Hitman Wedding: A Bad Boy Inc Story

by Eve Langlais

  “Reasonable?” She gave an intentional tug at her tethers as she glared. “Untie me.”

  “That’s not what you said the last time.” The last time he’d bound her, spread eagle on a bed, she’d moaned and screamed as he pleasured every inch of her body. That was months ago now. A mere blip in his past. He’d spent days on the island wondering if she now played the wanton prisoner for Stefanov.

  Did she scream for him like she screamed for me?

  “You have no idea what you’re doing.”

  “Don’t I?” He arched a brow. “I took hog tying as one of my electives.”

  Part of her control slipped, and she yelled. Eyes flashed. She snarled. “Release me at once.”

  She’d never looked sexier or angrier. Fascinating, because during their short time together, not once had he seen her lose her temper. She always had a ready smile or a boisterous laugh.

  She wasn’t laughing now. He’d finally given her a reason to be miffed. He had the upper hand. She was under his control. “I’m not letting you go.” A lie. He would. Eventually. For now, she stayed because Darren needed answers, starting with a basic one. “What’s your real name?” he asked, taking a spot across from her on the edge of the bed.

  We rarely made it to a bed. The counter, floor, wall, couch, even in the backseat of a cab. The insane fever he used to have for her overcame any common sense.

  “You know my name.” She pulled at the rope, hands twisting, testing his knot. “What kind of sick game are you playing? Is this because you’re still mad I left?”

  She had disappeared. Without warning. Not one fucking word of goodbye.

  “What makes you think I’m angry? You did me a favor. You proved what Marcus was saying all along. You played me.” Made him look like a fool.

  “How? I was interested. We dated. We fucked. I got bored. I left.”

  The words were thrown with nonchalance. If Darren didn’t know better, he might have believed her. She was that fucking good. But his eyes were open to the truth now.

  “Is that how you’re going to play it?” he asked.

  “Play what? It’s the truth. I didn’t take you for a guy who couldn’t handle a girl dumping his ass.” Her eyes, rimmed in thick, dark lashes, didn’t look away from him. Where was the smiling, sweet girl he’d known? This woman was a hardass.

  A roll of his shoulders proved he could be just as insouciant as she. “Nothing to handle. We had a good time. It ended.”

  “If that’s how you feel, then why this?” She gave a wiggle, enough to make the chair creak.

  “Because you and I have things to discuss. Such as, whom do you work for?”

  “I’m a model. I freelance.”

  “As a cover. You can drop the act. I know all about you. Marina Francesca Sokolov.” Now, at any rate. Before, he’d been a clueless moron who believed every word and every act.

  “I see your stalking skills are en pointe.”

  “It’s not stalking to find out more about the woman I was sleeping with.”

  “It is if you do it after she dumps you.”

  He managed not to flinch or react. She did it on purpose to goad him, and damn her, it was working. “Is it, or is it not, your real fucking name?”

  “It’s my birth name. I use Francesca Parron for work because my modeling agency recommended it. Now untie me. This is kidnapping and forcible confinement.”

  “Don’t talk to me about laws. I know you break them.”

  “Says the man who murdered Stefanov.” She sniffed and tossed her head.

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  “Someone save me. He’s crazy,” she yelled, struggling against the ropes.

  “Drop the act. No one can hear you. And no one will believe those crocodile tears. I know what you really are. What you’re capable of.”

  A cold expression dropped over her features. “Exactly what is it that you think you know?”

  “That you’re a killer for hire. Go ahead, try and deny it.” He knew better. Not as much as he’d like to know, but enough to realize how hard he’d been played.

  “Deny what? You’ve obviously done your homework.”

  “So you admit to being an assassin?” He’d not wanted to believe it when he heard. Hoped she’d deny it.

  She shrugged. “You forgot to mention spy and bodyguard. You could say I’m multi-talented.”

  Fran was talented, all right. She should have mentioned actress. “You’re a killer.”

  Her head tilted, and her lips quirked. “You Americans and your sanctimonious judgment. What I do is no worse than most.”

  “You kill people.”

  “Sometimes, for the right sum. I am, after all, a professional. Not some cheap thug hired off the street.”

  Thing was, Darren didn’t have a problem with pros, or even killing for that matter. Sometimes, it had to be done. What he didn’t like was when someone engaged the services of a pro to play him.

  “Who hired you to seduce me?”

  “Who says you were a job?” Her lips quirked.

  For a moment, a stupid flutter hit him in the chest—could the connection be real, the fire between them forever? Then he recalled the cold reality.

  “Who hired you to spread your legs for me?” He spat it out, still offended by it. As a man who’d sent many a person on a mission, he’d never asked or expected any of his operatives to sleep with anyone.

  Francesca flinched. A momentary sign that his words had hit home. Then her lip curled. “I sleep with whomever I want. This isn’t the olden days where you can slut-shame me. I had sex with you because you were good-looking.”

  The praise stroked his ego and only made him madder. “I guess being that close to me made your mission easier.”

  “It did,” she agreed. “But no one paid me to have sex. That was just for fun.”

