Secrets Inside Her: Running with the Devil Book Two

by Jasmin Quinn

  That was last night, a long fucking night that had turned from a retrieval job to a rescue job to hours of debriefing and then bundling McQueen and Jackman’s Disappearist on a plane and sending them to Jackman’s compound. The weather turned to shit while they waited in an airless room at the airport hotel, on lockdown until two of Jackman’s retrieval agents deigned to arrive to pick up the cop and the Disappearist so he could leave and get back to his own business. A late snowfall in March was causing chaos in Vancouver, there wasn’t a fucking taxi to be had, and his car was tucked safely away in the underground parking of his condo building. That forced him to do something he had never done in his fucking lifetime – he took the goddamned bus and then walked two more blocks back to his condo because apparently public fucking transportation doesn’t drop you off on your doorstep.

  He was wiped out and wanted nothing more than to slip into his penthouse suite unnoticed, drink half a bottle of scotch and then take a hot steamy shower. But that was obviously not to be, because as soon as he entered the lobby, he was cornered by the lovely Mrs. Gloria Trimble and her equally engaging younger sister, Gladys Meadows. Both ladies were quite taken with Michael; as they often told him, he was suave, debonair and an unapologetic flirt. But also, a gentleman and a man of his word, which was rare these days. And they were going on about the snow and the bad drivers, and their worry that they may not be able to get out to buy groceries if it lasted too long or piled too high. And Michael put on his friendly neighbour persona, promising them that he would be more than happy to take them shopping if the snow didn’t let up in the next day or two.

  And then lobby door flew open, the gusting wind catching it and jarring it inwards, blowing Isabelle Sterling practically into his arms. “Goddamn fucking snow!” she swore as she stumbled forward, oblivious to the two little old grannies that were standing next to Michael, concerned and shocked expressions on their faces.

  “Isabelle, language!” Michael scolded as he pushed back at nature’s pissiness, forcing the door closed behind the stunning dishevelled woman, arms overloaded with shopping bags.

  “Oh, come on Michael. Don’t be such a prude,” Isabelle retorted as she handed him the bags and her red Gucci purse then steadied herself on his shoulder as she yanked four-inch red heels off her feet. “Gloria and Gladys invented the words. Didn’t you girls?” She smiled ferociously and winked at them and they tittered. She punched the elevator button and as the doors opened, she turned to Michael, who was still holding her packages. “Be a love, Michael and bring my bags up.” And then entered the elevator without waiting to see if he would follow.

  But follow he did because Isabelle had rescued him from their lovely neighbours and for that he was grateful. He also knew she wouldn’t want him around long, and so he would be in and out of her condo in two minutes flat. As she punched the button for the 18th floor, she cursed again shaking the snow off her shoes, inspecting them for damage. “$1300 fucking American dollars for these Louboutin’s – I got them in Seattle last weekend. If they’re ruined I am going to have to kill someone. Who the fuck thought snow was a good idea in March?”

  Michael grinned as he looked at Isabelle over top of the packages, “I don’t know – maybe God?”

  “This is not the work of God, this has Satan’s pawprints all over it.”

  “Ah, the devil, of course.”

  “Yes, and the next time you see your father, tell him to fuck off for me!”

  Michael laughed heartily. Isabelle was a lot of things – beautiful, sexy, quick-witted and unpredictable. He’d wanted to fuck her the first time he laid eyes on her. But she held him at arms length, barely acknowledging him for the first few weeks; obviously pissed off when he moved into the other suite on the 18th floor. He tried to charm her, no woman was immune to his charisma until Isabelle came along. And this wasn’t the first time she referred to him as the devil. She was wary of him, her defences seemed to go up whenever he was near; he thought she didn’t trust him, though he’d never given her a reason not to. Maybe she was just sensitive to the predator in him, understood there was something dangerous about him, something savage and all-consuming.

  But they were good neighbours given that they were the only two suites on the 18th floor. They’d knock on each other’s doors when they needed something. He’d broken his finger about a month ago and couldn’t knot his tie. He stopped by Isabelle’s suite every morning for two weeks and she did it for him. She seemed quite unaware of the effect she had on him as she stood so close to him that he could feel the heat radiating from her body. She’d loop the tie, always perfectly, with her long, beautifully manicured fingers, patting it back into place against his chest, causing his heart to race and his cock to perk up.

