Man, he hated being sidelined in the first quarter of the game. It fucking sucked. A soft snore came from the object of his ire. A dry chuckle escaped him. No use being mad at her. Wasn’t her fault.
He went into the bathroom for a long hot shower and an overdue shave. She hadn’t moved an inch when he exited the bathroom with a towel wrapped low on his hips. He grabbed his to-go bag and dressed quickly in fresh clothing. He cleaned up after himself because why poke a sleeping bear. Enough things were coming down the pike that would piss her off. Knowing he was here, in the shower, naked for a few minutes while she lay unconscious, and her virtue remained intact, call the authorities.
Women got upset over the strangest things.
Chapter Seven
What time is it? How long was I asleep? Have we landed?
All three questions tripped over themselves inside Bailey’s brain as she pushed the blanket off her legs and struggled into a seated position. She scooted to the edge of the bed and flipped up the shade over the window. Sunlight flooded the suite which didn’t make sense with a fight time of ninety minutes. They’d left Jamaica around one thirty in the morning and should be landing around three a.m. give or take when headwinds and other atmospheric disturbances were factored in.
“Where the hell are we?”
She climbed out of bed and stretched all the kinks out. However long she'd slept, it had been restful. Her mouth was desert dry, and her bladder was about to climb out of her body and take itself to the bathroom. She went to the bathroom and took care of business at both ends. Water out of the body and water in the body.
She stripped off the robe for a hot shower, picked the cucumber melon body wash over the pine scented one, and damn the water felt wonderful. She didn’t even complain about the little bottles of shampoo and conditioner perched on a ledge. She washed her hair and blew it out with the dryer attached to the wall next to the mirror wondering about the sunlight and where Emmet was.
Obviously, he was still on the plane. That didn’t stop her from wondering about him. How long had he known Hank? What was their relationship? Had Hank had endeared himself to another human being. She didn’t know how to feel about that.
Too tired when she entered the suite to go through her suitcase for something to sleep in, she had enough energy to strip and throw on a robe. Now she emptied the bag onto the bed to see what her savior had decided to pack.
Hmm. She had a lot of underwear. Not sure how she felt about his hands all over them. Three pairs of jeans, two pairs of yoga pants, one sweater, socks, sneakers, and boots she’d worn to Jamaica—also her box of condoms and her vibrator. How considerate of him. Lastly, her winter coat lay on the corner chair. Was it there earlier?
Bailey had slept the sleep of the dead, and if Emmet or anyone else had entered the room, she'd had no idea. The lock on the door was still engaged, yet…
The trip down the rabbit hole had to wait. She brushed away her unease, dragged on her functional, plain white underwear, her skinny jeans, tank top, and sweater. He was kind enough to pack her toiletries so her pits, breath, and body didn't stink. She styled her hair and finished her routine with her usual eyeliner, mascara, and lip gloss.
So why was she checking herself out in the mirror?
Because I’m human, that’s why. And to take a note out of Daisy’s playbook, “When going into war, pack your armor.”
Bailey flung her hands up. Who was she kidding? Her armor wasn’t her sex appeal, it was her wits, and those didn’t need a makeup tutorial.
She repacked her suitcase for a quick getaway and pulled her phone out from beneath the pillow. Had she put it there before she fell asleep?
Wait a sec. She’d fallen asleep at the foot of the bed…hadn’t I?
Bailey moved to the door, it was still locked. She didn’t buy it. Emmet had been in here, with her. She clutched her phone, now uncertain about it, uncertain about everything.
Opening the back cured her uncertainty. The chip was gone.
Motherfucker!
Stay calm. Stay calm.
Fuck calm. Nobody made a fool out of her.
One deep breath and she opened the bedroom door. The scent of coffee, eggs, and bacon smacked her. Her stomach let out a howl which she ignored because Emmet stood in the middle of the cabin with a mug in his hand. He’d changed into new clothes, replacing the dirty linen shirt and slacks with a black tee and black jeans. Not only was he clean shaven, displaying his cleft chin and arrogant jaw, his hair had a shine to it that it didn’t have before she fell asleep at the bottom of the bed.
