Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set

by Gordon Carroll

  Purrrrrr.

  It wasn’t Sarah, she hadn’t drunk that much, it was the cat. It sat behind the rook. She ignored it.

  Sarah slipped one strap of her nightgown off her shoulder. The nightgown was anything but sexy. A full-length, straight white thing with no frills; very comfortable, but nil on sexy. But that was okay she thought, because really it’s not the cloth that’s sexy — it’s what’s underneath. It’s the flesh.

  She slipped the other strap off her shoulder. The gown sagged low on her chest, held barely in place by the upturn of her breasts. Her breasts were the most unmanly part of her body. She saw his eyes dip to her cleavage, smiled inwardly — then outwardly — leaned forward, wagged a finger at him invitingly.

  Dominic looked behind him toward the front door.

  “Don’t even think about it, Rook. Get over here now. You know you want to.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes I do, but I’m not going to. It wouldn’t be right.”

  “You don’t decide what’s right for me, Rook. I decide that.”

  “You’re not thinking straight because of the alcohol and I’m not going to take advantage of you that way.”

  Sarah grinned, slid off the table, standing straight and tall. She slumped her shoulders allowing the gown to start its downward plunge.

  Dominic surged forward, catching the cloth and pinning it to her arms before it could completely reveal her breasts. Sarah moved almost as fast, wrapping her arms around him and pushing herself up tight against his chest.

  “I thought you wanted to kiss me,” she said. “So why are you running?”

  He looked into her eyes. “I’m not running.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  He kissed her. And even through the alcohol she felt something she had never felt before. It was like swiftly moving liquid heat, rushing through her veins, sweeping into her muscles, flowing up into her neck and face. She heard a buzz, but it was smooth and pleasant and exciting. The room started to tilt and sway and spin, but she felt perfectly balanced, absolutely safe in his strong arms. She could feel him, smell him, taste him, and he felt so good, so right. She gave herself completely to him, wanting him to pick her up and take her to her bedroom, and then take her. Her knees started to give way and she felt him catch her and lift her into the air. She felt weightless as he carried her effortlessly past the dining room and kitchen, down the long hallway and into her room, still kissing her the entire way. It was like when she was a little girl, pretending to be Cinderella and dreaming of Prince Charming coming for her. She could see Dominic dressed in a shining suit of armor, battling dragons and black knights and evil witches. He was the true prince, the straight and tall and honest and strong force for good. She felt safe and secure in his arms and they would live together happily ever after.

  Still kissing her he pushed open the door to the bedroom and walked to the foot of her bed, the covers made, the room neat and tidy, her girlhood dolls lined on her dresser. He kissed her harder as he moved to the side of the bed, lay her gently on the bedspread, knelt down on one knee, her arms slung around his neck; moved his hands to her face, her neck, her shoulders.

  Sarah’s heart thrummed like a trip-hammer in her chest. Her breathing came hot and fast; she wanted him so badly. And he wanted her. She felt his desire, his heat, his need. She tried to pull him closer, to make him lay down with her, but he effortlessly broke her grip, pushing her arms to the bed. He kissed her throat, her jaw, her cheeks and lips; hungrily taking her in. Thrilling; exactly what she wanted. She pushed up into him, giving herself over completely to the passion that burned through her.

  She could feel his breath, hot and fast against her flesh as he covered her face and chin and throat with kisses, moving down to the slope of her breasts, his teeth nicking lightly at her skin. Sarah felt feverish, tipsy, intoxicated in a way that had nothing to do with the amount of alcohol she had consumed. She moaned his name out loud and for once there was no sign or sound of the cat. Just the two of them, alone with their desires and needs; and Sarah’s need grew so great that it filled her like a physical force expanding within her until she thought she would explode.

  She reached out and her fingers found the buttons of his shirt and quickly undid them. The muscles of his chest were smooth and hard and alive with power. She felt the ridges of his ribs and the flat slabs of his abdominal muscles. He felt like a marble statue except for the hot blood that flowed just beneath the incredible perfection of his skin, thrumming with an energy that heated the cold stone from within, making it pliable beneath the touch of her hands.

  Pulling him closer she thrust her body against his, dragged his head down until their lips crushed together. “Please,” she breathed into his mouth. “Please — please — please.”

  Dominic pulled back, his face flushed, breathing hard. “I can’t. I want to — oh how I want to, but I can’t…I won’t do that to you. You deserve better. You deserve the best.”

  She clutched at him desperately, kissed him — kissed him again. “Please,” she whispered against his ear, “please, don’t make me beg.”

  “No,” he said, “if anyone should beg it’s me. But you deserve better than this. I don’t just want you…sexually…I want all of you. And I want you the way it should be. So I’m going to do things the right way, the way you deserve.”

  She clutched him tighter, shaking her head. “Don’t you see, it has to be now — right now, while I’m still a little drunk — while I can still let go. If we wait I won’t be like this. I won’t be able to be a woman. I won’t be able to be me. I’ll be like — like I was in the patrol car — when I Tased you — the cop. That’s all that will be left.”

