Poison Kisses Part 2

by Jones, Lisa Renee

  I inhale, feeling a hot spot in my chest, my forgiving mood shifting, darkening. “And his life with it,” I say. “Because your mother said my name.”

  “Seth—”

  “I sat in a chair facing Danny while that hour ticked away, seven men pointing guns at us. And I waited for you to show up. Danny waited for you to show up, fear in his eyes that I’d never seen in that man’s eyes, ever.”

  “I would never have left him to die.” Her voice rasps with emotion that does nothing to bring Danny back. “If I could turn back time—”

  “But you can’t. I didn’t expect you to show up like Danny did, and I’m not sure what that says about us. I knew you were gone. And so I waited for the right moment to kill everyone in that room, but it didn’t come until after Ming put a bullet in Danny’s head. I killed them with nothing but the blade they missed when they searched me. All seven of them, and I actually enjoyed it, Ming especially, who I saved for last and made suffer.”

  Her eyes go wide. “All seven armed men with just a knife?”

  “Yes. Seven against one and all I had was a knife. I’m a killer, Amanda. I’m good at it. Really damn good at it, and my body count reflects that. That’s why they call me the Assassin.” I wait for the question I expect her to ask, and she doesn’t disappoint.

  “How many kills?” she asks.

  And yet despite prompting the question, despite planning to shock her with the number, I don’t deliver. “It’s not a number I plan to share.”

  “Mine isn’t small,” she says.

  “Yes,” I counter. “It is.”

  “A hundred?” she presses.

  “I’m not giving you a number,” I say, when I know it would rattle her and rattling her lets me see beneath her many protected layers.

  “A hundred and fifty?” she asks now.

  “That number is why I didn’t tell you about my nickname.”

  “Because you thought I couldn’t handle the number?”

  “You can’t.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “I’m not wrong.”

  “But you’re all but telling me now. It’s the same.”

  “Yes,” I agree. “It is, and yes I am telling you now, and for a reason.” I lean forward again, elbows back on my knees, my gaze meeting hers. “Which brings us to the next hypothesis.”

  “You were setting me up all along?”

  “I was a blind fool and didn’t see the real you, and the reason I was given for your urgent death was accurate.”

  “Which was what?”

  “An imminent threat to national security, which included espionage. So hear this, Poison Princess. I am the Assassin. And I’m a good friend to have, sweetheart, and a bad enemy to make. And we’re going to have to decide which I am, and what that means, before this plane lands.”

  Chapter Three

  Amanda does not outwardly react to the accusation of espionage. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t gasp. She doesn’t look away. In fact, she holds my stare. “I would never betray my country,” she says, her voice steady, calm. “That I’m accused of such an atrocity, though, isn’t a surprise. A kill order was issued with my name on it. That had to be justified with a serious claim.”

  I lean forward, my elbows on my knees, the space between us small and somehow miles wide. “Your parents were accused of the same thing.”

  “Of course they were. Their kill orders were issued at the same time.”

  “They’d been flagged by the agency for two years.”

  This time she blanches. “What?” She recovers and shakes her head. “No. That’s not possible.”

  “And yet, it’s a fact. Two years, Amanda.”

  She stares at me, her expression unreadable before she leans back in her seat, withdrawal in the action. “Why?”

  I study her, looking for some tell sign that spells guilt, but her expression remains unreadable. But I’ve lived and worked with this woman. I’ve seen her in a broad spectrum of situations, and I know her energy, and right now, it’s shock and fear.

  “Why?” she presses when I haven’t answered quickly enough to suit her. “Why were my parents being monitored?”

  “You tell me.”

  Her eyes narrow. “You don’t know, do you?”

  “Not specifics. Just that they were flagged and being monitored.”

  “Which means I was as well,” she assumes, anger and accusation lacing those words. “And that you were, in fact, investigating me.”

  “No,” I say firmly. “I was not.”

