by Sam Crescent
“You know what I want, Fallan Jones. Know what I’ve got to do.” He kept his hands by his sides, delaying the inevitable lift and clutch, her neck snapping beneath his grip.
“I…I don’t know what you mean,” she whispered. “And how do you know my name?”
Very good. She sounded genuine, was quite an actress, and he nodded his approval.
“The bag you put on the dessert trolley.” He sniffed, drawing her scent into his nose again.
“What about it?”
He chuckled. She was coming clean, then, giving up the pretence that she didn’t know what he wanted with her.
“What’s in it?” He guessed jewels—wasn’t it always jewels in those bags?—and waited for her answer.
It came quickly. “I don’t know. I was told not to look.”
Just as he’d expected.
“Who do you work for?” he asked, taking a step closer in case she had a mind to bolt.
“Asda.”
He laughed heartily at that. God, she was playing the game right until the end, wasn’t she? Asda…couldn’t she have picked a shop a little more upmarket? Waitrose, at least?
“It’s a job,” she snapped. “It pays the bills.”
“I’m sure it does. What about your other employer?”
She snorted. “You think I have time for a second job? I work all the hours God sends as it is. What do you want with me? I phoned someone back there, and when you came along I told him. You’ll get caught for whatever you’re thinking of doing, the man told me that.”
He ignored her, unperturbed by the threat. “You must earn a good whack to be able to afford to stay here and wear a dress that must have cost two weeks’ wages working for Asda…”
“I won this weekend away! What has it got to do with you, anyway?”
He had to guess, what with the darkness, but he’d bet she was looking at him now, mutinous, angry.
“It has everything to do with me. You’re lying. Who do you work for?” He snatched her wrist up, squeezing with enough pressure to let her know he meant business but not enough to leave a bruise.
Not that it mattered. She’d be dead in a few minutes. A pity, that.
“I told you!”
She tried to wrench her arm free and, failing, sagged against the wall. He wished he could see her face, read her expression, but perhaps it was just as well he couldn’t. He might well start believing her.
He sighed. “You know what happens now, don’t you?”
“What?” she asked, that one word spoken with the first hint of hysteria. “Please, I don’t know what you’re talking about. And you’re hurting me. You have me mixed up with someone else.”
He laughed again, quietly this time. Didn’t they always say that? Wasn’t that the general patter they came out with every time he caught up with them? A script that every mark was instructed to use, taking their true identity—and that of their employers—with them to the grave?
A shuffle to their right brought him up short. He should have expected it. The waiter would have passed a message on by now, and whoever had booked a night here in order to collect that bag would be on the lookout for him. He glanced to the side, tightening his hold on her, and saw a retreating black movement—someone’s shadow following the person it was tagged to. Whoever had peered around the side of the building had stepped back out of sight after making the mistake of creating noise.
“Come with me.”
Bishop made for the hotel’s rear, dragging Fallan behind him. She stumbled several times trying to keep up with him, pulling against his hold, tiny whimpers coming out of her. He forced himself to remember she was acting, that she’d been paid to do just this, and made her walk faster. Once at his car, he shoved her inside, strapping her into the passenger seat.
“Don’t even think about getting out.”
She stared up at him, eyes full of fear, and he almost felt sorry for her. Maybe she was new to this game. Maybe this was her first job. Whatever, it shouldn’t matter to him, shouldn’t be something he even thought about, but he had and would have to address that when he had some downtime. Marks weren’t supposed to get to you. Marks were meant to be removed from the equation—quickly, easily, no mess. Marks weren’t meant to sit in your bloody car and look at you in that way, melting the ice around your damn heart until you convinced yourself they were telling the truth.
Fuck it!
He slammed the door, rounded the bonnet and climbed into the driver’s side. With the engine revving, he swerved out of his parking space, making a mental note to call the hotel in the morning and check out. They could send along his bag containing a few changes of clothes, toothbrush, deodorant and shower gel, but, then again, it might be safer if they didn’t. There was nothing he needed desperately, nothing he’d mind being without. The waiter having something to do with this… No, they could keep his bag and send it to the address he’d booked in with.
Out on the main road, Fallan silent beside him, he eased his foot to the floor, conscious of the pinprick headlights behind them. If he put his mind to it, he’d lose that bastard and take Fallan to his flat in London, deal with her there and have his boss send someone to remove her body.
“I heard that if you do as you’re told,” she said quietly, “an abductor is less likely to kill you.”
He frowned, eyeing the rear-view mirror again. What the fuck had made her say that? “I heard that if you work for dodgy outfits, you’re more likely to get killed than if you worked for a company like, say, Asda.”
He wanted to laugh again but held it back, concentrating on the distance between his car and the one behind. It was gaining on him. Fuck.
“I swear,” she said, “I don’t know what you mean. I won that break away. Won it!”
“How? Where did you apply?” He may as well humour her.
