by Cherry Adair
Her lips moved, but no sound came out. A black streak moved swiftly, seen out of the corner of her eye. Mia cowered back as Cruz grabbed her, wrapping his strong arms around her and almost squeezing the breath out of her.
“Jesus, woman—what the fuck were you thinking? Are you hurt? Did he get you?” He carried her out from behind the door into the moonlight, then set her on her feet to run his hands from her head over her shoulders, and over her breasts.
“You think he aimed for my boobs, Barcelona?”
“This isn’t a fucking joke. You could’ve been killed.” His voice was rough, and furious. He gave her a hard shake for good measure. “You could be dead because you didn’t do what you were told. These guys were professionals.”
“Go to hell, Barcelona. I came to help you.” She stopped abruptly when her bravado leaked out, and she pressed her face against his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist.
His arms came back around her and he held her tightly against him, his fingers tangled in her hair. “I could’ve lost you tonight.”
“I could’ve lost you tonight,” she countered, tightening her arms around him. Inhaling the scent of his skin steadied her. But her heart still beat too hard and too fast, and her knees felt rubbery, as if they might give out at any moment.
She shuddered in the safe haven of his arms, holding him tightly. He had raced out to save the day without even a shirt as protection. Idiot! Her heart still beat in a fight-or-flight drumbeat, sweat prickled her skin, and her knees felt like jelly. Swallowing fear-induced nausea convulsively, she gripped the damp, sweaty skin above his jeans and held on for dear life.
“The police are here,” he said over the top of her head, his hand rubbing up and down her back soothingly. With her head resting on his chest, Mia was vaguely aware of sirens and saw flashing lights behind her closed lids. Took them long enough.
“Take this.” He slipped his gun into the back of her jeans.
This hit is mine.
The weirdest sensation came over her. Absolute bone-chilling cold. Freezing, brittle-cold, as pieces, like small ice cubes, fell into place. She stepped carefully out of his arms.
The minute she looked up at him, Mia knew. “You came here to kill me, didn’t you?”
“If I’d wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”
He didn’t deny it. All she could do was blink up at him as the pain of betrayal flooded her body so painfully that she had to steel herself not to fall to her knees.
Police officers with flashlights and guns drawn flooded the graveyard.
“You, come with me,” Detective Hammell instructed Cruz the moment he came abreast of them. “You got a piece?” he demanded. Cruz handed him his gun. “Dumb-shit move coming out here to confront the bad guys, son. How about you, Miss Hayward? You got yourself a weapon, too?”
Mia handed him her gun, which he took with a head shake. “Officer Durant will get you back to the house and take your statement, ma’am.”
Without a word, Cruz turned his back and walked off with Hammell.
As furious, confused, and scared as she was, she wasn’t ready to be interrogated by the police. What had just happened, what she’d just learned, was too raw, too new, too damned unprocessed, for her to discuss with anyone other than the person who’d made her feel all those damn things.
“Miss Hayward?”
She gave the young officer a blank look before she gathered herself and blinked him into focus. Late twenties, bobbing Adam’s apple. Eager. She almost groaned. “Let’s head back to the house.”
It was considerably easier, and a lot faster, to walk across the brightly lit graveyard in a direct line. Officer Durant loaded her in the back of a squad car, something that had not been on any of Mia’s lists, and without any conversation drove her the short distance to the house.
All the lights were on, and there were already officers inside and outside, processing the scene.
She headed down the hallway. “I need a dri—” She came to an abrupt halt in the doorway. There were people everywhere.
“Kitchen’s a crime scene, ma’am,” Officer Durant said kindly. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“The parlor, but I don’t have any furniture.”
“That’s all right, ma’am, this isn’t a social call.”
No shit? “Right.”
Even though she rarely drank hard liquor, Mia wanted a drink now, but instead she flipped on the light in the never-used parlor. The scarred wood floor gleamed, thanks to Daisy, and a dozen packed boxes stood against the wall. She turned in a circle, then just went to the middle of the room and folded her arms at her waist. God. She wished her brain would get into gear. She had no idea what Cruz was saying to Detective Hammell. She had no damned idea what she was going to say to explain the scene in the graveyard.