  The worst thing was, he knew she’d enjoyed it. He could still remember the ripple of her channel when she orgasmed.

  “Who hired you?”

  Fran snorted. “Come now, Darren. You and I both know I am not going to answer that.”

  “You will.”

  She sighed. “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “There is nothing wrong with demanding answers.” He waggled the point of his knife at her.

  She still didn’t flinch. “Are you going to torture me? Is that what you do now? Torment women because your ego is bruised?”

  “The last time I tortured someone, it was with my tongue, and as I recall, you screamed for more.”

  A slight flare of her nostrils showed that she remembered what he spoke of. There was no mistaking the slight hint of pink in her cheeks. She never could hide her blushes, especially when aroused.

  She still wants me, too? Heat flashed through him followed by an instant cold bucket of don’t-fall-for-it-you-idiot. This wasn’t real.

  “You need to let me go. You don’t know what you’re doing. My surveillance of you was standard industry business. You, of all people, should understand that.”

  Yes, Darren knew all about espionage, especially that of companies and people. But who was behind it of late? Who kept laying traps and trying to kill the people trained at his academy?

  Secundus Academy was a place for those with the right temperament to learn how to be international problem-solving experts. From high-end spying to complex assassinations made to look accidental, the academy trained people who could then go work for independent intelligence agencies or even the government. Secundus prided itself on providing specialized personnel with a wide range of skills. And Darren ran that school. An institution and students someone had been targeting of late.

  He leaned forward and captured her gaze. “Since I don’t understand, why don’t you explain to me what’s going on? Why someone is so interested in my movements? Was the same person who hired you to spy on me the one who sent you to the island?” A tropical adventure that ended in tragedy.

  “The island is a trap.”

  �
��Understatement.” Only Darren’s staff and a few others had escaped the luxury retreat alive. Many died. Currently, Darren was considered among the dead. A necessary ploy so he could move about unnoticed and hold a woman prisoner without anyone being aware of it.

  “Where are we?” She cast a glance around.

  He didn’t bother. Looking at the luxurious interior of the yacht didn’t appeal when he could stare at her. “We’re on a boat.”

  “I can see that,” was her sarcastic reply. “Are we docked at the island? If yes, then we have to go. There’s a killer here.”

  “I’d say there’s more than one.” Both of Darren’s bodyguards were pros.

  “Would you listen to me? You are in danger so long as you stay on the island.”

  Why did she care? “Then it’s a good thing we left during the storm.” The waves at first tossed the yacht up and down, a bobbing toy at the mercy of nature. But it had blown past them, leaving behind calm waters—and churning emotions.

  “We’re on a boat?”

  “Yes. In the middle of the ocean. Which means there’s no one to hear you scream.”

  Her eyes widened. “You won’t hurt me.”

  “Just like you’re not the Fran I thought I knew, I’m not the Darren you think, either.” A bit of a tongue twister.

  “I know you enough to know that you would never cut me open because I won’t cooperate. It’s not your style.”

  No, he wouldn’t cut her. He wouldn’t cross that line. And damn her for knowing that.

  So, what could he do to make her talk? He’d do what the academy taught. Find a weakness and exploit it.

  With that mantra in mind, he leaned forward and undid the knot holding her wrists.

  He set her free.

  Chapter Three

  He freed me.

  Marina Francesca—who adopted each persona depending on circumstance—couldn’t believe Darren did it, and at the same time, totally could. The Darren she’d known in Paris wouldn’t hurt a woman. Not even one who’d sorely wronged him.

  I hurt him. Badly. He could pretend now, but she’d heard how frantically he’d searched for her when she first went missing. He’d initially assumed foul play before he realized she’d left for other reasons.

  The job was done.

  A mission she almost regretted having taken. But if she had the choice again… She wouldn’t hesitate. Marina was a pro, and the assignment had been a simple one. Get close to a specific man. Close enough that she could siphon some information from his phone, his computer, even through conversation, and then, if the right opportunity arose, kill him. Easy money for someone like Marina. Even better, it meant leaving the cold winters of Russia for the warmer climate of France.

  She rubbed her wrists and perused his crown of hair as Darren undid her ankle bindings. His hair was still thick and dark with only the occasional gray strand.

  Vulnerable as he was, she could kill him right now. He knew it, too, had to, yet he didn’t once look up at her as he freed her feet. His body didn’t tense. He’d even tucked away the knife.

  Fool.

  Damn him.

  She looked away. “It is a wonder your academy has any graduates who live once they hit the field.”

  “What academy?”

  “Now who’s playing stupid? I know all about your precious school full of misfits and bright students with potential.” Said with a sneer.

  “The academy is a chance for those with specialized skills and a specific mindset to flourish.”

  “You mean a place for killers to learn.”

  “We teach them how to do it right. How to avoid getting caught.”

  “How to make money.”

  His shoulders rolled. “I won’t lie and claim purely altruistic reasons.”

  “Your school was founded on blood and revenge. Unlike your poor background check of me, I was thorough with you. I know all about your mother’s murder. How your father couldn’t find justice, so he created his own army of mercenaries. Brilliant, really.”

