Les Recidivists (Chance Assassin Book 2)

by Nicole Castle

  “Come on, Frank. She’d be good for him.”

  Now he did smack me. I jumped at the opportunity for rough play and started undressing him, slipping his silk tie from around his neck and draping it around mine. I knew he wouldn't strangle me anymore. Apparently I could die from it. But I saw his face light up for just a second, and it was like the old Frank was within reach again. Then he took the end, sliding it over my neck and folding it before placing it on the nightstand.

  I tried not to let the disappointment show on my face as I unbuttoned his shirt. “Do you think we’ll find out who ordered the hit?”

  He pulled me close. “We don’t have much of a choice, baby.”

  I looked up at him. It had been a long time since he switched into full murderer mode, but I could see it: the cold calculation in the eyes, the blank expression. His hands in loose fists, body tense and alert. “I want to kill them,” I said. I also wanted his tie back.

  “V—”

  “It’s my turn. You got the last one.”

  “The last one was Charlie, it was a special circumstance. You had the two before.”

  I rolled my eyes. He was the one who retired us, it was only fair that I got first dibs on coming out of it. “Just because you couldn’t do it.”

  “Careful,” he warned. The hit in question was the double murder on a yacht that freed up the ownership of Casey’s Titanic painting. Frank didn’t do water. And he most certainly didn’t do boats. Drowning was possibly the only thing that scared him, apart from losing me, and reminding him of it was a surefire way to get on his bad side.

  “I. Want. To. Kill. Them,” I repeated, giving him the look. It was part pout, part I’ll-never-give-you-another-blowjob-if-you-deny-me, and mostly give-me-my-way-or-I’ll-cry. I’d perfected it over the years, and it never failed.

  “If it’s safe, I’ll let you,” he said, his shoulders slumping slightly in defeat. I knew it was more from the keeping me safe aspect than losing out on his turn at murder. One of the first lessons Frank had taught me was that I needed to trust him wholeheartedly to protect me until I learned enough to protect myself. I’d fucked up, taking the lifesaving into my own hands when Frank was mere seconds away. I’d cracked my head on the floor trying to escape from Henry, proving to Frank that he couldn’t keep me safe after all.

  I traced my hand over his chest, smiling at him and trying to bring him back around to good mood territory. Sure, Gideon was essentially on his death bed, but every cloud had a silver lining. The sooner I masterfully killed our enemy, the sooner Frank would see that I was still his vicious little V. “Promise?”

  Frank gave me a sly grin and tried rolling me over, kissing the side of my neck. If the look practically guaranteed that I got my way, then distracting me with sex helped him get his. And he hadn't given his word yet.

  I shrugged him off. I wouldn’t last long, so I had to make my point quickly. “Promise,” I demanded.

  Frank scowled and switched off the lights. “I promise,” he said, and went for the kill.

  Chapter Four

  Casey lifted his head at the sound of footsteps, his neck stiff from leaning over his sketchpad. The sun wasn’t quite up, the sky only slightly pink behind the nearly bare trees outside the kitchen window. He’d never left the table, and after hours it was strewn with page after page of rough sketches, smears of graphite fingerprints marking whatever he touched.

  “Hey,” he said, smiling at the earliest riser in the house. Frank. He looked best in the morning, every hair out of place and in desperate need of a shave, his eyes dark until that first cup of coffee. Frank was still one of Casey’s favorite subjects, and it took deep concentration to master such an expressive yet expressionless face.

  Every line spoke volumes of grief and anger, penitence and righteousness and years of professional isolation, all the while saying nothing at all. And his eyes! It took Casey years to find the perfect match for the shade of Frank’s eyes. He could paint it, but until he visited Amsterdam, he couldn’t name it.

  Frank’s eye color was Absinthe Number Five; the fifth flaming, hallucination inducing, gasp for air green fairy that Casey consumed on a long weekend from school in Paris. Or at least, that’s what he remembered of the color. It was Eureka! and then it was waking up sandwiched between his friend Jean Claude and an enormous Dutch woman on a bare mattress on the floor of a one room flat.

