“Isn’t it wonderful?” she says, clasping her hands in front of her.
I nod vigorously, still at a loss for words. There’s a soft white sofa and two straight-backed blue armchairs with carved wooden legs. I can see the tiny kitchen area back toward the entrance, a line of gleaming white counters and minimalist appliances recessed in a smartly-lit alcove.
“Where’s the bedroom?” I ask, and Maggie guides me to a little room off to the right. It’s a bit tight, with two twin beds pushed against opposing walls, but it’s very cute. Just like the rest of the flat, the walls are a milky white and the floors a deep, natural hardwood. We both have white bedspreads with blue quilts folded on them — and here I realize that I’m rooming with a girl who actually makes her own bed every morning instead of leaving it a mass of tangled sheets like I do.
The bathroom is connected to our room through a door with a crystal-blue novelty doorknob. It’s fairly standard, with a pedestal sink and a shower stall. The floors are bright white marble, however, and so highly polished that I can nearly see my reflection.
“This is amazing,” I gasp, turning back to Maggie. She toys with the end of her flouncy ponytail, looking nervous once again.
“I —I’ve never had a roommate before. In fact, I’ve never really had a lot of friends,” she admits, her eyes riveted to the floor bashfully. “Oh, that makes me sound pathetic, doesn’t it?”
“No, no,” I assure her. She’s blushing furiously, her cheeks patchy with rosy splotches.
“It’s not that I don’t like other people or anything. I’ve just always been so busy with gymnastics, of course, and then there’s the homeschooling thing…”
Ah, there it is. That explains everything.
“I understand,” I tell her, walking over to pat her on the arm. “I’ve only had a few close friends, my whole life, and they were gymnasts, too. It’s hard to get out and meet people when you’re so focused on the future.”
“Exactly,” she says, looking a little relieved. She seems to soften instantly, her stiff edges melting away.
“If it makes you feel any better, I’ve never had a roommate either. I’ve only ever lived at home with my parents. This is totally new for me,” I go on, walking over to my bed and sitting down. Maggie follows suit, perching on the edge of her bed.
“Me, too. I have to confess that my parents are a little, um, overbearing,” she describes, twirling the tip of her ponytail. “I love them and I know they have my best interests at heart, but they’ve never really let me do my own thing. This is the first time they haven’t been right behind me telling me what to do every minute of the day.”
“How does it feel? Having all this sudden freedom?” I ask, pulling my legs up to sit cross-legged on the bed.
Maggie chews her lips thoughtfully for a moment, then replies, “It’s a little scary. I mean, I’ve been to Paris before, but never on my own. My parents only just left yesterday to go back to Chicago. I thought they’d never leave…” she trails off.
I laugh, “Yeah, mine aren’t that bad, but it’s still kind of liberating to be able to do whatever I want, whenever I want. Or at least I assume it will be.”
“I’ve only had less than twenty-four hours of freedom but I haven’t done much with it yet,” Maggie sighs. “I spent the whole morning being too afraid to leave the apartment alone until I finally worked up the courage to go to campus and meet up with you.”
Suddenly, my cell phone chirps, alerting me to a new email. It’s a message from Pavlenko, informing me that my training will start first thing tomorrow. My heart sinks momentarily. I was hoping to get a little more time to settle in and see the city before jumping right back into the wham-bam schedule of training, studying, and more training. I have no illusions about what this career will mean for me: constant exertion, single-minded focus, and no time or energy for much else. And I’ve accepted that, since I have to.
But damn, I was hoping to at least see the Eiffel Tower first.
“What’s that?” Maggie asks.
I sigh and slump back onto my bed. “Looks like my training picks up tomorrow.”
“Oh, yeah, they don’t give you a lot of time.”
“Yea... Are you with Monsieur Pavlenko as well?”
She nods her head, and I see the corner of her mouth twitch.
“He’s... a hard man, isn’t he?” I say, testing the waters and avoiding what I really want to say.
