The Hitwoman and the Sacrificial Lamb: Confessions of a Slightly Neurotic Hitwoman Book 12

by JB Lynn

  Patrick chuckled. "I should have just brought you something to eat."

  I shook my head and lied, "Of course not, this is perfect."

  Arching his eyebrows, he murmured, "Funny, you don't look happy."

  "I don't get it." I dropped the soap back in the bag.

  "I just wanted to give you something nice," Patrick said.

  I stared at the nearest headstone. "So you gave me a bar of soap in the middle of a cemetery. That's your idea of a grand romantic gesture?"

  Patrick folded his arms across his chest and rocked back on his heel. "I didn't know you're expecting grand romantic gestures."

  I frowned, but didn't reply.

  "Maybe Angel is better at those," he suggested quietly. Even though his tone was soft, there was no mistaking the jealousy in it.

  I looked up at him, surprised by the level of frustration revealed on his face. Usually, I could never tell what the redhead was thinking. Now, his unhappiness about my relationship with Angel Delveccio was clear.

  I sighed heavily. We’d had this exact conversation already, but for some reason, my usually resolute hitman-mentor didn’t seem to accept it. "My aunt hired him to help with Katie,” I rattled off once again. It was the same response I gave to everyone who thought it odd that a mobster’s nephew was living in the B&B where my family resided.

  "To do what?" Patrick mocked.

  I wondered if he was testing me, seeing if my story held up each time I told it. It would, because it was the truth. An odd truth maybe, but it was the way things were. "He's the manny."

  "Manny?"

  "He helps to take care of Katie."

  Usually this is where this line of questioning ended, but this time Patrick pushed harder.

  "And he does this by sitting on the floor with you, pretending to be one big happy family?"

  I cringed. A couple of weeks earlier, Patrick had burst into the basement where I stay, and had found Katie, Angel, and I sitting on the floor together.

  "He'd just performed the Heimlich on Katie who'd been choking to death," I spat out. "He saved her life. Do you want to find fault with him for that?"

  Patrick had the good grace to look apologetic. He raised his hands, signaling his surrender on the topic.

  But I wasn't appeased. "You don't get to judge how I live my life or who I spend my time with."

  Annoyance flashed in his gaze, but then he took a deep breath and hung his head. "I know. I just thought--"

  Before he could finish, another car pulled into the cemetery.

  He turned his back to it quickly. "Can we finish this discussion in my car?" Without waiting for an answer, he jumped back into his vehicle, leaving me no choice but to walk around and get in the passenger seat.

  We watched an elderly couple emerge from the other car and shuffle over to a headstone, arm in arm. They leaned against each other to maintain their balance.

  It was my turn to feel a twinge of jealousy, as I watched the older couple support one another.

  "Look," Patrick turned to face me. "I get that you're upset that I had to leave."

  I shook my head. "I'm not upset you had to leave," I corrected. "I'm upset that you disappeared."

  Patrick puffed out his cheeks, as he exhaled slowly. "I didn't disappear. I left you the phone."

  "You left. You wouldn't say where you were going. You didn't know when you'd return. In my book, that means you disappeared."

  Patrick looked back at the older couple. They were laying a bouquet of flowers on top of the grave. I could feel the tension wafting off of him, filling the car, stealing the air. When he spoke again, it was barely more than a whisper. "I'm not the only one with a complicated life, Mags."

  I closed my eyes, as that painful truth caught me in the solar plexus. He was right. My life was just as complicated as his, just differently. Between each of our issues, our relationship, whatever it was, didn't stand a chance. I wondered if the soap was symbolic of him washing his hands of me. Burning tears leaked from the corners of my eyes at the thought.

  "Hey," he said gently, cupping my chin with his palm.

  Snapping my eyes open, I found him staring at me worriedly.

  "Whatever it is, you'll be okay," he pledged. "I'll make sure of it."

  My heart squeezed. Sure his mysterious ways could be infuriating, but Patrick always wanted what was best for me. He trained me, he looked out for me, and, most of the time, he seemed to know me better than anyone else in the world.

  He kissed me, so gently, so sweetly, as though he knew how fragile my feelings were at the moment. That one wrong move on his part could shatter me.

  I kissed him back tentatively, unsure of where we stood. He tasted like the mint Lifesavers he often chewed. I rested my hand in the open vee of his shirt at the base of his throat. He felt warm and sturdy.

  The idea of losing him, in addition to the animals, made my throat constrict. I needed him. More of him.

  The kiss deepened, fueled by the intensity of our feelings, and I growled my annoyance at the car's console between us.

  Cradling my head in his hands, Patrick pulled back and rested his forehead against mine. A gasping chuckle escaped him. "Things never go the way I plan with you, Mags.”