  Neither Casey nor his schoolmate had any idea who she was or how they got there, but they were able to sneak away without waking her. It had felt semi-dangerous at the time, but in light of Frank’s confession, perhaps Bella had been there all along, watching through the window with a telescopic rifle, waiting to save his life. The thought embarrassed and excited him.

  Frank gave him a nod of acknowledgement and went to pour a cup of coffee. The coffeemaker was on a timer, since Frank couldn’t work it and he barely functioned without caffeine. But Casey could tell that his mood had improved. Vincent must’ve been punished last night after all, faux headache or not.

  “I can’t get her lips right,” Casey said, trying to initiate conversation. “Do you think she’ll sit for me?”

  “Depends what time you ask her,” he said, handing him a cup of freshly brewed black coffee and sitting with his own attached to his lips, lowering it only slightly to speak. “Do not bother her before noon. It would be the last mistake you ever made.”

  Black, in coffee and clothes, were two things Casey had learned to appreciate from his older brother. He hadn’t owned any clothing darker than navy blue before Frank came along. Now when the mood struck him he’d imitate Frank and don solid black, save for his shoes. Those would most often be blue Converse All-Stars or the green pair of Doc Martens he bought on his first trip to London. He wondered whether Bella had been following him then, watching him unsuccessfully haggle with the merchant in Camden Market. “How’s Vincent?”

  Frank smirked and sipped his coffee, leaving his bright red ears to speak for themselves. Vincent had admitted to being fucked on every level surface in the place, and some not-so-level, and yet Frank remained shy as a schoolgirl when it came to sex.

  “Headache went away?”

  “Mais oui.”

  Frank was the only one who actually fell for that anymore. When Vincent was really in pain, you could see it on his face. And what a face! Flawless ivory skin, pornographic pink lips that screamed arousal, and somnolent, carefree eyes the color of a sunlit storm cloud.

  Vincent could’ve been the inspiration for The Picture of Dorian Gray. And he knew it, too. Casey had never met anyone more adamant about sitting for a portrait, with, or more often without clothing. Frank and Vincent’s attic was filled with paintings inappropriate for mixed company, and Casey considered it a mark of pride that he was the only man besides Frank, or doctors, who’d seen V naked since he officially stopped being jailbait.

  “Why don’t you come for a walk with me? You can carry Kiki,” Frank said. Kiki had to be carried whenever they left the house, or she’d be eaten by wild animals. At least, that’s what Frank seemed to think. The dog, spoiled as she was, wholeheartedly agreed.

  “That’s okay,” Casey said politely, knowing this was another attempt to distract him from Bella. His mother had tried to convince him to spend the night with Alan, something she’d expressly forbid under the normal scheme of things. Gideon, too, had given it a go, though something was obviously bothering him more than Casey’s recent inspiration. “I won’t bother her.”

  “Good kid,” Frank said, standing and lightly snapping his fingers, a near-silent call that brought the brood running. He let Charlie and Hugo rush out the kitchen door and picked up Kiki, the white ball of fluff under his arm in stark contrast with his black leather coat.

  Casey watched him go, and thought of nothing but Bella. Her face, while not quite as aesthetically pleasing in the classical sense as Vincent’s, had nevertheless inspired him in a way he’d never felt before. She wasn’t beautiful; she was painful to lo
ok at, like staring at a bright light and having it remain seared in your field of vision long after you’ve shied away. She looked like the high-fashion ad for a product you’d be unworthy of purchasing, something you neither deserved nor could possibly afford. She looked vicious. And he wanted to capture her essence so badly it hurt.

  He gathered up his drawings, pushed forward the time on his watch, grabbed a cup of coffee for his new muse, and realized that lying wasn’t really so difficult once you put your mind to it.

  Chapter Five

  He must’ve been there awhile. Calling her name. Offering coffee. Bella tried to ignore him. She played dead. He wasn’t going away.