Officer Durant flipped open a notebook. “Your full name?”
Shit, she couldn’t even answer the first question honestly. On the short drive back to the house, she’d debating telling the police the truth, and why she was in Bayou Cheniere. But if she did that, then she’d have to say that there was a hit man after her, and if she said that, she’d have to tell him that Cruz was that man, and if she told him that, then he’d question her sanity in welcoming a hired killer into her home. “Mia Hayward.”
Drawing on Amelia Wellington-Wentworth, Mia stiffened her spine and channeled her old self. The one who didn’t believe bullshit from a man bent on seduction. Who saw through lies and half-truths and dealt with them accordingly. Who hadn’t fallen in love with a man like Cruz fucking Barcelona.
Once Durant got the basics down, most of which were applicable only to Mia Hayward, with no mention of Amelia Wentworth, he asked her to explain in her own words what had transpired earlier.
Mia gave him a brief summery of the events. No, she didn’t know the men. No, she had no idea why they were there. Cruz had run out there, and she’d called the police and followed with the gun. Guns. Yes, in hindsight she knew it had been a foolish thing to do. Yes, she was extremely lucky Mr. Barcelona had been there, and that neither of them had been injured.
He closed his notepad, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Thank you, Miss Hayward. If we have any more questions, can we find you here?”
“I might have to return to San Francisco for business. I’ll give you a number there if you need to contact me.” Mia gave him her personal cell phone number, hoping like hell he hadn’t been observant enough to notice the gleam of nervous sweat on her skin. The minute everyone left, she’d call for her private jet to pick her up in New Orleans. She didn’t care what time she got back to San Francisco. Only that it was tonight. She wanted this over once and for all.
For a few minutes she considered changing her name again. Disappearing somewhere else where—hopefully—no one would ever find her. But where would that be? And for how long? She was damned if she’d hide away for the rest of her life. She was sick of being scared, of not being able to trust anyone. She had people who depended on her. Someone was behind the takeover of her company. Someone was pulling the strings of the people sent to kill her. There was China to deal with, and a company she loved needed her back at the helm.
If another killer came for her, he could ring her damn doorbell in San Francisco. She was done hiding.
She’d take every precaution. But she wasn’t running away again.
She was going home.
She accompanied Officer Durant into the hallway just as Cruz and Detective Hammell came down the stairs.
Cruz hadn’t bothered with a shirt, but his hair was tied back. He looked quite civilized, if one didn’t look at his lying, killer black eyes. He was not in handcuffs, so he’d told his own damn version of the truth. She gave the back of his head a cold look as he walked outside with the officers.
The back door closed. Good. It locked automatically. Mia stood in the doorway to the kitchen and looked around. “What a damn mess.” Broken glass, crap scattered all over the floor. She sta
lked over to the narrow closet and pulled out a broom, then stood there looking sightlessly at cleaning products and a yellow bucket, her finger curled around the door.
Every bit of bravado seemed to leak out of her and her hand tightened around the edge of door when her knees felt too insubstantial to hold her. She just couldn’t make her feet move. Just stood there, staring straight ahead.
“Whose life is this?” Even her voice sounded different. She was different. The whole experience. Hit men. Cruz. People assaulting her in her own home. A woman she liked, battered and hospitalized while her little boy lived with strangers. “How would my life have been different if I hadn’t run in the first damn place?”
Why hadn’t Cruz killed her on one of his tries in San Francisco? Why hadn’t he killed her at any time in the past week? She wasn’t that damned good in bed.
Resting her forehead on the side of the door, Mia closed her eyes. Was Cruz in custody? Had they taken him away to charge him with attempted murder? She didn’t care. She hoped he was locked in a tiny, urine-stinking cell with the worst of the worst.
She straightened her spine. First things first.
