by Cherry Adair
The dog, of course, would go to anyone. He’d chosen him without much thought from a pound an hour away. He’d just said “That one” to the first dog who’d come up to the fence looking friendly early that morning.
“Yo, Oso. Come on, boy.” Slapping his jeaned thigh, Cruz whistled as he opened a closed door. Not looking for the dog, just . . . looking. Empty bedroom sporting peeling pink and gold wallpaper and a large, almost full blue plastic bucket off to one side to catch the drips from the water-marked ceiling. Pushed the next door farther open to see a mint-green and black bathroom, clearly not in use.
Another empty bedroom. And a third, set up as an artist’s studio, with gessoed stretched canvases stacked neatly against the wall. Cruz stepped inside, only imagining the smell of oil paint on the dusty air. An easel held a blank canvas, and beside it a tall table covered with a dish towel and a pretty blue glass vase held an assortment of high-pigment Lukas paint tubes and dozens of Kolinsky sable brushes in various sizes. None of them used. All of them, as he well knew, top-of-the-line. Interesting.
In the corner stood a pottery wheel, with an optimistically large pile of plastic-wrapped clay bricks. If she planned on throwing all that clay, she intended to be here for a while.
A clap of thunder apparently ensured that the dog would remain hidden until the weather cooperated. Cruz walked into the last room, pleased with himself. He’d picked the perfect prop in the nervous pound dog. Oso had chosen the master bedroom, the only upstairs room furnished. Cruz was instantly assailed with the opulent, creamy, carnal fragrance of tuberose.
Her bed wasn’t anything like the feminine notes of her perfume. It was stark, almost masculine, with a sleek, modern black wrought-iron headboard, and was neatly made with crisp white sheets and a comforter. Cruz instantly saw himself fucking her on that pristine comforter, his dark skin against her fairness, her silky hair whipping his chest as her head thrashed.
How much time was he willing to indulge himself here to satisfy the odd sense that something wasn’t right? How long to confirm what his research had already told him, which was why he’d accepted the job in the first place? She fit his benchmark for hits—only the worst of the worst. He had a team of researchers all over the world who verified the crimes. There was no mistake about Amelia Wellington-Wentworth, aka Mia Hayward. None. And yet . . .
Twenty-four hours should do it, he decided in that moment. In the meantime he’d satiate himself with her delectable body and see what it was like to have a pet. He’d fix some shit around here, because he enjoyed working with his hands.
“Oso, here, boy.”
A black nose emerged from beneath the bed as the dog crawled out on his belly, black eyes watching Cruz’s face. He recognized that look. Dropping to his haunches, Cruz slowly held out his hand for the dog to sniff. “Nobody’s gonna hurt you, buddy. Not even that fierce thunder. Come downstairs, let’s see if the pretty lady will offer us breakfast.”
Oso’s tail wagged slowly, his eyes never leaving Cruz’s face.
Cruz stood. “Wanna eat?”
The tail picked up speed, and Oso got to his feet, then leaned his entire body against Cruz’s legs. “Shit.” Cruz reached down to fondle the dog’s soft, floppy ear. “I’m the last guy you want to get attached to,” he told the mutt as they went back into the hallway. “Fair warning: I walk away before anyone gets attached.”
• • •
“What’s that you’re burning?”
“Yeah,” she admitted, not looking up. “It is burned, isn’t it?” With a shake of her head, she shot him a quick smile. It was sweet, open. Fucking stupid of her to be so goddamned friendly. Strange man in her house, in her. She should be barricade in a safe room, not attempting to fix him the most important meal of the day, dressed, with deceptive innocence.
“It was supposed to be breakfast.” She eyed the pan, then looked back at him, blue eyes sparkling with humor. “But it’s a steep learning curve. I like to eat, so I hope I master the first meal of the day soon. I see you found your friend.”
The dog darted under the table as Cruz crossed the kitchen, checking out his hostess’s prime ass, cupped by the blue shorts, and her long pale legs as he went to open a window a crack to let out the smell. The rain was coming down in sheets and turning the backyard to mud.