  “He saw a need in the world, and he filled it.”

  “Did he ever find those responsible?” she asked. “Did he hunt them down and paint the world red with their blood? What of those who hired them? Did they suffer, too?” Marina understood revenge.

  He didn’t reply to her query, choosing to change the subject instead. “Who trained you?”

  “I thought you did your homework.”

  “I got your name and a vague description of a few assignments you might have accomplished. Whoever you work for did a good job wiping your tracks. So, I’ll ask you again, who taught you? Was it the DGSE?” The French equivalent of the American CIA.

  “Who says my skills aren’t natural talent?”

  “No one just becomes a mercenary.”

  “Why not? All you need is the right mindset and a lack of regard for laws.”

  “That’s the definition of a thug. Someone with no finesse, one who makes mistakes and gets caught. You’re a pro.”

  “Thank you.” She graciously accepted the compliment before she stood, stretching her limbs, acting casual, wondering if he stared.

  He used to love watching me walk naked across the room, his gaze smoldering, his arousal evident. Now, his gaze simmered for another reason.

  Would he attack her if she tried to go above deck? He claimed that they were at sea, but for all she knew, they were tethered to a dock with freedom within reach.

  “I can see what you’re thinking.”

  “Can you?” She let her lips curve into a teasing smile. “You thought you knew me in Paris, and we both know how wrong that assumption was.”

  Judging by the scowl on his face, the reminder didn’t please. Darren might not torture or kill her, but she’d be a fool to think he was a pushover. If she threatened, he’d protect himself. Just look at what he’d done so far. Drugged her and taken her prisoner. More than she’d expected. Hotter, too.

  “It’s not a mistake I’ll make again. And you still haven’t answered me. Who taught you to be a mercenary? Which agency do you work for?”

  “Do you really think I’m going to tell? I’m not an amateur. I would have thought your research on me would have made that clear.”

  His jaw stiffened. “Declan couldn’t get very far with your file. You’re well hidden.”

  “I know.”

  “Tell me who you are.” His frustration boiled over, as evidenced by his shout.

  It truly bothered him. So, she made it worse. “I thought we already traded life stories?”

  “You mean the fake one you fed me about going to a French boarding school? How your parents didn’t pay you any attention?”

  “It wasn’t completely false.” She smiled. “I did go to a private school. But in Russia, not France.”

  “Russian? I thought you were French.”

  Her lips tilted into a smirk. “Not even distantly. I would have thought my real name gave it away.” Marina Francesca Sokolov. Named after her dead grandmother and some actress her mother admired.

  “But your accent…” He frowned. “How come I can’t hear any Russian?”

  “Because I was taught six languages by the time I was six.”

  “Six? That’s impossible.”

  “Because Americans mollycoddle their young. In Russia, we don’t wait until children are too old to learn. At a young age, recruiters scour the villages and slums, looking for just the right kind of children for their programs.”

  “How old were you?”

  “The youngest they start to take us. Three.”

  “You were just a baby. How could your parents let you go?”

  “It is an honor to be chosen.” Usually, it also meant extras for those families. Many of whom were very poor. “At three, I was old enough to dress and care for myself. Old enough to start my lessons.”

  “Lessons in what?”

  She sighed. “Are we really going to waste time going over my academic years one by one, or are you go
ing to ask me what I was doing in Paris?” The last thing she wanted was for him to suddenly soften to her, pity the upbringing she’d endured. The things she’d gone through as a child made her who she was today, but sometimes, she wondered what she’d lost in the process.

  “I already asked who hired you, and you said you wouldn’t tell. Have you changed your mind?”

  “What if I did? What if I said I’d tell you everything I know about Paris?”

  “What if I want to find out more about you instead?”

  “You can’t have both.” A woman had to draw a line somewhere, especially when a man made her heart behave erratically. “I’m giving you the choice. Me, or Paris?” Was it strange to hope that he’d ask for the former?

  At least Darren didn’t immediately reply. Marina could see him at war with himself. Curiosity fighting curiosity. Which question did he most want an answer to?

  Eventually, he replied. “What happened in Paris?”

  What happened? She’d royally fucked up.

  It had seemed like the easiest of missions. Luxurious, too. Given that her agency already had her undercover as a model, her runway shows chosen with an eye on places they needed her to work, she had a decent wardrobe and cover. Her handler arranged for Marina to have a flat. Nothing too spacious—it was Paris, after all, the city of sky-high rents.

  But it was hers. Her space. And it didn’t have cameras watching her. Her demand because she didn’t want to take the chance of her target catching on.

  “I never even thought to look for bugs,” he muttered, interrupting her narrative.

  “Because you fell for me.” He could pretend all he wanted, but she knew what had happened.

  “I fell victim to your ruse. God, I was so fucking stupid.”

  No, he was a man in love, but only because he’d been manipulated so deftly. He never stood a chance.

  “I was given your image, name, and a bio on you. My mission was to get as close to you as I could.”

  Marina had met Darren for the first time at an art show. Purposely bumping into him and having him spill his wine on her white dress. Red wine, she might add.