  And when her car broke down a few weeks ago he gladly returned the favour. It was almost too much for him to look and not touch as every morning, she slid into his Mercedes Roadster perfectly turned-out, always wearing a short, curve-hugging skirt and four-inch heels, both of which served to accentuate her sexy long legs. For three days, he endured the unspoken off-limits rule as he dropped her off at work. He struggled with why she kept him at arms length and worse, he couldn’t understand why he didn’t force the issue. After all, it generally didn’t take much convincing on his part when he wanted a woman, but he knew deep down in his nether regions that once would not be enough with her. He’d get a taste and want more. And that kind of “more” was not good in his line of work.

  He glanced over at her leaning against the elevator wall, still bitching about the weather and inspecting her shoes for damage. Her long, thick beautiful chestnut hair curled around her face and down her shoulders, tousled and slightly damp from the wind and the snow. Her makeup was a little smudged around her intense, blue-grey eyes and her cheeks were still ruddy from the cold. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t perfectly put together, in fact in her present state she was even more provocative, if that was possible. Michael imagined her naked and writhing under him, her long legs locked around his back, his hands on her breasts, his mouth crushing hers as he pounded into her. His cock started pulsing in concert with his thoughts and he found himself wanting the power to fail so that the elevator would stop and he could dispense with the impasse between them once and for all. But the elevator had no mercy and mockingly dinged its arrival on the 18th floor.

  Michael stood back and waited for Isabelle to exit first, then dutifully followed her, packages in hand, purse strategically held to obscure the evidence of his errant thoughts. Oblivious to Michael’s tension, Isabelle was still muttering about her shoes as she unlocked her condo door and walked into her suite. She beckoned Michael to follow as though she was his high priestess and he was her eunuch… no… slave… sex slave. Yes, better. He complied – after all what choice did he have? Slave or not, he still had her bags and purse.

  “Just toss them on the sofa in the living room,” Isabelle ordered as she shrugged out of her coat and dropped it carelessly on the floor next to the coat closet. Michael moved into the living room as she picked up a towel from the kitchen to wipe her shoes and followed him. “Thanks,” she said. “I owe you a drink.”

  And then she froze, stopping all movement for the first time since she’d stepped inside the building because two tattooed men were standing in her living room, one incredibly tall and burly, the other considerably shorter, but no less intimidating. The shorter one was pointing a gun at Michael, who had dropped Isabelle’s packages on the floor and had his hands up by his head, palms facing out. The other tattooed fuck was inspecting one of Isabelle’s delicate Fabergé eggs, holding it between his enormous paws with little concern for its fragility or value.

  “What the hell?” Isabelle eyes flashed anger as she looked from the tattooed assholes to Michael. “Friends of yours?” she asked drily, far calmer than he would have expected under the circumstances.

  “Not exactly friends, Isabelle. Use caution.” Michael glanced at her briefly, trying to warn her with hi
s eyes before returning his gaze to the Russian with the gun

  “Put my fucking Fabergé egg down!” Isabelle obviously had a different definition of caution than Michael. The thug looked at her, a little taken aback, but then carefully set the egg back on its stand on display table.

  “Why don’t the two of you sit down?” The shorter thug said mildly, waving the gun toward Isabelle’s love seat. It was clear between his heavy accent and the tattoos that graced his neck that he was Russian. They both were.

  Michael looked over at Isabelle and said carefully and clearly. “I need you to do exactly as I say. Sit down beside me.”

  Isabelle, still clutching her shoes, frowned at Michael. “Fine, I’ll sit, but I want some answers. What are these two fucks doing in my house?”

  “Why wouldn’t we be in this house?” The shorter Russian spoke again, clearly startled.

  “Because my friend here lives across the hall, you puke. He’s the thug magnet, not me.”

  He laughed then. “This is a great day, Boris. We get two for one.”

  The taller Russian grunted.

