by Amy Lane
Hunter cupped his jaw then, the gesture somehow more intimate than a kiss.
“Look me in the eye when you say that,” he commanded, and Grace….
Grace did.
Look him in the eyes, that is. He opened his mouth to say “Sure,” again, but the word shriveled up and turned to dust in his throat, leaving him speechless, which didn’t happen often.
The thing in Hunter’s eyes….
Grace had seen something like it before—a lot. One quick fuck and a used condom later and it went away. But those looks had never been like this. Those looks had never been crystalline and deep. And maybe it was because Grace was a thief and he loved sparkly things, but the glitter in Hunter’s eyes reminded him of tourmaline or opals, gems that looked opaque but had mysteries and flaws and tiny surprises of color and beauty locked deep inside.
As with any gem, Grace wanted a better, closer look. He wanted to touch.
But he was too stunned to do that, so he just stood there, locked in Hunter’s gaze, mouth gaping like a fish until Hunter rubbed his lower lip with a callused thumb.
“You and me have shit to work out,” Hunter whispered. “And we can’t work it out on the job. Be honest with me here if you need to call it quits. But don’t think this, you and me, is going to go away because your feet hurt too much to work.”
Grace swallowed. His feet throbbed, but his chest—that throbbed worse.
“Say something, Grace.”
“Feet are fine,” he lied weakly.
Hunter’s mouth lifted at a corner. “You’re a terrible liar. Good to know. But I’m going to take you at your word this time, because if I can’t trust you in this, why should I trust you with any other part of my life.”
Grace swallowed, and what he said next felt compelled, like someone summoning a demon.
“Fine. Feet hurt. I can still do the job.”
That corner lift became a two-corner lift and Hunter’s lips curved gently. “Better. We’ll take a Lyft over there—you’ll have plenty to do once we get out.”
Grace nodded and Hunter opened the door to the hotel room and the moment was over.
Sort of.
Hunter didn’t really leave his side until they got out of the SUV at the other hotel. He stayed close, the heat of his skin burning through Grace’s clothing, keeping him warm in the Vancouver damp.
Belling the Cat
HUNTER HAD to hand it to Grace—for someone who liked the entire world to look at him, sometimes he could disappear in plain sight.
He’d kept Hunter’s black hoodie but changed into denim leggings—stretchy like tights but looked like jeans—before they left. He’d put a sweet little fishing cap on his head so he looked trendy and adorable but not ostentatious, and he wore his earbuds. He slouched in an overstuffed chair in the gracious lobby of the Times Square and played on his phone, looking a little bored and a little self-involved—and very forgettable.
To everyone but Hunter.
Gah! He’d only known Grace for two months—two months when a little voice in the back of his head had been monitoring the little shit 24/7.
Grace is showing off again. Say something.
Grace is doing something risky—check him.
Grace is looking at you. Pretend you don’t notice.
It had only been two months since Josh had asked his friends for help in clearing up Felix’s reputation, and they’d become a crew. And the whole time, a tightly clenched part of Hunter felt like it had been cranked tighter by simultaneously saving Grace from himself and keeping the man out of harm’s way.
Hunter hadn’t realized how exhausted he’d gotten until he had carried Grace back to the hotel, had tended to his wounds, had allowed himself to be tender.
Grace’s wounded pride, the skittish way he’d allowed himself to be gentled, his final trust, had soothed something inside Hunter, had eased the chafing that Grace’s usual grandstanding left.
The little shit apparently needed him.
It was a stunning realization. Equally stunning was the gratification Hunter had felt when he realized Grace would allow himself to need. How did that happen? Grace’s independence was etched in every fuck-you gesture he made.
But then, Hunter had the feeling he’d been let down a lot—perhaps by everybody in his life but Josh and Artur. Hunter had always hated that poor-little-rich-boy crap: oh, boo-hoo, Daddy didn’t love me so now I’m a fucking prick to everybody I step on! Hunter had grown up having enough. Not a lot, but enough. His parents, though, had pulled him to the local soup kitchen one Sunday a month instead of church, and he’d seen kids from school there, embarrassed, afraid to take food because of their pride.