“Yea, I heard he was like... raised really strict or something. But that’s what gets results, right?”
“I guess. It’s just... when I first met him...” I trail off, not even sure how to finish that sentence. Do I tell her how sexy I thought he was, and then how disappointed I was when I realized how cold and professional he treated me? But then, isn’t that just how teachers have to treat their students at this level? Just thinking about his gorgeous eyes, though, sends a flush through my body. He’s totally different from every other man I’ve known, and thinking about the childish and brutish attempt at seduction that Will tried on me, I know that Monsieur Pavlenko would be far more suave.
“When you first met him...?” Maggie prods, and I realize I’ve drifted off in thought, and I shake my head, embarrassed. There’s no way I can tell her any of that.
“I just got here,” I murmur, trying to change the subject. “I just wish I had a chance to experience Paris and settle in before I get shoved into a gymnastics studio twenty-four-seven.” Even if that does mean long hours trying to please my new instructor.
There’s a long pause. Then Maggie bounds over and jumps onto my bed beside me, surprising me with her sudden display of enthusiasm. She struck me as the kind of girl who was always prim and proper, keeping a polite distance between herself and everyone else. But maybe, just maybe, that’s only due to her parents’ overprotection. Maybe the real Maggie is going to break free now that she’s got an ounce of freedom.
I kind of hope so. It’ll be interesting to see someone so straight-laced spread her wings a little bit. She nudges my shoulder excitedly.
“Hey, we still have the rest of the afternoon and the evening!” she exclaims. “We could totally explore the city and still be back in time for you to get a good night’s sleep to be ready for tomorrow. Don’t you think?”
I sit up and give her a quizzical expression. I know I’ve only just met her, but nothing about her so far has indicated a streak of spontaneity. Still, I have to admit that the offer is tempting, even if I am pretty exhausted.
“You know what? Hell yeah. Let’s do this. I’m in Paris, damn it! I can sleep when I’m dead!” I say, jumping up and starting to unzip my suitcase. If I’m going to see this beautiful city, I am sure as hell not doing it in my jeans and a sweatshirt!
Maybe I show up tomorrow for practice exhausted. Big deal. What can go wrong?
Buy the rest!
Description
She needs to behave, or I’ll be forced to punish her.
Delaney Underwood is sexy as hell, with a killer body, wicked smile, and a spoiled rotten demeanor. She's a pampered rich girl, thinking she can get anything she wants, whenever she wants.
It pisses me off. I've struggled to survive, and I have the scars to prove it. Delaney’s going to make me a wealthy man, once her parents pay to get their precious angel back.
But every time I look at those sassy lips, I wanna put them to good use. Delaney has gotten under my skin and she knows it. Even before I took her hostage, she'd somehow managed to work her way into my blood, and my heart hammers harder in my chest every time she stares daggers in my direction.
She's craving someone like me in her life, whether she knows it or not, and with every bratty outburst, a part of me calls out to discipline her. She needs to be taught a lesson.
And I need her, all to myself. I promised to ransom her off, but once I have a taste of her sweet curves, I'm keeping her to myself.
She’s the hitman’s hostage and she’ll learn to love it.
A f
ull length Standalone Romantic Suspense novel. No Cliffhangers. Safe from cheating. Explicit language & swearing.
Darios
I’ve had the wounded bird with me for some time, but it’s been clear for a while she’s ready to fly once more. She’s grown accustomed to my hold, after all my time tending her. She doesn’t struggle, doesn’t try to fly away. Her shiny red breast gleams in the light through the train window.
I open up the sliding window, and feel the air get sucked out. The little bird hops about the table before me, chirping excitedly. She’s unsure of what to do, even looks back at me. And I can’t help but smile. Poor creature; once upon a time she tried to fight my care. But she’d be dead without it. Now it’s hard for both of us to accept it as the scenery of southern France flies by. I give her a gentle nudge and she zips away, vanishing into the picturesque countryside. She’ll be fine, but I’ll miss the noisy girl.