  "You weren't planning on seducing me in your car in the middle of a cemetery?"

  "I only wanted to talk, but now…" His lips captured mine again. This time there was no gentleness, no sweetness. This time, it was all about fiery desperation. His hands slipped from my hair, down to the back of my neck.

  I shivered with delight, trying to capture his tongue with my own, as we each tried to claim possession of the other. Before I totally lost my grasp on logic, decorum, and self-respect, I tore my lips from his and gently pushed him away. "Now isn't the time. This isn't the place."

  He nodded his agreement, but I could tell from his expression that he didn't know if we'd ever find the time and the place.

  "You brought me here because you had a plan," I reminded him, trying to ignore the way the fabric of his shirt gaped open, revealing a tantalizing strip of skin that my mouth itched to taste.

  He turned away from me and grabbed the steering wheel at ten and two o'clock, as though he needed to ground himself before speaking. “Delveccio has a job for us.”

  "Us?" Usually the mobster gave a job to either him or me. There wasn't usually an expectation of tag teaming a victim.

  Patrick squeezed the steering wheel harder, turning his knuckles white. "Okay, I admit it, he gave the job to me."

  "But…?"

  "I can't do it."

  I studied him closely, watching the way the muscle in his jaw jumped, as though he was clenching it. If I didn't know better, I would've said he was nervous. "Why not?"

  He sighed. "Because I'm supposed to be guarding the person I've been assigned to kill."

  Chapter Three

  It isn’t easy sneaking a chicken anywhere. It's not like you can stick one in your pocket, or get away with hiding it in your bra, but that was what I was trying to do. Not the pocket or bra thing, but the sneaking thing. I parked on the street in front of the Bed and Breakfast, grateful that none of my aunts were sitting on the front porch. The only one who would see my clandestine operation was Templeton, Loretta's fiancé. And he owed me. Big time.

  I couldn't tell whether he was trying to pull up the grass that remained in the front yard, or put it back in place, as he vigorously swung a rake. It was his fault the yard was such a mess. One of his old enemies, an ex-con he’d helped send to prison, had set fire to it. Thankfully, that monster was dead, but Templeton had almost gotten me killed as we tried to escape. Plus, that car accident was the reason I could no longer communicate with my pets.

  Templeton stopped working when he saw me arrive. "Hi, Maggie." His tone was tentative.

  Not that I could blame him, I'd been pretty hostile toward him ever since the accident. He thought it was due to the fact that I’d almost died, but really, I was pissed at him because I
had lost my best friends, or at least the ability to communicate with them.

  Still, from the looks of him, Templeton had paid a price too. Gone was the suave, if slightly seedy, gentleman. Now he was covered with dirt and soaked with sweat.

  "It's looking better," I said, deciding he'd been in the proverbial doghouse long enough.

  He surveyed his handiwork. "Kind of you to say, but I doubt Susan would agree."

  I nodded my agreement. The B&B and its grounds were Aunt Susan's pride and joy. I suspected she put so much energy into keeping them looking perfect in order to disguise how chaotic the family that lived here is. I motioned for Templeton to move closer to me. Once he did, I whispered, "I don't suppose you know anything about chickens."

  "As in, what we’re having for dinner?"

  The bird in the car obviously heard him, because she let out an alarmed squawk.

  The noise got Templeton's attention as he moved even closer, shielding his eyes as soon as he could peer inside the car. "You have a chicken back there."

  "I'm aware," I drawled dryly.

  "What are you going to do with it?"

  "I'm not going to eat it," I over enunciated for the bird’s benefit. "I want to find it a new home."

  Templeton backed away from the car and surveyed me curiously. “You really are an animal lover, aren't you?"

  I shrugged. "I don't think Aunt Susan will understand."

  He nodded his agreement. "You can't bring it in the house."

  "And I can't leave her in my car," I countered.

  "I guess we could build it a coop.”

  "We?"

  "You?" Templeton suggested, making it clear that he had no idea how to build a chicken coop.

  I wasn't surprised. He'd never struck me as the handyman type. He was more the kind of man who relied on charm rather than hard work.

  "Can you build a chicken coop?" he suddenly shouted.

  “Shhh!” I warned, spinning around to see who he was asking.

  Angel Delveccio, Katie's Manny, and the guy Patrick is jealous of, strolled toward us. He was wearing his usual uniform of a Navy T-shirt and jeans. "Sorry," he said. "I don't think I heard you correctly. I heard something about a chicken coop."

  Templeton pointed at my car. “She needs a place for her chicken."

  A flicker of incredulity flashed in Angel’s dark gaze, before he blinked, and erased it. "You got yourself a chicken?" He managed to make the question sound as normal as if I’d picked up a gallon of milk from the convenience store.