Circumstantial evidence, all of it. That didn’t stop her from marching up to him, fisting his shirt, going up to her tiptoes, and taking a long, deep smell at the crux of his neck. Sure enough, a hint of pine clung to his warm skin.
“What are you doing?” His breath washed over her cheek sending goose bumps down her spine.
Unnerved by him being in her room while she was unconscious, angered by her phone being reverted to no better than a video game, and confused because she shouldn't imagine him naked anywhere within her proximity, she slammed her phone into the center of his chest and stepped back. He caught it before it fell to the floor.
“Am I your prisoner?”
His brow dropped low as he placed his mug carefully on the table and faced her. “No.”
"Then first, why did you drug me? I know this because, second, that's the only way you could have taken a shower with me lying in the bedroom. I'm a light sleeper, and I would've heard."
“I drugged you because I didn’t want the blowout over our destination until we landed.”
What? “Destination? You said we were going to Miami.” She shoved past him and ran to the monitor at the front of the plane. And there it was, the graphic of the plane winging its way over the Atlantic Ocean and Europe, on its way to Switzerland.
Switzerland. A lovely country. One she’d visited once during her travels. She spun and marched back to Emmet who hadn’t moved from where she’d left him. “Why Switzerland?”
"Breathing room." He settled in front of a plate full of scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns, and toast.
That wasn’t an answer, but she doubted she’d get more. A second plate waited opposite him. And what about the chip. If he’d drugged her to get her on the other side of the world for her protection, he wasn’t giving her that chip back. There were other ways to get a message out. She’d be patient.
She sat in front of the plate and reached for the cup of coffee waiting for her. And froze.
“Go ahead. You have my word, nothing is drugged.”
“Your word means nothing to me.”
"Well, it means everything to me."
They eyed each other, neither giving in until he reached across for her mug and drank a mouthful. Next, he took a forkful of her eggs, a bite of her bacon—
“All right. Enough slobbering over my food.”
“Don’t worry. I’m disease free.”
"I'm relieved." Cream and three sugars made her coffee palatable, but she'd give her right arm for a Caramel Macchiato. A snap of her wrist opened the linen napkin for her to lay it across her lap. The eggs were fluffy and creamy with a bit of chive. Not her usual, but tasty. The bacon was crispy even though it was microwaved. She never liked hash browns. The bread, she buttered and slathered with jam. He watched her while she did it, probably amazed at her limited outburst.
Trapped on a plane, a meltdown would only get her so far. She took a sip of her coffee.
“There’s only one bathroom—”
She slammed the mug down, sloshing the brew over the rim. “So, the pilots got a gander of me sprawled across the bed with nothing but a thin robe on?” The thought incensed her.
“—with a shower on the plane and I needed a shower, so I took one.” He continued as if she hadn’t said a word. “The pilots have their own toilet near the cockpit. The only person who saw you sprawled out was me.”
Bailey stared into his c
old blue eyes which weren’t as cold anymore. Banked heat stoked the depths. Her nipples tightened making her aware of the sudden tension filling the space between them. Flustered, she broke contact first, her gaze dipping to the cooling food in front of her.
Emmet moved his food around the plate. “No need to be embarrassed. I didn’t see much.”
“Much?” she choked. “What’s much?”
With a cool detachment, he said, “Nothing above the knee or below the neck. You were decent.”
But he wasn’t. At some point he was naked, and she missed it. Her gaze traveled from his face, down his neck to his broad shoulders. His Henley stretched over his deltoids and biceps, defining the muscles instead of hiding them.
“I take it you have my passport.” He didn’t seem the type to forget that critical document.
He nodded.
Asking for its return was a no go. On a good day, she was just stubborn. Today wasn’t a good day.
