Until their last mission put Veronica in their crosshairs. They met in Paris after he killed Gregorsky, the rusky who’d hacked into the NSA database. Peering into her gray eyes, he felt something other than lust for the first time in decades. Giving that feeling free rein, instead of yanking it out at the root, mistake number two.
She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, a blond goddess he spent a year pursuing. But when he finally tasted her, had her beneath him, it was only then he realized Constance would always have his heart. No one would ever replace the love he had for her. No one would even come close.
He wished Veronica well and broke it off. “I never saw or thought of her again. Until her name came across in an encrypted email. Our meeting hadn’t been an accident. It was planned. I was supposed to be her way in, but I didn't fall for her femme fatale role. Rogers did."
“And now we’re on clean up.” Whiskey grunted. “That’s why he won’t give up.”
Hank couldn’t blame Rogers. If he had killed Constance, there wasn’t a rock small enough on the planet for him to hide under.
“Rogers is highly motivated. He’s not gonna stop until he gets you. So…I say we give him what he wants.”
Interested, Hank spared Whiskey a glance. “Explain.”
Whiskey scratched at the stubble on his chin. “The man wants his cock stroked. I say we lube up our palms and help him out.”
Hank sighed. “Explain without the sexual metaphors.”
“He wants to hurt you. Give him what he needs to hurt you.”
It took a moment for Hank to understand. Then another moment for the rage to build as what Whiskey said sunk in. “You want me to hand over my daughter to Rogers? To put the only thing I have left in his crosshairs!” Whiskey was lucky they weren’t on the ground because Hank would’ve wrapped his hands around his throat and ripped his fucking head off.
“Can you think of a better way to draw him out? I can’t.”
Six months. That’s how long they’d been at their little war. Six months heading fast toward seven, and how many dead. Too many dead, friends and enemies. He was a killer out of necessity, not because he particularly enjoyed it, even though he was exceptionally skilled. As their war spiraled—not out of control—but contained to their world, his greatest vulnerability remained hidden. Decades of protecting her, guarding her from himself and the dangers he’d brought by simply being her father, remained in place. No one knew of Bailey’s existence. She was safe in her world and her hate for him. Both would’ve persisted if Rogers hadn’t broken into the safe and stolen her dossier.
Hank was a fool. He gave up his daughter, but he didn’t let her go. So many things he could’ve done differently. If he really loved her, he would’ve put her up for adoption and never looked back. He couldn’t. Constance wouldn’t let him. Which was little consolation since Bailey despised him, and rightly so. After all, that’s what he’d wanted. Her hate kept her safely out of his world.
Until fucking Rogers.
"Hank? Can you think of a better way?" Whiskey wouldn't relent. Not when he was right. Just as Rogers wouldn't relent. He had to die. To make that happen, he had to put his daughter in harm's way.
“No. I can’t.”
Whiskey’s sigh came through the helmet headphones. “How do you want to do this?”
“We leak where she is.” Forgive me, Constance. “Then move her when we know he’s in play.”
For the first time since Constance's death, he felt helpless. "Once we've landed and are safe, I'll call Streets and let him know the change in plans." And move heaven and earth to make sure the plot next to his love wouldn't be filled with their daughter's body.
Chapter Twelve
Cocooned, Bailey snuggled closer to the furnace warming her front. Something wet and equally as warm circled her nipple. She arched into the sensation, moaning as the teasing was replaced with something abrasive. Whiskers, she realized as the gentle abrasion skimmed her nipple. She arched deeper, offering herself for more of the exquisite torture. A hand traced up the inside of her leg at the same time as the whiskers moved over her collarbone.
"Emmet," she whispered and parted her thighs. His weight settled on top of her, pressed her into the pillow top mattress. Through slitted eyes, she absorbed his sharp features bathed in the cold morning sunlight. His face taut from lust. His eyes half icy blue, half molten from the sun glinting off his irises.