  “Hold on,” Michael said, very reasonably. “She’s not part of this. You’re in the wrong apartment.”

  “Right,” the Russian with the gun said. “Whatever you say, big guy.” Then his voice got deadly serious. “Sit the fuck down.”

  Michael took Isabelle by her arm and steered her towards the love seat, pulling her down next to him as he sat. “Guys, she’s just my neighbour. Let her go.”

  “What’s going on Michael?” Isabelle asked as the Russians laughed.

  “No way this bitch is just your neighbour. Look at her. She’s a fucking centrefold.”

  Isabelle shot to her feet angrily and took four steps away from Michael “No one talks about me like that, you fucking asswipe. Especially not in my house. Who the fuck do you think you are?”

  Michael took advantage of the distraction as Isabelle drew the Russian’s attention, waving her arms furiously and shaking her shoes at them. He slid his hand beneath his jacket and carefully drew his pistol from its holster. It still had the silencer on it and he was thankful for that. This was going to be a hard one to explain to Isabelle, but he’d worry about that later, after the Russians were dead.

  “You ugly Russian pigs!” Isabelle continued her tirade and Boris the Russian finally took offense. He strode over to her, closing the distance between him and Isabelle faster than Michael would have thought possible given his bulk. He reached up with his hand and slapped her face, hard enough to cause her head to snap back as she absorbed the blow. And then she did something remarkable. She raised one of her brand new red shoes and sank its four-inch heel deep into the Russian’s right eye. He screamed in agony and reeled back from her, shoe sticking out of his eye, slamming into a side table, causing what appeared to be a porcelain red balloon rabbit to fall off the table and shatter.

  “My Jeff Koons!” Isabelle cried out in horror as the Russian thudded to the floor, thrashing around, blood spurting from his eye.

  “What the fuck!” were the other Russian’s last words as Michael shot him, once in the chest and then once in the head. Boris was no longer thrashing around. He was lying on the floor deadly still except for some twitching of his arms and legs, blood pooling around his head and soaking into Isabelle’s thick white Saxony carpet.

  “Is he dead?” Isabelle whispered as Michael walked over and looked down at the Russian. He aimed his gun and put a bullet into his head.

  “He is now.” He crouched down beside the body and started rifling through the Russian’s pockets. He looked up at Isabelle. “Do you want your shoe back?”

  Isabelle glared at Michael and shook her head. Michael grinned and turned his attention back to the Russian, taking his wallet, his gun, a knife from a holster on his ankle and a set of keys. Then he repeated the exercise with the other body. As he stood up he glanced over at Isabelle, who was standing rigidly, fingermarks on her cheek red against her white pallor, still clutching her other shoe in her hand.

  “Who the fuck are you?” He heard the hint of fear in her voice, the first since she’d walked into the living room. It annoyed him, but perversely also bolstered his ego, knowing that she was more terrified of him than the Russians.

  “You don’t have to be afraid of me.” He tried to soothe her.

  “You just killed two men. Why would I not be afraid of you?”

  Michael looked over at the bodies, “Not to be a stickler for details, but actually, I only killed one. You killed the other.”

  “No, I don’t think I killed him, just maimed him a little,” Isabelle protested, her voice still a little shaky.

  “A knife, a carrot, a three-inch heel all have the same effect when they are stabbed into a someone’s eye socket. It kills them,” Michael considered her thoughtfully. “Maybe I should be asking the same question – who the fuck are you?”

  ✽✽✽

  Acknowledgements

  I’m grateful to Jem Monday Publishing Inc. for taking me on and supporting me through the writing and publishing process.

  A huge thanks to my good friend, Nikita Slater, author of not-for-the-faint-of-heart dark romance, for her support, advice and editing skills.

  Love Jasmin

  About Jasmin

  Jasmin loves reading and writing highly erotic romance novels with strong male and female characters. Jasmin tries not to take herself too seriously, but some things matter to her – like good manners, compassion for humans and animals alike, and Canadian maple syrup on vanilla ice cream. She generally disregards other people’s opinions of her unless they’re complimentary, in which case she fully embraces them.

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