Retrieving the burner phone from the jar, she jabbed out the home number of her assistant as she ran upstairs. “Steph, send the jet to pick me up in New Orleans. Yes. Now. Take this number in case you have any problems.” She had about four hours to pack up what she wanted from the house and get to the airport.
There wasn’t a damn thing she wanted from the house.
Tossing a few things into a carry-on bag, she took the small case downstairs. Actions taken, she felt marginally better and got out the broom. Attacking the glass on the floor, she righted furniture and picked up the papers scattered across the kitchen. There was a hole in the cabinet and wall where the bullet had struck.
“Let’s take a moment to take that in,” Mia muttered grimly. The impact to her skull would have— “Yeah, that.”
She presumed that the police had photographed the broken window and the shards of glass all over the floor and removed the slug from the wall. She’d observed the officers scouring the shrubbery outside the window with bright lights, looking for footprints and shell casings. Through the window she could see panning lights from the direction of the graveyard. So they were still over there.
She poured herself a tall water glass of wine and, after righting a bar stool, sat down facing the door with the glass, the bottle, and the small LadySmith revolver she’d had hidden in one of her suitcases. She raised the glass to her mouth and took a gulp just as Cruz walked in.
“This has been a hell of a day.” Son of a bitch was still shirtless. Not playing fair. But then, had he ever? She forced her gaze to stay on his face. “Why don’t you go up and take a hot shower and get some sleep? I’ll finish cleaning up here.”
So tense she thought she might shatter, Mia gave him a cold look as she leveled the double-action revolver right between his eyes. The matte silver gun was small. But if necessary it would do the job. Her hand was absolutely steady, and so was her voice. “You lied to the police about who and what you are, didn’t you?”
“Are you going to shoot me?”
There were five rounds chambered. That should be enough. “I’m asking the questions. But a heads-up, Barcelona? Don’t tempt me, because right now, if I did shoot you, it would be justifiable homicide, and I wouldn’t mind spending a quiet twenty to life in jail.” It was only fifteen ounces, but the longer she held the revolver, the heavier it got. Tightening her fingers, she adjusted her aim. “What load of BS did you feed Hammell?”
“I gave him my real name and occupation.”
“Really?” She arched her brow. “Wow, and he didn’t cuff you and haul your lying, criminal hit man ass to jail on the spot?” Adjusting the barrel of the gun to point at the middle of his chest, Mia topped up her glass without looking.
She took a drink. “You weren’t just winging it. You knew what you were doing. You moved and reacted like a professional.” She looked into his eyes, looking for a reaction, got none.
“I told you I was in the military—”
“Why don’t you stop bullshitting me, and tell me who and what you really are?”
Chapter Nineteen
Cruz walked across the room and leaned against the other end of the center island. She knew. Now she wanted confirmation. He wanted to give it to her. Should have before she asked. His emotions balled into a tight jumble of self-directed anger in his gut, which he hid behind a mask of pure calm. Just like he always did. Why the hell hadn’t he told her before now? Before she overheard him talking to the others in the cemetery?
Panic. Fear. And a boatload of guilt. Fuckfuckfuck.
He should either have told her yesterday, or walked. Instead he’d been self-indulgent and lied to himself, believing he was being chivalrous. He should’ve explained the Mia situation to Hammell, and he would have taken her into protective custody. Could’ve. Should’ve but didn’t.
“How much did you hear?”
“Enough to know that you assured those guys you were going to do the hit yourself. Is that true?” She swallowed, threw her shoulders back, and looked him directly in the eyes. “Did you come here to kill me?”
“Yes.”
She flinched, her fingers tightening on the gun. “Who hired you?”
“I don’t know.” He crossed his arms over his chest, right where it felt heavy and achy, right where the bullet would hit. At this distance she wouldn’t miss.
When she brushed aside a strand of hair that fell onto her brow, Cruz noticed her hand shook a little. She was maintaining, but at what cost? He wanted to go to her, comfort her, hold her.
“How much were you paid?”