She wouldn’t have wanted to see what I need to do next.
The Mediterranean coast spans the other side of the cabin’s view. We’ll be reaching the Spanish border before much longer, and that means it’s time to act.
Watching the view of the water outside disappear behind lush forest, I slowly fold up my napkin from the light breakfast I’ve been eating as I hear the footsteps of an attendant coming up behind me. I exchange looks with the two other men — my subordinates — seated at the table with me, and they give me nods that are so slight as to be almost imperceptible. None of us need to exchange any more words. Both of them know what to do. And they know the price of failure.
The attendant approaches us and starts to collect the remains of our food. “I hope you gentlemen enjoyed everything?” she asks, a kind intonation to her voice. I smile up at her as I catch her eye. She’s a young Swiss woman, we’d found out the night before when my men and I made our introductions, working here to save up to move to the very city we’re headed: Barcelona. And she spoke to us in her native French. We’d made quite a charming impression on her — I’d made sure of that. But I feel she deserves a bit of a break from the more unruly, ritzy tourists she no doubt has to cater to on a luxury train like this.
“We couldn’t have asked for better,” I say, flashing a smile at her as I hand her my empty cup, “but the service is even better. Did you do something with your hair overnight?”
“Never hurts to look sharp,” she says with a smile, her cheeks tinging with a little color as she gave her hair a subtle toss, pleased we’d noticed. “Never know who you’ll run into, in this business.”
“Mademoiselle, you’re far too good for a gig like this,” I say in a low, jokingly conspiratorial voice. “If I were you, I’d get off in Barcelona and stay there. The city’s bustling with modeling agencies who’d die to get their hands on the likes of you.” I am pleased to find that my French seems to be good enough that my light Georgian accent doesn’t slip through too strongly. Just strongly enough to have the effect I want.
She rolls her eyes, pretending to brush off the compliment despite her smiling lips. “Sure, sure. Can I get you gentlemen anything else?”
“Actually,” I say, pulling out my bag from under the table and reaching in, drawing out a bottle of champagne, “I was wondering if I could ask a small favor of you.”
She tsks, but an eyebrow rises at the sight of the bottle. “You know you’re not the only men on the train, I hope,” she teases.
“Maybe,” I say, flashing her a smile, “but if you’d be so kind as to help us bring this little surprise of ours to some friends of ours two cars ahead, we might be the only men willing to share some of it with you,” I say with a wink, my dark eyes holding hers for a few moments as she bites her lip and looks around to make sure no managers are around.
“Well…” she hesitates, but my smile breaks her. “I suppose I can spare a few minutes.”
“You can blame me if your manager misses you,” I add as we rise to our feet, and I run a hand through my hair as the attendant leads us out the dining car and up to the private cars that have been rented out.
Such cars are usually reserved for the richest and wealthiest men and women, often tourists who are traveling Europe. Pampered types who’ve never known hardship in all their days, British and Americans who view the continent as their own amusement park to ride around in. The smile I wear on my face as we approach our destination is genuine. Those are precisely the types of people I’m looking forward to seeing.
“This is a private car,” the attendant says, giving us a hesitant look as she reaches the door, “you’re quite certain this is where your friends are seated? I...could be in a lot of trouble if I disturb the wrong group.”
I reach into my pocket and pull out a hundred euro bill along with the bottle of champagne, handing both to her. “Very sure — and here’s a little something for your trouble. There’ll be more in it for you if you’d be so kind as to bring it in ahead of us, they don’t know we’re on the train with them. Tell them that Darios sends his best wishes.”
She looks nervous, obviously not used to this kind of thing, and I can’t blame her. I reach forward, lifting the poor girl’s chin up just a bit to smile at her and watch the color come to her cheeks. “You’ll do fine, mademoiselle. We’re right behind you.”