He seemed unaware as the blunt head of his cock parted her slick folds and slid home beautifully. How many times? The question flitted through her brain, only to be lost as pleasure took precedence.
He pulled out and slammed back in, bottoming out, balls grinding into her. “Mornin’.” He grunted and slanted his mouth over hers.
Wrapped in his embrace, she couldn’t move, couldn’t participate. All she could do was receive the thrusts of his body and the lick of his tongue as he kissed her.
This was how sex was supposed to be, raw, slate-clearing, bliss, exactly what she’d been missing.
Bailey came apart in a rush, exploding into fragments she somehow must piece back together. She’d let him in, not just into her body, but into her head. He wasn’t some stranger she could leave on an island and think of fondly in her golden years. This was Emmet.
Buried deep within her, all that coiled muscle around her tightened. His back arched, a harsh groan escaped, and he pulsed inside her. Damn, she'd never seen anything sexier than Emmet panting, head thrown back, coming apart as she had.
Shit! This couldn’t happen again because… Well, because!
With a kiss to her temple and a soft nuzzle, he released her and pulled out of her body. Bailey rolled away, all the way to the other side of the bed, dragging the comforter with her, her head a mess while her body hummed from her release.
He flopped back onto the bed, splendidly naked. Tanned skin stretched over corded muscles, flaccid cock. Lawd. He was a shower and a grower.
"Here we go with the post-coital regrets."
“Excuse me?” She sat up careful to protect her modesty. Why when Emmet had seen everything? That question she’d answer at another time. Right now, she grasped onto the only straw she had and tightened the sheet around her.
He sighed, climbed out of bed and headed for the bathroom. She stared—because he didn’t close the damn door—as he disposed of the condom, and turned her head away as he relieved himself. She listened as he washed his hands and did whatever men did after sex and was rattled when he flopped back into bed, still naked.
His hooded gaze skimmed over her as if she lay as he, displayed for his pleasure. “Are we going to be adults and admit what happened between us or are we going to pretend we didn’t spend the night fucking each other’s brains out? I vote for the latter.” As he lay there looking equal parts dangerous and erotic, he hardened.
Bailey swallowed down the lump blocking her throat and ignored the need to rub her legs together. What the hell. They’d made lo—screwed three times last night, including what he did to her in the shower in the middle of the night, and what they just did now. She was not still horny!
Focused on his arrogant face, she said, “We’ve known each other a bit over three days. Don’t you think this is a little much?”
He frowned. “You were at an exclusive resort known for its hedonistic tendencies. People go for hookups. Not bible study.”
Her brain stalled because technically, he wasn’t wrong. That was the reason she and Daisy had journeyed to the island, for casual, uncomplicated sex. Emmet was neither. “But I didn’t sleep with anyone.”
His gaze heavy, sweeping over her as a tangible caress. “Why? That was your purpose for going.”
Well, yeah, but she wasn’t going to tell him that.
Emmet scooted closer. Sheets pressed tightly to her front, she didn’t protest when he curled around her, molded his chest to her back. It felt so good leaning into all that heat and muscle. “Confess, why didn’t you indulge, Bailey?” he whispe
red in her ear.
She shivered, though cold was the exact opposite of what she felt which happened to be more than anything she felt for any potential island hookups.
‘Your body is your temple and yours to do with as you please,’ was a motto she lived by. Not religious, her moral compass had no sexual hang-ups, so she couldn’t blame her noninterest on a pious spirit. She also had no reason to lie, not to him and not to herself. “No one had any depth to them. It was all too superficial which is exactly what a hookup is, but I needed more. Plus…” Bailey cranked her head around and met his steady gaze. “No one made me feel anything.”
Like you hung unspoken between them.
Bailey didn’t fight him when he pulled the comforter away and flipped her on top of him. She landed with an “Oomph.” Boobs smashed against his chest, his stiff cock sandwiched between their bodies.
His hands roamed down her back to the curve of her ass. He palmed the cheeks, shifted so that her legs fell to either side of his hips, then gripped her flesh with both hands. “I refuse to let you go puritan on me and say how wrong this is.” His tone dry, condescending.