“It was a treasure hunt thing. Offer came through the post. Several people each won a weekend away at different locations, and each of us had to hide some treasure. Shit, I wish I’d never applied now, but I couldn’t afford a holiday and it seemed the perfect thing to do. And I didn’t expect to win. Didn’t think I had a cat in hell’s chance and I—”
“Be quiet.” He needed to think. Either she was a pro or she was telling the truth.
Something inside him leaned towards the latter.
Jesus Christ, this is all I need. Some innocent caught up in this crap.
He gritted his teeth, jaw muscles pulsing, and looked in the rear-view again.
The car was getting closer.
Chapter Two
Great, just great. Fallan should have known—bloody should have known the whole weekend away thing would be a scam. One look at her insanely handsome kidnapper told her she was in fucking trouble.
She looked out of the car window and watched the lights go by, her Beef Wellington and mound of profiteroles sitting heavy in her stomach. The delicious meal had gone down a treat. How could something so simple turn into a nightmare?
A treasure hunt, and she’d been told not to inspect the contents of the bag. As an employee at Asda, she knew not to look a gift horse in the mouth. All she’d needed to do was participate by leaving the bag at a location, enjoying the meal and then the hotel’s facilities. Why, then, was the man at her side treating her as if she was part of some Mission: Impossible film production?
The only thing she usually had to look forward to was work—at least it got her out of the house—and the latest hint of excitement was when a five-year-old had dropped and smashed a jar of piccalilli on the shop floor. Cleaning the yellow mess had been the highlight of her week up until this.
“Please tell me why you’re taking me?” she asked.
“I just told you to be quiet.”
She decided to keep him talking. “Well, if you knew anything about me or most women in general you’d know that in high-tension situations we panic. Not only that, I’ve been known to talk a lot, so me being quiet isn’t really an option.” She rubbed h
er sweaty palms down her thighs.
She glanced over at him. He was so bloody handsome…and what was she doing thinking something like that in a situation like this?
That’s it, Fallan, start getting the hots for your kidnapper. Isn’t there a name for that type of thing?
Nothing good would come out of this experience. That knowledge hit her hard, and she filtered through her options. She couldn’t get out of the car—he’d child-locked it—and even if she could he was going too fast for her to get out without seriously hurting herself. But that didn’t matter, did it? Not when she risked being harmed in a worse way if she stayed with him.
Suddenly he swerved to miss another car coming in the opposite direction, flinging her against the door.
“Are you fucking insane?” she screamed.
“Be quiet.”
His demands were angering her by the second.
“Are you crazy? Did you just escape some loony bin and decided to pick on me?” She glared at him.
“In case you haven’t noticed, we’re being followed.”
Followed? Fallan glanced behind her at what looked like a black van travelling at normal speed, nothing suspicious.
“Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” she asked, reaching out to touch his temple, unable to stop the sarcasm filtering into her voice.
Do as he says and be quiet. You’ll get yourself in more trouble by pissing him off.
He caught her wrist in one movement. “Try anything and I can break your bones faster than you can think.” He applied a little pressure before he let her go.
“Ow. I was only trying to care.” She nursed her wrist and glared at him again.
“Don’t.”
He was constantly checking out the van in his rear-view mirror. She looked back and again saw no need to panic. It was just a van…with occupants who could help her…
Shaking her head, she turned away from him, releasing a long, heavy sigh.
So much for a wonderful time away.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I told you, my name is Fallan Jones and I work at Asda. I’m no one.”
“Here, take this.”
He handed her something heavy and metal. Turning it over, she glanced at the device in her hand and screamed.
“Are you fucking mental? That’s a gun!” She dropped it on the floor, at the same time realising she’d had the upper hand when she’d held it. Shit.
Fallan no longer cared if she plunged to her death while leaping out of his moving vehicle. She had to get away from this man who was intent on scaring the shit out of her.
“Let me out, fucking let me out!” Pulling on the lever did no good. After a few seconds she gave up and decided to spend the entire journey glaring at him. Not a massive hardship, all things considered. Yes, he had a long scar down the side of his face but it didn’t detract from his gorgeousness.
“You’ve never seen a gun?” he asked.
“Last time I checked at work, we weren’t selling crap that could kill. Besides, with our high crime rate, I fail to see why selling guns for anyone and everyone to use would be productive to the nation.”
“You really aren’t a killer, are you?”
“I don’t know about that. I accidentally killed my goldfish. I cried for weeks.”
He cursed and swerved as the black van overtook them. She watched it pass, hoping to catch the driver’s attention, but the windows were blacked out.
They drove for another few minutes. Fallan kept staring at him, refusing to look away. Every now and then he glanced over at her before returning his focus to the road.
“You know, you staring is distracting,” he said.
“Then keep your eyes on the road. Pretend I’m not here.”
“While you keep your eyes on me?”
“Look, pal, buddy, criminal—whatever you want to call yourself. I have no idea why the hell I’m here, what the hell you think I’ve done, but I’m certainly not who you think I am. And, while we’re at it, what’s your name?”
He ignored her.
“Please can I go home?”
“Bishop.”
Fallan frowned. “What does a chess piece have to do with this?”
“My name is Bishop.”