  “How long have you known this about my parents?” she asks, clearly trying to find my lie that I’m not telling.

  “Since right after you left,” I say.

  “I need more than you’re giving me. I need details.”

  “My information came from a source who had a source, who couldn’t get me specifics.”

  “What source?”

  “No one you know and no one I plan to expose.”

  “And the details of my supposed espionage?”

  “None given.”

  “Then no.”

  I arch a brow. “No?”

  “I reject the accusation against my parents. They are the ones who created my devotion to my job and country. They would not betray their country. I’m not guilty and neither are they.”

  “There was a reason they were being watched.”

  She leans forward again. “While you were not investigating me, and just fucking me, did you ever find one piece of evidence against them or me?”

  I lean forward again as well. “I was never ‘just fucking you’ beyond that first night, and no. I never saw any evidence that you were dirty. I was never in a position to evaluate your parents.” I narrow my eyes on her, and ask the question I’ve asked myself for three years, “Are you, were you, covering something up for your parents?”

  “There’s nothing to cover up,” she snaps.

  “You have to consider the possibility that somehow, some way, your parents got pulled into murky water that spiraled into quicksand.”

  “You’re asking me to believe that my parents, the only people I have in this world, are dirty. I reject that premise.”

  “That’s an emotional response that you don’t normally allow yourself.”

  “It’s an educated response,” she corrects. “I lived with my parents and I worked with them all of my life.”

  “Until five years ago, and a lot can change in five years.”

  “They aren’t guilty,” she insists dogmatically. “I’m not guilty. And the one mistake I made in all of this was to hide and not fight. I should have gone after answers and justice.”

  “The one mistake you made was forgetting that you didn’t just have your parents three years ago. You had me.”

  “This coming from the man who swore he’d kill me just hours ago.”

  “Change my mind.”

  Her expression darkens. “You shouldn’t need your mind changed,” she says. “You should know that I’m innocent. You, of all people, should have—and still should—believe in me.”

  “I did believe in you,” I say, my voice hardening. “Before you ran.”

  “Left. I left. And the bottom line here is that I will always wonder if you really set me up. And while I’m going to prove my innocence along with that of my parents, you will always be the man who didn’t believe in me. And to you, I will still be the person who is unforgivably responsible for Danny’s death.”

  “You say I should believe in you. You should have believed in me. That you say now that you never will, tells me that Danny is ultimately on me. Because either I misjudged your character or I misjudged the trust between us.”

  Her expression tightens. “I did trust you,” she says. “But you were right when you said that I didn’t trust my own judgment about you.” She sinks back into her seat and looks skyward before back at me. “I don’t know why I’m even telling you this. You can just use it against me, but that night—hearing yo
ur name on my mother’s lips—for a solid five minutes, it paralyzed me. And then I hyperventilated like I did the first ten times I killed someone.” She leans forward again, obviously in a push and pull of emotions. “It affected me in ways I don’t ever plan to be affected again. I will not let myself trust you again. And in your own way, you feel something similar about me. I see that in your actions. I see it when you look at me.”

  “If that’s what you see when you look in my eyes, sweetheart, you aren’t really looking.”

  “I see what is there to see, not what you want me to see. You say that you’re a good friend to have and bad enemy to make. Without trust, there are just enemies. So, we have a truce while we deal with Franklin. We’ll protect each other. We might even fuck again and again, even though I’d like to tell myself we won’t. But when this ends, one of us will die.”

  Twenty-four hours ago, I would have agreed with her, and in fact, assured her it would be her that would soon be dead, not me. Now, I’ve kissed her and fucked her and touched her. I’ve looked into her eyes, heard her story, and nothing is quite that cut and dry anymore. “When you said that I know you,” I say, “you were right. I do. And if your instincts told you that I betrayed you, we wouldn’t fuck again.”