He leaned back in his seat and with hooded eyes, watched her eat, assessing her. Something stuck in his craw. She could tell by the slow narrowing of his eyes, and she wouldn’t rise to the bait.
“I’ve known you approximately thirty-four hours and not once have you asked about your father’s welfare.”
And she wouldn’t. “If you have a question ask it.”
“Why haven’t you asked?”
She leaned back, posing as he did with her arms out and relaxed, breathing steady as if his presence and questions hadn’t affected her. “A better question is, has Hank asked about my welfare?”
He blinked, and surprise replaced the speculation in his eyes. She had her answer without him saying a single word. “Yeah, that road travels both ways.” They finished breakfast in silence.
Only after she’d swallowed her last mouthful of coffee did he ask, “What happened between you and Hank?”
There was a lot she could say starting with how she felt abandoned, unloved, unwanted, forgotten, a mistake. How she never felt smart enough, pretty enough, good enough at anything and for anyone. How her first lover was old enough to be her grandfather. "Nothing happened between Hank and me. Absolutely nothing."
“Why do you do that?” Emmet asked.
“Do what?”
“You call your father by his first name instead of Dad, Daddy, etc. Why is that?”
“You don’t know?” Intrigue replaced her anger.
“Know what?”
“I don’t call him dad or any other endearments because he hasn’t earned it.”
He opened his mouth, probably to ask another question, but she'd had enough. “How much longer ’til we land?”
“Thirty minutes.” He gritted the words out between clenched teeth.
She took her plate and mug to the kitchen, washed, dried and stacked everything away. She turned to find him standing silently behind her, always watching. “I’ll be in the bedroom until then.”
Forty-five minutes later, after they’d landed and taxied to a private hangar. Bailey followed behind Emmet, bundled against the cold with her suitcase in tow. And it was cold. Her lightweight winter coat wasn't cutting it, not at all.
An official from customs met them when they stepped off the plane, stamped their passports without even opening their bags. Good thing she didn’t blink because she would’ve missed the payoff. An envelope exchanged hands.
She parked her ass inside of a lovely BMW SUV and waited for him to finish loading up the car with their luggage and more than a few unmarked boxes. “How much did you give him?” she asked when he settled into the driver’s seat.
“Enough to get my money and weapons into the country.”
“At least you’re honest.” She buckled her seatbelt.
“Always. It’s my best trait.” He started the engine and drove at a sedate pace out of the airport and merged onto the highway. There wasn’t much to see with snow covering everything, yet it was serene.
“Where are you taking me?”
He didn’t answer, and she wondered why the cold shoulder and if it was gonna be this way, them together, ignoring each other.
"To the mountains where I'll have a three-sixty view."
Seemed reasonable. “Will, um, Hank be there?”
He glanced at her, but she kept her attention on the road. He didn’t need to see the hope on her face when even she heard it in her voice.
“No. My job is to take care of you while he takes care of our enemies.”
“That’s nice. I feel so safe.” She drew out the last word and layered that bastard with a healthy dollop of sarcasm even though it was the truth. She did feel safe. Safe and pissed. Hank cared enough to send Emmet, but not enough to talk to her. What the hell had she ever done to the man for him to hate her so much?
Tears misted her eyes, and she focused on the view outside the passenger window. She couldn't remember the last time she'd cried because she made it a point to never think about her father, because she didn't have one.
“Hey? Are you…crying?”
She sniffed and blinked hard, took a moment to clear her throat and gave a mental, fuck it and refused to look at or answer him. She owed him nothing which included an answer.
He sighed. “I told you I won’t let anything happen to you, so I don’t know why you’re crying,” he grumbled as if her tears were an affront to his male sensibilities.
“Shut up, drive, and leave me alone, okay.”
“Fine.”
“Fine!”
“Fine!”
They glared holy hell at each other until he was forced to switch back to the road. Blessed silence ruled for the next thirty miles which wasn’t long in the BMW.