“Take it off the burner,” he advised when the pan started to smoke. He breathed deep of the heavy wet air fluttering the fruit-patterned curtains before turning back to watch her.
She grimaced as she removed the pan from the stove top and carried it, arms extended, over to the sink. “I should get a smoke alarm; at least that way I’ll be warned before I burn down the house.”
Clearly a runner, her legs were sleek and muscled. Strong, as he knew from last night, when she’d clasp them around his waist as he pumped into her. “I’d suggest letting it burn and collecting the insurance money.”
Her lips twitched. “The eggs aren’t insured. But at the rate I’m going, that might be an idea.”
“The house.”
She made a rude noise. “She’s going to be beautiful when I’m done with her.”
Cruz braced his hands on the chair back to observe her. “Her?”
“A venerable old lady with good bone structure. She just needs makeup and a new hairdo.”
“A gut job.”
“Shhh. Don’t let her hear you. I’ve promised to make her beautiful again.”
Cruz shook his head, charmed in spite of himself. The dichotomy between who she was and what she looked like was throwing him off. He knew better.
He’d learned a lot about the misdirection of evil people in his line of work. It was the main reason he took what he did seriously. He wasn’t playing God. But frequently the face these people showed the world was pretty, when their actions were evil. He got to stop those who lied, cheated, manipulated, killed, and stayed out of the reach of the law.
The most evil of men and women were like fucking chameleons, changing their colors to do their worst to innocent and unsuspecting victims in the world without anyone being the wiser. He wasn’t an idiot. Cruz knew men did unspeakable things to one another and believed themselves to be in the right.
Which was why he did his due diligence and researched and checked all the facts before he did a hit. His jaw clenched as he remembered the most sanctimonious of the evildoers he’d taken out: A fucking pastor who walked through his stadium-size church like a damn saint while he collected dead redheads across five states. Young, sweet, troubled women who came to the prick seeking his counsel, his help. Only to end up fucked over and sliced into a garbage bag he tossed in the woods like yesterday’s trash.
He’d had the face and demeanor of a saint and killed fourteen young women in five states over a span of three years. Authorities had never been able to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that he’d done the killings. Paid by one of the victim’s families, Cruz had proven to himself, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that Pastor Smiley was guilty as sin.
The man had drowned while out fishing alone in a remote location of Alaska. A confession note had been found tucked in his fishing tackle box admitting to the eleven he was being investigated for and three others whom no one knew he had anything to do with.
Cruz had given those victims’ families closure.
“I’m going to start this process again. Brave enough to join me for breakfast? Nothing complicated.” Mia glanced over her shoulder to give him a half smile—which, for some fucking annoying reason, pierced Cruz’s chest like a sharp arrow. Fucking evil chameleons didn’t ever shoot arrows into his chest.
“I’m determined to master the humble egg,” she told him cheerfully, cracking one on the side of a new frying pan. “You, if you choose this assignment, can be my taste tester.” She dropped the egg into the dry pan and cracked another. “Eggs any way you want them—as long as you want them scrambled and are willing to risk however they turn out. Harder than I thought to cook a good egg. Bacon’s done.”
/>
Bacon was burned. “Scrambled works.” He opened a couple of drawers, made a mental note to get some screws and wood glue, and took out forks. After opening three cabinets, he found gold-rimmed white china plates. He raised a brow as he put everything on the glass-topped table under the window. “Your version of paper?” He shut the window as raindrops dotted the glass table.
“Absolutely,” her lips twitched, and her eyes twinkled. The arrow in his chest vibrated. “I’m practically camping.” The doorbell rang as she was beating the living shit out of the eggs. “That must be Marcel.”
Cruz rubbed his sternum as he observed her killing any hope of fluffy eggs by stirring the hell out of them on high heat. “Boyfriend?”
“Gardener-slash-handyman.”
Considering the jungle out there, the gardener was either incompetent or had yet to start the job. Cruz motioned to the whisk in her hand. “Go ahead. I’ll get it.”