“Fifteen million dollars.” He waited to see the moment the hate and disgust came into her eyes. It hadn’t—yet. There was plenty of emotion, though. “Half down. Half when I completed the job.”
Her eyes widened a bit. “Wow. In the world of sleazy hit men, is that a big paycheck? Don’t bother with an answer. But just an FYI? I’m worth considerably more alive than dead.”
“It wasn’t about the money,” he said, keeping his voice calm and his eyes steady on hers.
She stared him down, the rage, the hurt, the full gamut of emotions, tamped down tight and with the lid on. “It’s always about the money.” She frowned. “It’s easy for you to say it’s not about the money when you already have seven point five million in your bank account. That’s what half down means, right?” He nodded. “Why not just get the next seven and a half mil? Why make love—have sex—and hang around? Are you that cold and heartless to make love to me, act like you care about me, and then kill me?”
Her voice wasn’t as steady as it was a moment before, and Cruz hated hearing the slight waver in it. It tore his insides into sharp, jagged pieces knowing he—not the other assholes in the cemetery—had done this to her. Him.
“Is this what you do? Make love with the people you’re sent to kill before you kill them?” Now he saw the disgust in her eyes, the anger. Worse, he saw the pain of betrayal.
“Is tonight the night? The police will wonder about it if they come over tomorrow and find me dead in the kitchen and you long gone. That will tip them off that you’re the bad guy after all.”
“I told you not to trust me.”
“So this is my fucking fault?!” Her eyes narrowed, her face flushed with anger. “You asshole. You told me not to trust you, then you did everything in your power to make sure I did.” Her voice was bitter. Her long, toned legs were crossed, and her foot bounced in irritation. “Is that how you get the job done? Seduce the victim and then shoot them? I’m right here.” She stood abruptly, knocking the stool over behind her. She spread her arms out from her sides, her eyes never leaving his. “Go ahead. Do your worst. I’m too damned tired to run. You’re a professional: I’m sure you can draw that gun you claimed you got off one of the killers faster than I can fire mine. Oh, wait. You don’t have a gun,
do you? Hammell took it.”
She couldn’t hate him any more than he hated himself right in that moment. “How many times do I have to say it, in how many ways, until you get that I mean what I say? Listen to me, Mia. Listen to my words. Look into my eyes.” He waited to make sure she was listening. “I . . . am . . . not . . . going to kill you.”
She glared at him, the gun still pointed at his heart. “Your words are empty. I wouldn’t know until it was too late, would I? And news flash, buddy: you don’t get to do pained and exasperated tonight.”
“Mia . . .”
“You know that’s not my name. You knew who I was from the moment you walked into my house pretending to be someone else.” She placed the gun on the counter. “Don’t. I don’t want to hear your bullshit. All I want from you is information. That first night—you came to kill me. What changed your mind? Did you decide to get in a quick fuck to sweeten the deal?”
His eyes met hers. “Yes. I saw you dancing, and I . . .”
“Thought: ‘Here’s a dumb-ass, desperate chick, too stupid to hide under the bed, knowing a killer was after her? Bet she’ll just fling open the door and her legs and welcome me in’?”
His jaw tightened as she leaped to the most negative conclusions she could. Hell. He didn’t blame her. “No. I thought: ‘Here’s a beautiful, uninhibited woman, totally unafraid and without artifice.’ That’s what I thought.”
“Were you responsible for all those ‘accidents’ in San Francisco? The car? The elevator? The food poisoning?” Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “Are you the one who tried to shoot me in my office?”
He shook his head. “I wasn’t hired until you were in Switzerland. I followed you back from there.”
“So those guys in the cemetery were responsible for all those events?”
He nodded. “A few of them. They were pros. And I doubt they were the only ones after you. Someone is damned serious about wanting you dead, Mia.”
“Rumor has it I’m quite hard to kill.”
He laughed at that. Understatement of the year. “If one knows you—impossible to kill. I’ve been conflicted ever since I met you, even though I was strongly motivated.”