“Why were you crying?” he demanded. “You’ve been robbed, almost kidnapped, shot at, had to run barefoot through the street, been drugged and you haven’t shed a single tear through any of it. Now, when you’re finally safe, you’re bawling your eyes out. Why?”
Dumbfounded, she cranked her head around. “Bawling my eyes out? Really? I sniff twice, and you consider that bawling my eyes out?”
He nodded. “For you, yes.”
She snorted and shook her head because he wasn't entirely wrong.
“Tell me. Why the waterworks?”
She shifted around in her seat, the words on her lips, but she held back. “How long have you known Hank?”
A muscle flexed in his jaw, and his hands tightened on the steering wheel. "Twenty years."
“Two decades. Wow. How old were you when you met him ’cause I’d guess you’re about thirty?”
“I was twelve.”
“That’s young.” She nodded, doing the math. “So, you were twelve when you met him, and you’ve known him twenty years… When did he tell you he had a daughter?”
His hesitation gave his answer, but she patiently waited for him to say, “Five days ago.”
Bailey faced the windshield and studied the landscape whizzing by, the urge to cry completely gone. After all, she’d just proven what she already knew. She didn’t exist to her father, never had, and never would. He had cared about Emmet, a twelve-year-old boy, more than he cared about his five-year-old daughter, who—at the time—didn’t understand why all her friends had a daddy and she didn’t.
Chapter Eight
“Did you rent this, or do you own it?” Bailey asked leaning against the car.
“Rented,” Emmet answered relieved to hear a note of awe in her voice and not tears. The last ninety minutes of the drive had been spent in strained silence. He didn’t do well with crying women, especially when interrogation wasn’t involved.
He parked the car in front of the house but would move it into the detached garage after unloading it.
“It’s gorgeous. I have a thing for old houses. They have character, a soul.”
He studied her profile as she studied the house. The joy on her face transformed her usually reserved features into childlike delight. Eyes twinkling, cheeks ruddy from the cold, she rubbed her ungloved han
ds together And bound up the short steps to the house. By the time he joined her, the excitement had faded, replaced with her usual stone-faced resolve. So fast the transition, it had to be her default setting.
Not that he faulted her for her quiet reserve when he was the same way. It was better than a grinning, giggly idiot who had to share every inane thought darting through their head. He blamed his lack of humor on his chosen profession. Couldn’t say the same for her. Or could he? Not that she killed for a living as he did. However, one could argue her father’s profession had a direct effect on her.
Yah, think? Why have a child only to ignore her which was the equivalent to abandonment? At least she didn’t end up on the street, eating garbage until his father gave him to the mob to use as a runner. Payment for a debt he wasn’t man enough to bleed for. The job wasn’t too bad. He was liked, might’ve had a career if his father hadn’t stopped gambling and hadn’t snatched him and made a run for it.
A white postcard was taped to the door stamped on one side with the realtor’s logo. She got to it first, pulling it from the door, and flipping it over. “‘Welcome Mr. and Mrs. Jeffrey. Happy honeymoon! Please help yourself to the complimentary champagne.’" She looked up from the card. "I take it you're the Mr., and I'm the Mrs.?"
“That’s usually how it works.” He punched a code into the cipher lock and pushed the door open. He entered first with his gun drawn. It took him seventeen minutes to clear the house and she was with him every step of the way, mirroring him ‘oohing and ahhhing’ at the circular fireplace and panoramic view of the distant snow covered mountains from the living room, the state-of-the-art kitchen, and the luxurious bedrooms, as they searched each room, each closet, kitchen, pantry, mudroom, and great room. Couldn’t say he didn’t like it, ’cause he did, more than he should. She even followed him to the detached garage, that used to be a barn.
“I’ll get the luggage.” She volunteered and trudged over the snow to the BMW.
“I can handle everything. You should go in and get some rest.”
Plain Jane and the Hitman Page 5