  “If only it were that simple with you,” she says. “But it never was and it never is.” She settles deeper into her chair, and with her shoes still off, pulls her legs up onto the cushion to her side. “I’m going to sleep the rest of the way.” She rotates and faces the cat’s carrier and sticks her hand inside, stroking Julie and talking to her. I think about her barren apartment, and the seclusion of the past three years she’s lived inside, and I understand the cat more than I had before now. Loving that animal didn’t create a weakness in her, which I’d first perceived. It helped her control any urge she had for human contact with anyone, including me.

  I recline my seat and stare at the ceiling, my mind chasing the trust issue. Even if she reacted to her mother’s call out of caution, or even confusion, space and time didn’t convince her to trust me and make contact. And she knew how to safely reach me. We long ago came up with a plan, should we ever be separated, to make contact. Yet, if I believe her to be innocent, and my gut says that she is, I have to have read her wrong. I have to have read us wrong. And if I could love this woman the way I loved her—still love her—and be this wrong, what else did I miss?

  I shut my eyes and think back to the past, trying to see where I went wrong, back to the first night we worked together as Mr. and Mrs. Jones. Beyond the actual mission, to our rapid departure to safety on a plane identical to this one, her still in a formal dress. Me in a tuxedo. I’d fucked Amanda at thirty-thousand feet, and by the time we’d landed in New York, we’d discovered we were re-assigned together and would remain Mr. and Mrs. Jones. Details for the time were limited, but everything about our new mission had been set up for us in advance to include a change of clothes on the plane: A light gray suit for me. A light blue dress for Amanda.

  We arrive in a hired car near midnight at our new luxury apartment overlooking Central Park, playing our roles as the wealthy diamond moguls, Mr. and Mrs. Jones, as we greet the staff and made our way to the elevator. While touching Amanda is part of that role, it’s one I find myself more than willing to engage. There is something about her that I find rather addictive, and I don’t do addictive. Something human and real that may well be part of why the agency clearly wants me paired with her, watching her, that hits some chord in me I don’t quite understand.

  Once we’re in the elevator, cameras no doubt watching us, I punch in the twenty-fifth floor, lean on the wall, and immediately pull Amanda to me. “Mrs. Jones.”

  “Mr. Jones.”

  “It’s late,” I say. “You must be tired. I know I, for one, am looking forward to testing out our new bed.”

  “Are you now?”

  “Yes. I am.”

  “And here I thought you got all the ‘rest’ you could possibly want or need, on the plane.”

  “Not even close,” I assure her. “I’d equate the plane to a nap that readied me for all night long.”

  “All night? Really. That’s an impressive premise. Are you sure you’re ‘up’ to it?”

  I laugh. Damn, this woman amuses me when little else does. The elevator dings, and I cup her head and give her a quick kiss before the doors open. “Let’s go find out,” I say, closing her hand in mine and leading her out of the car.

  We cut down a hallway to the right and into a private entryway that leads to our apartment. Releasing Amanda, I unlock the door, aware that she is unzipping her purse, her hand sliding inside, and around the weapon I already know she carries there, surprisingly cautious considering the agency placed us here. But I like caution. Caution is how you stay alive. I push open the door and I don’t get the chance to enter first. She’s immediately stepping forward, inside the hallway door, no damsel waiting to be saved. She might blink when she kills, but she’s fearless.

  I’m immediately on her heels, following her down the short, narrow hallway, the floor beneath our feet a shiny pale wood. Rounding the corner, we enter the living area, a box-like room with high ceilings, gray walls, and windows lining the front and side walls, giving the space a private, secluded feeling. A bar, also gray, divides us from the kitchen, with halls to our left and right. Amanda and I share a look, and she heads down one hallway, and me the other. I search an office and two bedrooms before I meet her back in the living room at the stainless steel and gray steps. “This place must run five million dollars,” she murmurs as, side by side, we start up the steps.

  “You don’t know Manhattan if you think this place is that cheap. Try ten million.”