He’d been to the poorest parts of the world, where whole villages would wait up at night, anxious and weeping, for one relief box of food and water.
He’d seen real want and real pain, and he’d always figured the sadness of the rich was no big fucking deal.
But Dylan Li had a giant chip on his shoulder. His best friend, his best friend’s family, even his dance teacher had all tried to help him lift it off, but he was reluctant to accept their assistance.
It scared Hunter, thinking about that—that sort of unwillingness to grow, unwillingness to function with your team. It got people killed.
But Paulie had been killed anyway.
He was sitting at a coffee table on the second-floor overlook, sipping coffee and pretending to be immersed in the news on his phone. The thought of Paulie, though, that startled him. He’d purposefully pushed Paulie to the back of his mind for the past year.
A year, really? Yeah—a little more actually. He fumbled for a sip of coffee and restlessly scanned the room, seeing nobody. Artur had dropped the package off ten minutes ago—he’d seen it slipped behind the concierge’s desk, waiting to be claimed by “John Tazo,” and they’d all been in position for between five and thirty minutes prior, Josh first.
So far, nobody had bit, and Hunter’d had more than enough time to focus on Grace’s faux-casual sprawl, but he hadn’t been woolgathering until this moment.
Paulie. Jesus.
“Heads-up,” Josh said into his coms. “Two guys speaking a language I don’t recognize. What’s Sergei again?”
“Armenian,” Grace mumbled.
“Yeah, could be. Dammit—don’t know that one yet. I’ll learn it eventually. But they’re on their way in. Slick, wearing suit pants, vests, shiny shirts, and fedoras. See them?”
“Got ’em,” Molly said from the downstairs gift shop. “Want me to follow?”
“Stay put,” Hunter murmured. “Let’s see if they take the bait first and where they go with it. If they’re in the hotel, we’ll need to get a room.”
“Gotcha,” Josh said. “Molly, you and me follow them up. Stirling, be ready to give us a vacant room nearby. But let’s see what they do first.”
God, Josh was quick. Hunter had assumed when he’d first signed on that he’d be running point for most of these little adventures. He hadn’t been prepared for Josh Salinger, who’d been brought up at the knees of grifters and businessmen and knew what needed to be done to get results.
“What about Hunter?” Grace mumbled, and at that moment, Hunter saw their two guys.
“Hunter is making himself scarce,” Hunter said softly, standing and moving from the balcony toward the ballrooms, which sat behind the café. “I know these assholes.”
Fuck. John Tazo. Who in the hell would have guessed? His real name was Johan Tarkasian, but John Tazo would work. Hunter had worked with him right out of the military but did his best to avoid him later. He really didn’t like guys who left a body trail instead of taking a little bit of care with their planning, and that was Tazo—to a T.
“These guys are dangerous,” Hunter muttered from a recess by the restrooms in the ballroom foyer. He was lucky. There were no events this night, so the room was empty. Otherwise he’d be dodging people dressed super nicely for cheap champagne. “Don’t follow—”
“They
made the pickup,” Josh said quietly. “Stirling, your tracking device on the box is a go?”
“Yup,” Stirling murmured. He was minding his monitor in a coffee shop across from the hotel. “It’s currently still on location.”
“You guys,” Hunter growled, “I’m not kid—”
“They’re heading for the elevators,” Josh said harshly. “Molly and I are behind them. Stirling, I’m going to need an empty hotel room close to where they are.”
“Have your master ready,” Stirling told him. “And your master maker.”
It was a small handheld device that Josh was carrying in his backpack. Stirling had already hacked into the hotel’s database to see which rooms they had booked and which ones were vacant. All Josh had to do was give him the floor their two marks were on and Stirling could position them near the room they needed to burgle.
And then he could give them a key to the room.
“But you guys—”
“Nearing the elevators,” Molly murmured, and she’d pitched her voice so it sounded like she was saying something intimate to Josh. Ah, a young, happy couple.
“Pick the floor before theirs,” Hunter ordered. “See where they’re going, then hit the button for the floor below. We’ve got the tracker. We just need access to their room. That way, they won’t be suspicious.”