Before she could respond, Cruz headed down the hall to the front door, Oso at his heels, nails clicking on the wood floor. Place was as dark as a cave. Needed lights. The dark-red flocked wallpaper didn’t help. He flung open the back door.
The guy was almost his height, shave off a couple of inches. Wiry. Late forties, with long unwashed, colorless hair, and, despite the driving rain, he stunk of old sweat and booze.
The dog’s hackles rose, and he growled low in his throat.
“Mais, who you are?” the man demanded, shooting Oso a nervous look. Then glaring at Cruz. His Cajun accent or a shitload of cheap whiskey slurred his speech.
“The man standing on the inside of this door,” Cruz told him coldly. “Come back tomorrow when you’re sober.”
The guy put his foot in the door. “The lady hired m—”
Even the de minimis intrusion pissed him off. Cruz slammed his palm up into his nose and had the satisfaction of hearing a crunch. The guy was drunk at eight in the morning. Drunk and belligerent. The combo spelled wild card and was sure to fuck with Cruz’s plans for Mia/Amelia.
This time next week, what the garden looked like would be immaterial.
Oso continued the low growl, but didn’t make any move to attack. Not that Cruz gave a fuck. Marcel clutched his nose. Blood dribbled through his fingers. “Merde!”
“Don’t bother coming back. Tomorrow or any other time. Consider this all the notice you’re going to get.”
“You can’t do that—” Marcel started banging on the door when Cruz shut it in his face.
Pissed off, Cruz headed back to the kitchen and the unappetizing smell as the pounding stopped. How could she be so goddamned stupid as to invite a lowlife like that into her home? Either she was supremely confident that her slippery tactics and flunkies would keep her safe, or she was below average in the street-smarts department.
Disproportionately annoyed, because she had, after all, fucked his brains out and invited him in for a second go at her, Cruz strode down the hall and into the kitchen, the dog, tail wagging, at his heels.
Mia glanced up as she ladled eggs—burned again, to judge by the smell—and charred bacon onto the plates. “Was that Marcel? I’ll just go and tell him—”
Cruz motioned the dog under the table. “Jehovah’s Witness.”
“All the way out here?” she asked, clearly surprised as she sat down at the table under the window, unfolding a cloth napkin on her lap. She gave her plate a dubious look.
Cruz shoved the chair out with his foot, then dropped into the hard seat opposite her. The food looked as unappetizing as hell. Rubbery, singed eggs and bacon that crumbled to dusty charcoal before he managed to get it to his mouth. He tossed it down to Oso, who sniffed it, then dropped his head back onto his paws, keeping his eyes on Cruz as if asking where the hell that breakfast was that he’d been promised.
Cruz ignored the dog. He didn’t do dependents. It would eat when he did.
Mia wrinkled her nose. Cruz didn’t want to be captivated by her, but he was. “Not edible,” she admitted, taking up his plate without apology. “I’ll make toast—”
He got to his feet, too. He was hungry, and toast wasn’t going to satisfy him. With no time to waste after he had fucked her, he’d picked up his truck, driven to NOLA, found the dog, and come straight back. Only a small part of him had hoped she’d be exactly where he’d left her. Now that he’d been offered breakfast, he was starving. She carried their plates to the garbage can, where she scraped off the food. She didn’t think it was fit for the dog either.
Opening the Sub-Zero—which looked incongruous in the old-fashioned (and not in a good way) kitchen—he took out the carton of eggs and the milk.
She turned to him, eyebrow arched.
“I’m starving. I need protein. I’ll make the eggs. If you really want to learn, stick around. I’ll show you.”
“Now, why does that sound like an order?” she asked, tone dry. “I’m all for learning new things, but if you’re looking for a sycophant, I’m not your girl.”
No subtext there. The lady was used to being in charge. “Sometimes,” he told her smoothly, “it’s more interesting to be on the receiving end of things.” While she’d come multiple times, the intervening hours had given her plenty of time to have second thoughts about just who was in control. She was in for one hell of an eye-opener.
He held out his palm. “Hand me the butter.”