  She dragged his face down to hers, crying now, her tears wetting his cheeks and lips. “Oh Dominic, don’t let it end like this. If it does I’ll never get you back — I’ll never be able to take you back. When this wears off I’ll become what I have to be to survive…to survive… the job, life, everything. I’ll have to put the armor back on, I’ll have to! I don’t want to, really I don’t, but I know — I know what I am — how I am — and that’s how it will be. It will be over — over — and what might have been will never be.”

  “I know you think that,” said Dominic, his voice a breath of air on her face, “but it won’t be. It won’t. I love you and I won’t let anything come between us. I promise. You just have to trust me. I know it’s hard. I can tell others have betrayed your trust, but I won’t. I won’t.”

  “You don’t understand,” she cried, her shoulders shuddering and her tears still burning hot. “It’s not you, it’s me — it’s me.”

  He shook his head, kissed her gently. “Not anymore. Now it’s us. You’re not alone anymore, and you never will be again.

  She felt him pull away from her even as she tried to cling to him, but he was too strong and she was too drunk — too exhausted — both emotionally and physically.

  He stopped at the doorway and smiled. “I’ll lock the door on my way out. Get some sleep.

  She turned from him and shoved her face into the pillows. She’d been so close — she really believed that he might have been able to save her — but now it was too late — their chance had passed and she was alone with her fears and her mission.

  As she sobbed into her pillow, drifting off to sleep just as he’d told her to do, she heard the cat growl from under the bed. In her exhaustion and inebriation it wasn’t enough to rouse her from the bed, but it was enough for her to know that she was right and that for them, it was too late.

  49

  Sammy Rothstein

  * * *

  Betrayal

  * * *

  Sammy sat in a car three blocks away from Cinnamon’s apartment. He couldn’t see her building from here, and he wouldn’t be able to be seen from her building. One-seventeen in the morning, he’d been sitting here since six o’clock; listening, crying.

  He hadn’t cried in over two decades, but here he was
, sitting alone in his car and crying. He’d been crying off and on since Enrico Da Vinci took Cinnamon to her bed hours ago. His eyes were red, his throat raw. His fingers were sore and cramped from gripping the gun in its hidden shoulder holster. He would let it go only to find his fingers sneaking their way back to the rubber grips. He’d lost count of how many times he’d started the car and turned it off again, thinking to drive to her building and charge up to her apartment, kick in the door and kill him — him? — her? — maybe both? He didn’t know, his mind was a blur — a raging conflagration of images and sounds. The sounds were real, the images just conjurations of his fevered thoughts.

  How could she do this to him? He loved her; she loved him. How — why? She’d said that she was just using him for information and protection — was it true? Could it be true? The weight of her words crushed his heart.

  Getting into her room had been easy, a flick of the badge at the undocumented worker housekeeper, a short heavyset woman who spoke almost no English; a few hand gestures and he was in. He’d placed the listening devices quickly, afraid she might return before he finished, and he’d been right to be quick since they’d almost met in the underground garage.

  Once he’d looked at the entire picture of what was going on between the assassin and Cinnamon, he’d known he would have to come see her. That after his killing spree in Chicago it would be soon.

  Sammy hadn’t been certain what he expected to hear, but he hadn’t expected this. That Cinnamon would welcome him, would have dinner waiting for him, that the killer would be telling her his name, expressing his love for her, taking her to bed.

  His thumb flipped the safety snap on the holster, but he stopped himself from pulling the weapon. What would he do with it? He didn’t know. Could he live without her? He didn’t think so. He wiped at his face, smearing the tears.

  What could he do? He didn’t have enough evidence to arrest the killer. He hadn’t hooked the bugs to recorders and they wouldn’t be admissible as evidence even if he had since he hadn’t had a warrant for them and had committed breaking and entering to place them. He might be able to get a DNA match eventually between the blood gathered from the sidewalk from the murder of the two thugs outside Cinnamon’s building and the man in her bed, but then again the way he’d made the connection came through the fruit of the poisonous tree and would probably be thrown out along with everything else.

  Besides, he didn’t want to arrest the man — he wanted to kill him. He knew how dangerous he was — the man assassinated over forty people in one night, most of them hired muscle and guards — professionals used to fighting and killing other men, but he’d done it and he’d gotten away clean.

  When Enrico first told Cinnamon his name, Sammy entered the information into his computer and found nothing. He’d checked over twenty data-bases, tried different configurations of the name, descendants of Leonardo, relatives of Da Vinci, anagrams — all came up empty. But then Sammy remembered how the hit man had equated Cinnamon with art and himself with death so he started checking on name plays of both. He came up with nothing for art but when he checked on assassin pseudonyms the moniker Death linked to only one man, considered by many to be the most deadly man alive, and thought by others to be only a myth. International agencies had put a fifty million dollar reward on the head of the myth for any information that led to his arrest or death. The assassin’s signature kill; near impossible sniper shots. The Chicago massacre came immediately to mind. Most of the victims had been taken out by one or more snipers.