No chance of that. Bailey raised her hips and rubbed her clit along his length. How can I still be horny?
His lips parted on a ragged sigh as his hands glided from her ass to tighten on her thighs. He arched beneath her, aiding in the slip, and slide, and grind.
“Isn’t it wrong?” she murmured not believing what she’d said. And putting a nail in that coffin as she sucked his nipple into her mouth. Still, she prodded him with, “You are Hank’s prodigal son. Doesn’t that make us—”
“It doesn’t,” he clipped. “I was Hank’s protégé, not son. We are not siblings. Understand me.” To prove his point, he picked her up as if she weighed nothing and dropped her on his face.
Shocked, her gasped turned into a choked moan as his tongue split her. “Oh, oh!”
Bailey planted her hands on the wall behind the brass headboard and rocked her pelvis. Yes, she understood him and wholeheartedly agreed.
◆◆◆
It wasn’t right what Emmet did to her. He fucked her into a coma and then left. She woke starving, not sure of the day or time, though the sun was still up, and she was sore. The last wasn’t a complaint, just a commentary on her current state. She’d never had a sexual marathon. None of her partners had been up to the physical demands. Now, she knew what she’d missed, how lacking her life had been in that department.
“Damn you, Emmet,” she murmured without an ounce of heat. Her next lover would suffer in comparison.
Bailey grimaced and shied away from thinking about any future lovers. Better to not think about the future at all when someone wanted you dead. This, where her life currently resided, was a temporary situation with an ending clearly in sight. Eventually, they would part ways. Eventually, the memory of him would fade. Not today, though. Not with her body still basking in the aftermath of his lovemaking.
“Sex. It was sex, Bailey. You’ve never confused the two before. Don’t do so now.” She scolded herself and counted his disappearance as a blessing. She fished her phone out of the lining of her suitcase and took it into the bathroom to plug it in. While it charged, she locked the door and soaked in the clawfoot tub.
By the time she’d dried herself off, her phone had enough of a charge to turn on. Bailey didn’t regret much. Right now, she regretted not being on social media. Good thing she didn’t need Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram to contact Daisy. An email would do, or Google Hangouts.
But she did need Wi-Fi. Damn it.
She dressed, took some care with her hair and makeup, made herself a chicken sandwich from the leftovers of the dinner she’d made and wolfed it down, along with a glass of milk. Still no Emmet.
She studied the room, angel on one shoulder, the devil on the other. Fuck being a good girl. It had never gotten her anywhere. This was the perfect time for a bit of snooping.
She started with his bedroom and noted the unslept in the king-sized bed. Something that would be rectified tonight. Their trip into crazy land wouldn't happen again. Two nondescript black leather duffle bags, similar to the bag that carried the money lay side by side on the luggage.
One held clothing and several grenades and flash bombs. The other, stacks of cash, two loaded nine-millimeter H&K’s, and passports—a number of them. Quite a few with Emmet’s picture and different names: Michael Strickland, Donald Bracker, John King. Not surprising in his line of work. She flipped another to find her face staring at her with a different name: Rosemary Brooks. She opened the rest: Laurel Sonders, Paige Rowe, Olivia Vale. The last passport was the original. Next to the passports were credit cards. Half-matched Emmet's fake names, the rest, hers.
Was Emmet even his real name? She filed that question away for later and focused on the stash. A lot of planning went into this that wasn’t what got her riled. The when of it did. When were all her different identities acquired? And by who? All the passport pictures were the same as the original which she’d taken last year for her renewal. She flipped open the passports again and checked the processing dates which meant nothing, she realized. Why would the forger put the date he created the forgery? He wouldn’t.
Frustrated, she returned the passports to the exact place she found them and in the precise order. He didn't need to know she'd been through his things.