“Understood,” Josh said. “Grace, we don’t want them to see you. Wait five minutes and then hit the elevators.”
“I’m sorry, I’m on the stairwell. Where are we going again?”
Hunter took two deep breaths and couldn’t feel the oxygen. “I’m sorry?” he asked, his voice cracking.
“Just tell me where I’m going. I’m on the stairwell. Hurts like a bitch, by the way. Tell me if we’re going higher than ten floors ’cause I’ll come out and use the elevator—”
“It’s key card only,” Molly said. “Honey, do you have your key card?”
“Yeah, hold up,” Josh muttered in what was obviously a play for time.
“Got it!” Stirling chimed in, but he needn’t have bothered.
From a few steps away, they could hear a voice saying, “Go ahead, step in. Which floor do you need?”
“Fifteenth,” Josh said easily. “Thank you.”
“I’m on my way to the sixteenth,” Hunter told them. “After these elevators go.” He pulled out his own master key and resolved to wait an eternity, maybe three, before he took the elevator up.
“Really, hon,” Molly murmured, “you want to do that?” Oh—cover story. It took a second to figure out what she was talking about.
Josh said, “You know, you’re right, I think the timing is too close.”
“What?” came the voice—and Hunter recognized it. Tazo. It gave him chills.
“Well,” Josh said, “we wanted to go to Grouse Mountain tomorrow, but we’re not sure if we can get back in time to see the ballet we have tickets for,” Josh told him, apparently pulling a tourist trap out of a hat.
“You’re thinking about going on the Grouse Mountain tour?” Tazo said. “’Cause I’ve done that. It was amazing. Walking on the catwalks, seeing the lumberjack games. Good fun. Worth squeezing it in.”
“Thank you so much!” Molly burbled. “The buses do get us back in time—it says so on the schedule!”
“Yeah, you’re right.” Josh had spent a lot of his young life in theater, and it showed. “Thank you,” he said charmingly. “This is our floor!”
They got out of the elevator just as Hunter got on his, and he heard Molly ask over his com, “Did you really want to go to Grouse Mountain? Because I’m totally down with that if nothing’s doing otherwise.”
“Yeah. They’ve got a whole thing with indigenous species and plants—and people!”
“Fascinating! And maybe we can fit the Butchart Gardens in on Sunday, since our plane isn’t until the evening.”
“Oh my God,” Hunter muttered at the same time Grace snapped, “Fine! Plan things for me that I can’t go to. I don’t mind!”
“You’re running up a staircase when you could have waited for the elevator,” Josh told him irritably. “You can take a bus to a tourist attraction.”
“So I’m invited?” Grace sounded mildly out of breath, and a part of Hunter was reassured—he hadn’t been bullshitting about being hurt. “As long as I can walk?”
Josh’s sigh on the other end was pronounced. “If your feet hurt, I’ll hang out in the hotel with you, and as long as nothing’s doing, Molly can go with Julia.”
“What about me?” Stirling asked. “I like mountains.”
“Anybody but me and Grace can go to Grouse Mountain,” Josh said with a certain amount of grim humor. “We’re in room 1518.”
“And we’re in luck,” Stirling muttered. “Because your friends are in 1617, and there’s a connecting door between 17 and 18 on all the floors. Grace, you can rest for a while and totally check out the ventilation system—I’m pretty sure you can get into their room easy. But we need to know when those two guys are leaving.”
“Don’t worry,” Hunter said. “I’ve got that covered.”
“Wait a minute,” Josh said.
“Wait a minute,” Stirling and Molly murmured.
“Great!” Grace said. “I’ll take the stairwell to the sixteenth floor and wait until they hit the elevators.”
“No!” Hunter barked, right as his elevator door opened and he found himself looking down a hallway to where Tazo and his companion had just rounded a corner.
“Hunter Rutledge,” Tazo exclaimed. “Is that you?”
“Stirling, is the package in the room?” Hunter murmured through his teeth even as he smiled at Tazo and waved.