  "It's Armani's fault," I said with an apologetic shrug.

  He shook his head. "I'm sure it is." He stepped closer to the car so that he too could look in the window at the bird.

  “She wants to keep it,” Templeton said as Angel waved at the chicken.

  “Just until I find her a new home,” I added hurriedly.

  “But she can’t bring it in the house,” Templeton continued. “Can you imagine how Susan would react?” He shuddered.

  Angel looked from the bird to me. “What’s her name?”

  “Name?”

  “All your pets have names,” Angel prompted.

  I frowned. “She’s not a pet. This is just a temporary foster agreement.”

  “Even foster pets need names.”

  "Name it Susan," Templeton urged. “She’ll find it harder to kill it if it has her name."

  He had a point.

  "Call it ‘chicky’," Angel suggested.

  "Can you build a chicken coop or not?" Templeton asked.

  "That's not part of his duties," I interjected. It was bad enough when one of my aunts asked Angel for "favors”. I wasn't going to start asking him for them too.

  "I don't mind," Angel offered.

  "I do," I argued.

  "It's no big deal, Maggie," Angel insisted quietly.

  "I don't need you to clean up after my messes," I told him firmly.

  A furrow formed between Angel’s eyes. I'd insulted him.

  Before I could apologize, or explain, Templeton interjected, "You're going to have to clean up the mess in your car if you don't get that bird out of there soon."

  "It'll only take a few minutes." Angel took his jean-clad butt into the backyard of the B&B, effectively ending my protest.

  "I know my advice is pretty much worthless," Templeton said, watching him go. "But if I were you, Maggie, I'd work on accepting the help of others. You're not going to be able to do this alone."

  I frowned, knowing he was right.

  I opened the car’s driver door, and told the chicken, "Just hang out here for a little while. I'm investigating your housing options." I closed the door.

  "Said like a professional realtor," Templeton teased.

  "Not yet." I’d recently begun working at a real estate office, but I did not have my license yet. In fact, I was due to graduate from real estate school at the end of the week.

  Templeton returned to his work in the yard, and I went in search of Angel. It wasn't hard to find him. All I had to do was follow the sound of hammering. I had to admit that it was pretty impressive; he'd already built the bare-bones of an oversize box, with a bunch of two-by-fours. He glanced over as I approached, but didn't stop hammering.

  "I handled that badly," I said softly.

  He put the hammer down, and gave me his full attention. "I didn’t hear that.”

  I looked down at the ground, unable to meet his gaze. "I said I handled that badly."

  "It's okay. I'm getting used to it."

  I raised my gaze to meet his. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  Angel picked up a nail and positioned it over a board. "It means that your default answer to any offer of help is to say no." He banged on the nail a couple times, making me delay my argument.

  Once it was quiet again, I argued, "That's not true."

  “Come over here a sec?” He jerked his head to indicate he wanted me to stand beside him. "I could use an extra set of hands."

  I did as he asked, trying not to stare at his pecs as he worked. I had no idea how much the man bench-pressed, but his physique was impressive.

  "Hold it here, and here," he ordered, pointing to two different pieces of wood.

  I grabbed them where he’d indicated, the sharp edges cutting into my palms. "I don't mean to insult you."

  "I'm not insulted," he replied easily. "It's not just me you do it to. Anyone who offers you help is immediately rebuffed."

  "I don't."

  Angel shook his head. "You don't even know that you do it. Now hold that still." He quickly hammered two more nails into his structure.

  The vibration of the blows reverberated from my hands through my body.

  "Luckily," he said conversationally, "your aunt has some chicken wire laying around. We’ll attach that, and your chicky will have a place to roost."

  “Do you know a lot about chickens?”

  “Nothing.”

  “But you can build a coop?”

  “I can build almost anything.”

  The way he said it, matter-of-factly, without ego, made me believe him.

  “Anywhere, any time, any task. Nothing but excellence.”

  “It does look pretty excellent,” I admitted.

  He chuckled. “That’s just something my Navy buddies used to say.”

  “I’ll pay you extra for this,” I offered.

  He shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing.”

  He leaned toward me and pitched his voice lower so that he could intimately confide, “I’m good with my hands.”

  My mouth went dry, my heartbeat sped up, and heat ignited in my core as I imagined what his talented hands might be capable of. “Anywhere, anytime, any task. Nothing but excellence,” replayed in my head.

  His gaze roamed over my face, gauging my reaction to his flirtation.

  I tried to keep my expression blank, but I felt telltale heat warming my cheeks.

  “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.�
�� He leaned back, as though he was making certain to stay out of my personal space.

  “You didn’t?” I croaked.

  He shook his head. “Nope.” He hefted the hammer. “I meant to pique your interest.”