath and ready myself to tell him my story. “In my family, there is at least one person in every generation with the gift of sight, as Lidya would call it. Sight being the eye for shooting, an innate talent. Before me it was my mother. Her mother before her, and Lidya before that. So far it’s always been a woman, even though the boys are tested for the gift at a youthful age as well.
“The men in my family make a lot of money, but in ways that are not so, how you would say, above board. And it is often necessary to take out the competition. Or the customer. As retribution, payment, etcetera. Another way to make money for our family is as hired assassinations. Training begins at an early age—at age eight for me. It is not limited to just guns, but also hand-to-hand combat, explosives, poisons, self-defense, code deciphering, much of what you would consider spy espionage.