  Sammy felt certain this was his man. It did not strike him as odd that the most notorious killer in the world would be attracted to Cinnamon. She rated only the best, and the best would naturally be drawn to her. Dangerous, deadly, and in there now, sleeping with the woman that Sammy loved.

  He would have to die. Sammy saw that much, at least, clearly.

  Cinnamon said she was just using Sammy, but maybe — maybe, she was scared. Maybe she feared Enrico would kill her if she didn’t make him think she loved him. Yes — yes — maybe.

  Things were swirling around in his mind, thoughts, images, concentric patterns, binary formulas, complex chemical combinations, rainbows, color wheels, strategic battle formations, defensive postures, offensive movements, kill strikes.

  Yes, it would have to be death. Arrest was too unpredictable. His crimes were international, worldwide, and the chance of a payoff or a corrupt jury just too great. If he lived Cinnamon would never be safe. And, knowing how he himself felt about her, he knew that Enrico would never let her go. Never.

  And what of Cinnamon herself? What would be her fate? It was too much for him. He could not think of that. He could not live without her, but could he harm her? Even if she spurned him, even if she was using him, even if she laughed in his face, could Sammy kill her; and if he did what would that make him? Would he not be as much a monster as the assassin himself?

  Yes, but worse than that he loved her — he loved her so much. And how could he even think to hurt love?

  No. He could not let his mind dwell on that. He would concentrate on taking out the killer, on making Cinnamon safe. Then he would see, then he would know if she loved him or if she was just using him. Yes, he would know and then he would also know what needed to come next. Whether she would live or die.

  Sammy realized he was crying again. He made himself stop. He scrubbed at his face, wiped his nose with a handkerchief and cleared his throat. This wasn’t the time to cry. He had to plan; to make ready and soon — soon it would be time to act.

  He could still hear them, the sounds of their rutting. He knew her sounds intimately and he knew what they meant, but he would no longer let them hurt him. Instead he would use them to fuel his rage, to fire his inspiration, to steel his determination.

  The job would not be easy; his opponent ultimately resourceful, competent, skilled, cunning, lethal. The slightest mistake would insure his death as well as possibly the death of the woman he loved.

  But Sammy had assets of his own. He had his mind, his shooting skills; he had his knowledge of the assassin, and one thing more — he had Cinnamon to lose. And he would not lose her.

  Enrico Da Vinci would die and Sammy would be the man to kill him.

  50

  Dominic Elkins

  * * *

  Secrets Kept

  * * *

  Dominic saw the detective sitting at a table in the back of the Starbucks and walked over. He’d only met him once in passing, but he’d heard stories about the man and wondered why he had been asked to this meeting.

  He held out his hand. “Lieutenant Rothstein?”

  The detective looked up at him from the file he held. His glasses were thick; magnifying his eyes so they looked like something from a Lady Gaga video. He shook Dominic’s hand with a firm grip.

  “No,” said the detective, “just Sammy. Please have a seat. Did you want coffee first?”

  Dominic sat down. “No thanks. Now that I’m a vampire I don’t like too much caffeine in the daytime, keeps me from napping.”

  “Right. Sorry to make this so early but you might as well get used to it. The court system will be like an alarm clock to you.”

  “I’ve heard about that; haven’t had to go in to testify yet though.”

  “Yeah? Well enjoy it while it lasts because once it starts it never stops.”

  Dominic nodded. “So what did you want to talk with me about, sir?”

  Sammy took a sip of coffee, sat it back down, looked at the file on the table before him, looked back at Dominic, tapped the papers with one finger. “I’ve been reading your file.”

  Dominic waited but the detective said nothing else, just looked at him evenly. “Which file would that be?”

  “Background. One of my jobs is to do the background checks on possible hires.”

  “I would have thought that would have been done before you actually hired me.”

  “It was, but then something about it struck me a little
while ago so I went back and did some research.”

  “Research.” Dominic felt a knot start to form in his stomach. The same feeling he got before going into battle.

  “Yes, research. Back checking.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  The detective took another sip of coffee. “Yes. I’m afraid there is.”

  “Really? I can’t imagine what.”

  “Can’t you?”

  “No. Is it something…job threatening?”

  Sammy sipped his coffee. “Job threatening, yes. Maybe worse.”

  Dominic smiled. “Should you be reading me my Miranda rights?”

  Sammy didn’t return the smile. “I know you’re new, but what’s needed before Miranda is required?”

  “That the suspect be in custody and that there is questioning about a crime.”

  Sammy held out his hands. “You’re not in custody.”

  “Really, because I’m starting to feel like maybe I am.”

  “Is there something you should be in custody for?”

  Dominic’s smile widened. “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “I don’t know, do you?”

  Dominic shrugged, losing the smile. He didn’t like this at all. “Is this about Kid Kong, or the shooting the other night?”

  Sammy shook his head. “No.”

  “Then what is it about?”

  Sammy took another sip. “Tell me about Khost.”

  Dominic felt the knot in his stomach perform a slow roll. Save us from the butter, he heard his men chant. “Khost?”