  “This is familiar territory for you?” she asks as we cut left to climb another flight of stairs.

  “Familiar enough,” I say, noncommittally, which is about as committed as I ever get about anything but my job.

  We step into a small foyer with a fancy light overhead, and then directly into the master, a uniquely oval-shaped room wrapped in windows, with a gray high-posted bed in the center. And while my mind could conjure about ten ways to fuck Amanda right here and now, this isn’t the time. Amanda heads into the bathroom, and I walk to the doorway to my right, entering to find a sitting room that has been converted into an office for our use. A round gray table is in the center, a file and two MacBooks on top. A huge bulletin board is to the right. A white board to the left. Two large chests in the corner. A tech center on the wall with several monitors, which I assume will display this building as well as other key locations we don’t know as of yet. Whatever this job is, it’s big, and it’s important.

  I walk to the chests and open one of them up to find an arsenal of weapons. Amanda appears by my side and inspects the selection. “Impressive,” she says, stepping to the second chest and opening it.

  I glance over to find test tubes, bottles, and syringes, as she glances over at me. “This is a much more elaborate lab than I’m normally given. They must be planning on us staying a while.”

  “And you poisoning a whole lot of people?”

  There is a flicker of something in her eye, there and gone, before she says, “Believe it or not, my lab can be a resource outside of killing someone,” and turns away, walking toward the table.

  Intrigued by this woman, I pursue her. “Such as?”

  She sits down at the table and opens one of the MacBooks. “I’d tell you but I’d have to poison you afterwards.”

  Noncommittal as well, another good quality in an agent and partner, but rather inconvenient at the moment. I sit down next to her and pull the folder between us, flipping it open. “Target,” I say, staring down at a photo with a name at the bottom. “Fai Ming,” I read, sliding the photo to her and picking up a sheet of paper to read through Ming’s list of sins, which includes money laundering for a known terrorist operation. I bypass the data collection on him and I hand Amanda what I’ve already reviewed, giving her time to re
ad through it and make her own assessments.

  I reach for documents detailing our mission and start to read, and after a good two minutes, Amanda says, “Ming appears to be somewhat of a ghost. He lives in China. Any idea why we’re in New York instead of there? Because I’m not seeing it.”

  “Apparently,” I say, summarizing what I’ve read. “Brad and Laura Davenport, a married couple, head up what is called ‘The Circle’ for Ming, here in New York.”

  “I’ll bite. What’s The Circle?”

  “A group of wealthy investors who are then allowed to invest in Ming’s packaged deals.”

  “Hedge funds?”

  “Exactly,” I say, moving on. “Once you’re inside The Circle, which apparently is nearly impossible to enter, you have a link to Ming. He has to personally approve you to officially become a Circle member.”

  “And we have the impossible task of convincing the Davenport couple that we’re the next ‘it’ Circle couple.”

  “Exactly again.” I tap the document in front of me. “They visit an elite private club and spa every Saturday and Wednesday. We’ve been made members.”

  “Where we’ll run into them and bond,” she supplies, scanning the Davenport profiles. “Real estate developers and equity investors.” She glances up at me. “Funny how there are no mentions of international terror suspects,” she adds dryly. “This sounds like a long, tedious process, in which Ming could fund many terrorist activities.”

  I slide another piece of paper to her. “They have a warehouse in Brooklyn and a house in the Hamptons. If we find a link to Ming at either of those places, we speed things up and go to him directly.”

  “We can’t make the Hamptons tonight and get back here for Saturday morning spa time fun,” she says. “And we don’t want to have to wait until Wednesday.”

  “But we can make the warehouse and still have our morning visit with the Davenports,” I say, thumbing through documents until I find what I’m looking for. “We have the warehouse schematics.” I grab an envelope and dump it, to find a collection of banded credit cards, IDs, and separately, two sets of car keys. “And it appears,” I add, glancing at the custom key chains, “a Porsche and a BMW.”