  She burrowed under the blanket and growled, “Whatthefuckdoyouwant?”

  “I brought you coffee!” Casey Evans practically shouted with enthusiasm.

  This deep in the woods there had to be plenty of places to hide a body. She could undoubtedly get the boy to dig his own grave. With enough encouragement and a little cleavage, he wouldn’t even need a shovel. “Leave it.”

  “I can go heat it up for you.”

  “Leave it.”

  “You’re from Glasgow, right?”

  She grumbled and sat up, glowering at him. He was smiling. Why did he have to smile so much? Didn’t he realize that smiling hadn’t been fashionable for decades? “What time is it?”

  He proudly held out his watch to her. What the fuck did he have to be proud of? It hardly went with his outfit. The same outfit from last night. Insomnia shouldn’t be hereditary when he and Frankie weren’t actually family. She was Frank’s family. What the fuck did Frank need Casey for? The boy couldn’t even match his accessories. And his face was dirty. “You expect me to read the time off that? It’s not even a Rolex.”

  “It’s my dad’s,” he said, which had fuck all to do with anything. “You can really tell it's not a Rolex? It's a funny story act—”

  “I don't care,” she stated plainly.

  He paused, then fought back a smile. “Anyway, it's twelve thirty.”

  “Bullshite.”

  “The watch may be a little fast…”

  Bella yanked the blanket over her head, collapsing into a heap on the filthy sofa. She should’ve taken the offer for his bed. What was she thinking? There was more hair on the furniture than there was on Frankie’s dogs. Gay men were supposed to have taste. Everything in his fucking house looked like it needed to be dusted, doused with petrol and set afire. It was just like Silva’s house.

  She missed Silva. What was she even doing here? She should’ve been with him, not waiting until Christmas to kill a stupid American lawyer. It was a waste of her time. Bella hated having her time wasted.

  Casey cleared his throat, refusing to be ignored. “Your accent, that’s—”

  “I’m going to fucking kill you if you say Glasgow again!”

  “Glaswegian. Did you ever model?”

  She irritably sat back up, wondering where she left her gun. In her Louis Vuitton evening bag. On the coffee table. Right next to him. She’d never be able to reach it without him noticing, but he’d probably hand it over if she asked him to. He might even swallow a bullet for her. “Are you having a go at me?”

  He looked confused, but smiled again instead of getting frightened. “Huh?”

  “I’m five two. Even Kate Moss is taller than that.”

  “You are not five two,” he laughed. “With those Manolos, and your height compared to Vincent, it makes you five foot. At the most.”

  She very well may have killed him if not for him recognizing the work of one of her favorite shoe designers. Manolo Blahnik made her five five. “What is your fucking point?”

  “I didn’t mean that type of modeling. I meant…would you sit for me?”

  Bella looked at his hands, nervously gripping the rolled up morning newspaper he brought her to beat him with. No, not the newspaper. They were drawings. A lot of them. She snatched them out of his hand, which only made him smile again.

  The resemblance was clear, but Bella did not bode well in black and white. It was like she was covered with the dust that had settled on everything in Frank’s life. Everything but Casey. The boy was talented, she’d give him that. She’d learned it years ago, watching him earn drinking money painting portraits of tourists in Montmartre.

  Last night, when she saw that twisted painting with the corpses and the little ducky, she just had to have it. It matched her dress. Casey’s dress too. The dealer tried to raise the price so she wouldn’t buy it. Fucking idiot. If he really didn’t want to sell it to her, he should’ve offered a discount. Nothing said desperation like a sale.

  Young Vincent had been plenty desperate himself to tell her about killing the painting’s previous owner. He’d practically begged her to ask him all the details. She liked Vincent. She’d fuck up his pretty little face if he ever hurt Frankie, but she liked him. And she was about to fuck up Casey’s not-so-pretty little face if he kept sketching away at her. “Fuck off! I just woke up.” Mornings somehow always snuck up on her. Like her father. He was a morning person. Up before everyone else. She scrubbed her eyes with the skirt of her nightgown, suddenly aware that she’d left her face in colored streaks all over her pillow.