Oh. An unusual name, not that she could talk, but she doubted it was real. Not for a first name, anyway, and if it was, his parents had weird ideas.
“Whatever. Can I go home?”
“I don’t think home will be suitable for you.”
Fallan shook her head and gave up trying to reason with the man. She turned away and gave outside her full attention, thinking about the trip she’d been offered and the promised money coming after the treasure hunt.
How many times had her mother said nothing came in this world for free? She should have known.
“You’ve gone quiet,” he said.
“I don’t feel like talking now.”
“I thought you said you talked a lot.”
Sighing, she turned back to him. “I talk to people I like, and, in the few minutes we’ve known each other, I’ve decided I don’t like you. Funny, that. I mean, I must have been nuts to think I could like someone who kidnapped me from the only chance I’ll get for having a weekend away anytime in the next decade. Thanks for that. Really appreciate it. Just do what you’ve got to do and then take me home. Hurt me, whatever, just get it over and done with. I bet you’re with that Frankie Lash bloke, aren’t you? He said if I looked in the bag it wouldn’t ‘bode well’ for me. Except I didn’t look in the bag—like I would after he’d said something like that—and I needed the ten grand he offered for playing in the treasure hunt.”
He widened his eyes and stared at her for a second or two. “Frankie Lash? Treasure hunt?”
“Yes. I had to put the bag on the trolley and—”
“Oh, fuck.”
“What?”
“Nothing. I can’t take you home.”
“Whatever.”
“You say that a lot.”
“You know, for a man who keeps asking me to be quiet, you’re asking an awful lot of questions, which then makes me have to answer.”
Bishop went silent. Fallan smiled. Ten minutes in his company and she was already driving him crazy. If she kept this up, he’d be glad to dump her at the earliest opportunity.
A brief turn into a narrow lane and Bishop stopped the car and shut off the lights.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
Bishop grabbed her jacket and slammed his lips on hers. The move was so unexpected Fallan didn’t respond. She struggled to get away from him, but, pressed up against the window as she was, she couldn’t move. He pushed his tongue through and, before she knew what was happening, she was kissing him back. He tasted good, but she was fucked if she’d let him just take what he wanted.
A knock on the window snapped them apart. She gasped, heart thumping wildly, and sat straight, her lips sore from his light stubble.
“If you speak, or scream, or do anything to fuck this up, I’ll kill you.” Bishop pressed a button and the window moved down, the squeaking noise loud against the sound of her breathing.
Licking her lips, she darted a glance at Bishop. His lips were shiny and looked as swollen as hers felt.
“What are you two doing here?” A policeman shone a torch on both of them.
She just had to speak out, to tell him she’d been taken against her will, but Bishop laid one hand on her thigh and squeezed. The officer obviously saw something else in the action as he snorted and directed the beam at Bishop.
“I’m sorry, Officer, but this fine woman at my side just agreed to be my wife, so we stopped and… Well, sorry, we shouldn’t have.”
Fallan widened her eyes, then smiled, even though it felt forced and fake. “What can I say, a dangerous-looking man is always someone I like being kissed by in a lane in the middle of nowhere when I’d much rather be home.” Please let him realise what I mean, please…
Bish
op squeezed her thigh harder.
“Well, move it on,” the officer said. “I don’t want to have to charge you two with indecent behaviour.” He slammed a palm on the roof then stepped back to wave them off.
Bishop closed the window, started the car and reversed out of the lane.
She stared at the officer, pleading with her eyes, but he only nodded then returned to his motorbike.
“What did I tell you?” Bishop asked.
“That if I said anything you’d—”
“Do you have a death wish?”
“I wasn’t aware I had one, but it seems I do, yes.”
“I saw the policeman pull up back there,” he said. “I needed to create a distraction and kissing you was the only thing I could come up with.”
“Oh,” she said, getting ready to give him a heavy dose of sarcasm, “and there was me thinking I was irresistible.”
“Be quiet.”
She obeyed this time. Several minutes later he pulled up alongside a river.
“Are you going to kill me? Dump me in there?” Despite her strong voice, she was panicking inside. She unbuckled her seatbelt and scrambled for the lock, knowing it was futile but going with her instincts.
Bishop placed his arm across her chest and pushed her back in her seat. The strength from his move terrified her.
“I don’t kill women after I’ve just kissed them. Besides, I don’t think you’re who I thought you were. But I still can’t take you home.”
Fallan raised her hand and slapped him across the face. “Don’t you dare talk to me as though what you’ve done is nothing. I haven’t done anything wrong, and you can tell that to Frankie Lash. I did what he said and I want my ten grand.” She rubbed her palm, which stung and felt like it was going to bruise.
He ran his fingers over the spot she’d slapped then cursed, getting out of the car.
Taking a deep breath, Fallan watched him stand by the river, her nerves jumping all over the place. It was cold now that the heater wasn’t on.
“Go out there and talk to him,” she whispered.
The worst he could do was throw her in the river. Unless he had another gun on him. It reminded her of the one on the floor and she picked it up and got out of the car on his side. The deathtrap in her hands was heavy and scary to hold.