Chapter Four
He’d brazenly parked his yellow pickup truck, with a rusted, old-fashioned camper hauled behind it, right near the back porch steps that needed fixing. Without asking permission. She hardly knew him—he was a stranger in all ways except one—but it hadn’t taken her long to figure out that the man wanted to do what he wanted to do . . . and did it. No permission requested.
As a CEO, she certainly appreciated that quality in a person, but it didn’t compute that a man who demanded power and control would be doing odd jobs as a handyman. Mia was surprised that he hadn’t reached a higher standing in life. She looked at the heap of rusty and dented metal behind his truck. He couldn’t live in that thing, could he? The camper looked barely high enough for him to stand up in. If he lived in that pile of tin, he must really need this job. Mia wondered what his story was.
“Frequently things seem simple and turn out . . . not,” Mia told him as, after handing him the stick of butter, she started rinsing off the plates, then scraped out the burned offering from the pan.
She was a little tongue-tied around him, she realized, surprised. She, who mixed and mingled on a daily basis with people at every social level, with ease. She was as comfortable making small talk with the president of the United States as she was chatting with the maintenance staff at Blush’s headquarters in San Francisco.
She was intelligent and articulate, and enjoyed social interactions. But he made her feel—God, she had no idea why this man made having a conversation so difficult. He didn’t scare her—well, maybe a little. What he did do was turn her on. Maybe it was because with him she felt vulnerable. Bare. Maybe. Or maybe it was her imagination. Low blood sugar was giving her head a rush and she needed to have breakfast.
“That’s life for you.”
He was right behind her—she hadn’t realized just how close until she felt the heat of his body all the way down her back. Her skin instantly tightened in anticipation of his touch.
“Things are seldom as they appear.” His deep voice dropped several octaves until his words were more vibration than sound. The hair on the back of her neck lifted in response. “It’s what makes life interesting, right?”
“Sometimes.” Mia braced her hands on the edge of the sink and looked through the Spanish moss–covered cypresses to the green, murky water of the bayou. The rain was letting up, just random drops plopping into the muddy puddles between sad patches of scrubby grass, turning the lawn into a marsh.
Goosies rose on her arms. Everything looked alien, unfamiliar. Dangerous in a beautiful wild way. If that wasn’t a metaphor for what her life was right now, sh
e didn’t know what was. “It would be nice if the world were a simpler place,” she whispered, her own voice low in the quiet. “If we could take things at face value and not have to read subtext or subversion into everything.”
“You’d have to find a deserted, uninhabited island for that.” His arm brushed hers. Bare skin to bare skin. She sucked in a breath. Anticipation surged through her veins— but he was merely reaching for the dish towel on the edge of the counter.
Still, she was trapped, caged by his proximity. “If you move, I’ll get out more bacon.”
Looking faintly amused, he stepped aside, then started hand-drying the plates, watching her out of dark, fathomless eyes.
Mia turned her back to open the refrigerator and get out the eggs he already had out, and a frozen package of bacon, since she’d used the last of the open package earlier. The diversion gave her a few seconds to collect her thoughts. She must look a mess. Tempted to excuse herself, to run upstairs and fiddle with her hair and put on some makeup. She felt exposed the way she was.
Before coming to Bayou Cheniere, she’d never been seen in public not fully made-up, hair expertly styled, and wearing discreet, exquisite, top-end fashion from international designers.
From the time she was twelve she’d never been out in public not fully made-up or beautifully dressed. When she was twelve years old, the PR team at Blush had made her into a walking billboard for the company’s products. All of those ingrained habits had been left behind—by necessity—in San Francisco months ago. Now the simple act of being without makeup as this man stared at her was foreign but also liberating.
No mask. No pretense. Nothing to hide behind. He was one of the few people who’d ever seen her for who she was. Almost. There was the whole change of name and identity thing, but still, who he saw was who she really was. Her name was immaterial.
Yeah, go ahead and tell yourself that, Mia mocked. That name was on Forbes’s list of the richest women in the world. It might have some bearing on how he perceived her if he knew.