“As far as I can tell,” Stirling said. “We have no way of knowing if they took the gem out of the box or not.”
“We’re going to guess not.” Tazo was a hired gun—a mercenary. He and Hunter had worked jobs together, and while Tazo had followed orders to do the killing when he’d screwed up, he’d never made the decisions himself. You did what you were paid to do. And Hunter needed him out of the way—and nowhere around Grace.
“Tarkasian!” Hunter said out loud, turning fully to Tazo as he approached. “Who’d you kill to end up in Vancouver?”
Tarkasian—slick, pale-skinned, dark-haired, dark-eyed, with impeccably sculpted caterpillars above his eyes—gave a thin, thin smile from ripe, full lips. Hunter had never found him the least bit attractive, but God, had the guy been able to get laid. Mostly by women, but he didn’t discriminate. He gave his companion a smirk. Tarkasian’s companion—same coloring but thinner, slighter, wiry as a spider with thin lips and a knife-blade nose—smirked back.
“I’m Tazo here,” he said, and Hunter nodded because that happened.
“Body count wasn’t too high, this time,” the companion said. “Doing a few favors for a friend is all.”
“Friend got a name?” Hunter asked, all professional. That was standard with mercs—shoptalk.
“Kadjic,” Tazo said, shrugging. “Could work for worse.”
“His fuckin’ cousin for one,” said skinny-Tazo. “Man, I was there when some guys got made by Interpol on a botched job.” He held up his palm, which showed the neat round burn from a cigarette in the center. “I got lucky. He used a cigar with the guys who were actually at the scene. He used to decorate his exes by carving his initials on their flesh—whether they were alive or dead.”
Hunter, Tazo, and skinny-Tazo all shuddered. That there was a merc’s nightmare. You could get asked to do all sorts of things when you hired your military skills out, but dealing with a sadistic nutcase was always the one you feared the most. Hunter knew that Josh’s Uncle Danny had dated Kadjic’s cousin for a brief time, and he’d seen the outline of keloid scars pushing against a thin shirt. Putting the two things together made him even more respectful of Danny—not less. It took some strength to pull yourself out of a hole made by trusting the wrong man.
“So, soft job?” Hunter asked,
not sure how much these two guys had been briefed. In the background, he heard Grace over coms, a muffled echo around him, as though he were shuffling through a ventilation shaft. Somewhere nearby came a mechanical thump, like a heater coming on, and Grace’s low swearing hummed in his background as he listened for Tazo’s answer.
Hunter kept his expression completely even as Tazo replied, “Pickup and delivery. Nothing simpler. In fact, was just going out for a beer now that we’ve got the pickup done. Want to come with?”
“Sure,” Hunter agreed. “I was going to drop something off in my room. Should I meet you back down in the lobby?”
“Yeah, sure. But I warn you—our guy isn’t hiring right now.”
“No worries. I’ve got some leads out.” Because the last thing Hunter was going to tell this guy was that he was on the job.
In his ear, Stirling muttered, “Josh, get up to his floor and go into room 1652 to let Hunter in. If you come up through the stairwell and turn left, you won’t run into Tazo and his guy.”
“Roger,” Josh murmured as Tazo said, “Excellent! Looking forward to that beer.”
Hunter nodded and smiled, because that seemed friendly, and then turned to walk down to the end of the hallway and make a right. As he turned, he saw the elevator doors shutting on Tazo and his companion, and he murmured, “Clear,” before continuing down.
In his earpiece, Grace was moving, all but silent, for once not even murmuring to himself. Another hallway, another right, and he was at the room absolutely farthest away from the elevators, and Josh was there with the door cracked.
Hunter pushed through the door and closed it gently, standing for a few moments in the hallway, poised to go running to the rescue.
When Grace’s voice said, “I’m clear, heading for your room,” Hunter sagged against the hallway wall in relief, all of the things that could have gone wrong suddenly assailing him.
For a moment, his heartbeat roared in his ears, and he tried not to imagine what would happen if a guy like Tazo and his thin-lipped companion got hold of someone as unpredictable as Grace.
He didn’t like any of the answers.