A noise filtered in from outside. Bailey left his bedroom and peered out of the living room window at the back of the house. There was nothing to see except the barn off to the right and the trees leading to the forest and the mountains. The noise came again, this time from the barn. Definitely the barn.
A bit nervous, she pulled a butcher knife from the block in the kitchen, grabbed her coat, stuffed her feet into her boots, and walked out onto the back deck. The noise came again.
Quietly, she stepped down the few stairs, her gaze scanning the white landscape and trees. Could have been an animal, except, there it went again and no animal she’d ever heard of made that soft pop, pop, noise coming from the back of the barn.
Over the packed snow, she crossed to the wooden structure. The front door was closed, barred from the outside. She tiptoed down the side of the building and peered around the back.
“I heard you coming a mile away.”
Emmet had set up a wooden plank on top of two barrels he must’ve found in the barn. An arrangement of weapons lay on top of the table. “I should hope so since you’re protecting me. Can’t have a deaf bodyguard, can I.” She strolled closer.
So many weapons, the one in his hands in pieces as he cleaned it. She didn’t like guns, didn’t hate them either. They were so…final. You could pull a punch to soften the blow. Not possible with a gun.
“Do you know how to shoot?”
Her head jerked up, and she wasn't surprised his cool gaze was on her. The passionate man who'd spent the night pleasuring her was gone, replaced with the hitman she'd met days ago. She answered by reaching for the Smith and Wesson nine millimeter with the attached silencer. Making sure the safety was on, she checked the clip, slammed it back home, chambered a round, released the safety, and line up a target, which Emmet had provided on a tree fifty yards away. Two-handed grip, a steady breath, and she squeezed the trigger.
Bailey emptied the clip and picked up a pair of binoculars. Three went wide, hitting the fourth ring. The rest were centered in a beautiful cluster.
“Damn, I just sprang wood,” said rather matter-of-factly.
“Again?” Came her dry response.
“It’s turning out to be a constant state around you.” He took the gun from her. “You learn all that at Dick’s?”
She shrugged. “Most. I had a boyfriend who was into weapons. Made him feel manly.”
“One of the old guys you humped?”
Her head snapped around. “How do you know anything about who I slept with?” She planted her hands on her hips.
His eyes bore into her as he wiped down the weapon
. “Do you really think I don’t have a background check on you?”
That was a cold dose of water in her veins. It made sense, otherwise, how would he have known how to find her. Call her stupid, she just hadn't thought of it. They'd been on the run almost since the moment she'd laid eyes on him. She folded her arms and hiked her chin in the air. "Anything interesting in there? Anything I should be ashamed of?"
He tossed the gun on the table and gave her his full attention. “It was quite a boring read.”
God! That was worse than having something to be ashamed of.
“You traveled a lot because of Theresa’s job. Straight A student in your middle school. Scored high on aptitude tests in high school but didn’t distinguish yourself in class. You were quite average. The same in college, though you did graduate with a bullshit degree in liberal arts. You volunteer at a homeless shelter twice a month and a woman’s shelter. No pets. One best friend whom you met when Theresa was stationed in Germany and you were sent to a London boarding school for a year. You have no job to speak of because you’ve invested your mother’s assets wisely and you’re not extravagant. No boyfriend since Richard, the fifty-one-year-old physician you stopped seeing six months ago. Did I get anything wrong?”
“No,” she choked out. “You summed me up perfectly. I’m quite boring.” She spun, and Emmet hauled her back to him by the arm.
Twisting, she broke his hold. He grabbed her again and dodged the fist she threw at his throat, but not the elbow follow-up. He flinched, and his smirk was all sorts of “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
On the balls of her feet, she danced away, but Emmet followed, he gave her no quarter to gather a plan of attack. He struck with a wide punch she saw coming a mile away. She blocked it and ducked under his arm and clipped the back of his head. Not hard, but not a love tap either.
Emmet whipped around a strange twinkle in his eye. A slow, eager grin spread across his face, and he sank to his haunches in a motion that said, "Bring it."
Plain Jane and the Hitman Page 8