She gave an embarrassed half-laugh, running her hand through her hair before swallowing. “Of course, I’m sorry, I’m just a little flustered this morning.” She clears her throat, turning and unlocking the car door and stepping inside while I step back.
Over her shoulder, I catch a glimpse of the interior. It’s exactly as we expected — one large, spacious car lined with couches and a few tables, the lights low and comfortable. Along some of the couches, I see young women in incredibly expensive outfits. Designer clothing that dominated the cutting edge of the Western fashion industry, imports from Paris and Milan that many of them had probably bought during their short stays in those cities. All of them are young and beautiful, the kind of beauty only wealth affords. They’re like porcelain dolls, spoiled and pampered.
And all of them are terrified.
Sure, most of the ones I can see from here do a decent job of pretending to be happy and placid as the attendant strides in nervously, but I can read the hidden emotions of other people like open books, and the thin veneer of a smile does little to hide the fear on each and every one of them.
That’s because all of those women are being kidnapped and held for ransom by the other men in the car that I can’t yet see.
It’s an operation I know well: find spoiled young ladies traveling across Europe, abduct them, and have their terrified parents pay ludicrous amounts in ransom money. The mafia is making a killing off of this, and the men inside this car are expecting to be very rich in a week or so. I almost feel bad for spoiling their good moods. “I’ll handle entry,” I whisper to my men behind me, “you two back me up once the smoke is cleared.”
“Excuse me, sirs and ladies,” says the attendant, defaulting to heavily accented English to speak to the passengers, her tone nervous, “but I have a gift from a, um, Darios?”
“...the fuck?” I hear a male voice grunt from the car, and without wasting another moment, I draw the pistol from my jacket and step inside, aiming it at the source of the voice and pulling the trigger.
The Georgian man seated on the couch hardly has time for his eyes to widen before his brains are blown onto the window behind him.
The attendant shrieks and drops the bottle of champagne, throwing her arms up around her head, and the room explodes into chaos.
There are three more men in the room guarding the girls, and their hands are already going to their concealed weapons. The man I just killed slumps in his seat as the two women who were seated behind him cry out in terror and cringe away. I grab the attendant around the waist and sling her aside to clear the path to shoot one of the other men standing up before he can aim at me, and I dive aside as the third man points and shoots. The bullets hit the wall of the car where on
e of the girls had been sitting just a moment ago.
The fourth man dives for me, and I sidestep him with ease, but he pulls a knife on me, and I’m forced to engage. His movements are quick and precise, but I get a hold of his wrist before he can land a strike, and I twist him around. I know the third gunman is trying to aim a shot at me, so I don’t stop moving, flowing around him like water and trying to keep my man blocking my line of sight.
Finally, I move out of my living cover long enough for the gunman to think he has a shot, but I twist the knife-fighter around by the wrist, and I hear a gunshot go off just as I pull him in front of me, and I hear him grunt as his own ally’s bullet hits his heart, and he slumps to the ground just as I level my gun at the shooter.
In a matter of seconds, three men have been killed, and most of the already terrified girls in the car are taking what cover they can under the tables, watching the fight with wide eyes. The attendant just laid down flat, covering her head with her hands among the broken glass.
And the man I see looking down the barrel of my gun makes me want to risk pulling the trigger right here and now.
“Darios Esadze,” he says, narrowing his eyes at me and smiling as I clench my jaw. “I was wondering whether I’d ever see you again, my old friend.”
“Luka,” I say back, evenly. “It has been a while. If I’d have seen you any other time after the war, you’d be a dead man, you fucking traitor.” Luka’s distinctive, curly red hair that spills down his shoulders could be spotted a mile away. It accents his cruel face fittingly. What felt like a lifetime ago, he fought by my side against the Russians in the fallout of the Ossetian uprising. “I’m surprised the Russians didn’t kill you after you sold out to them.”
Sights on the SEAL: A Secret Baby Romance Page 47