  “You look nice.” His compliment would’ve been more convincing if he hadn’t stared when she’d lifted her dress.

  “I look like fucking death and so will you if you keep drawing me.”

  “You don’t look like death, just…unkempt. It’s an interesting contrast. You were so put together last night, but being all disheveled is sort of refreshing. You look more approachable.”

  “Who the fuck wants to be approachable?” She was desirable, which had gotten her a lot fucking farther than approachable ever could. Isobel from Glasgow was approachable. And insignificant. Bella was unattainable and she had the world wrapped around her finger.

  “Your hair’s fine,” Casey said, catching her adjusting it. “It’s beautiful.”

  She gritted her teeth and lowered her hand. Her hair was beautiful, and she didn’t need him telling her so. But heeding Frank’s warning, she muttered a painful, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said, his confidence igniting.

  She should be mean to him again. “I thought you liked boys.”

  Casey blushed only slightly, not nearly as colorful a reaction as she’d have liked. A comment like that would’ve turned Frank the shade of her hair. “Yeah, Frank said you used to…watch over me.”

  “Aye, that’s right. You put on a pretty good show.”

  “How long did you—”

  “Long enough.” Let him think on that. She’d seen enough to make him realize his worst fears, and could imagine the rest. The boy got around. But never enough to warrant a bodyguard. Especially not one as trigger-happy as Bella. If it hadn’t been for his adventures in boyland she would’ve defected out of boredom and faced the consequences from his States-bound protector. “Did Frankie tell you to leave me alone?”

  Casey smiled and looked down, as if he considered lying but didn’t have it in him. He really was quite charming, in a breakable sort of way. “Yes.”

  “Well then.”

  He sighed, his smile becoming forced. Rejection didn’t suit him at all. Neither did surrender. “Do you want me to?”

  “It’d be a good idea.” Manipulating men was too easy. The boy didn’t even care that she looked a mess. He hung on her every word. “But I suppose it would be all right if you wanted to talk to me.”

  Casey beamed at her, radiating success.

  “Not before noon,” she added sternly.

  “Right.”

  “Coffee…” She forced the cup back into his hand. “Cream and sugar. Cream. Not milk. And whisky. Good whisky.”

  “Okay.”

  “And I need cigarettes.”

  “Any specific—”

  She pointed toward her purse. He wiped his dirty hands on his questionably clean pants and retrieved it for her, unwittin
gly arming her against him. Had Frankie taught him nothing? She aimed her gun at him just to see his reaction. A fucking smile, of course. His naivety was a wee bit sweet. And suicidal. But he handled her purse with the utmost reverence; not like something that cost more than his life, which it did, but like she’d seen him touch other artists’ work.

  Haute couture was the only art form that she’d ever understood, the only thing of beauty she’d been able to grasp in the slums of Glasgow. Fashion transformed her from Isobel Moncrief, a little girl who would scream until she fainted from lack of breath just to escape her head, into Bella, a beautiful woman who needed nothing, and no one.

  Bella showed her latest admirer the half pack of cigarettes, ensuring that he got a good long look at them so he wouldn’t fuck it up. Many a prospective lover had forfeited their chances by returning with a common brand of cigarettes in place of her brand. It could only be purchased at select shops and only in Paris. Not that she thought of Casey as a prospective lover. He was a mere boy with a crush. Hardly even handsome, with his silly long hair. He was androgynous the way models had become, with an interesting more than attractive face, and a thin sexless body. And he was an artist for fuck’s sakes. He probably didn’t even have a criminal record.

  The best men she knew were criminals. The only ones she even considered to be men. Silva and Frankie and sometimes her ex-boyfriend Deaglan. The remainder of the male sex was pathetic as far as she was concerned, blindly following their pricks around in a way that infuriated her even as she benefited. Bella pitied them for their uselessness, despising them more when they fell for her charms than she’d ever hated them for ignoring her.