I left her in my hotel bed at eleven. Drove straight into Tossa de Mar. Was there for all of three seconds before hightailing it back to Barcelona. I didn’t take my time to appreciate the view either. So if this really was Kiara, she would have had to haul ass to make it into Tossa de Mar ahead of me, having time to dress in all leather and get her hands on a motorcycle, only to then make a precision kill, and make it back to Barcelona with enough time to ditch the bike and strip down into the kind of bikini men start wars over.
By the time I arrived, she was already covered in suntan oil and looked as though she’d been lying under that hot sun for hours. But maybe she’s got me fooled. Those pretty cheeks of hers could have been flushed from running instead of red from the sun.
Fuck me. This shit is going to keep me up.
If it is true, I have a much bigger problem than just a sexy-as-fuck assassin living next door. The problem: how the fuck did another agency get their hands on that contract? And how the hell did I end up living next door to her?
Is Kiara a handler? Was she put into my life to keep tabs on me? Or am I somehow hers, placed here for a bigger reason than I realize? After all, securing my apartment came very easy. My offer wasaccepted immediately, and I more than low-balled that shit. Either way, two highly trained assassins don’t end up living in the same city, in the same apartment complex, directly sharing a bedroom wall.
The chances of that happening are next to none.
Surely I’m overthinking this, and the woman is just a stunning travel blogger who happened to show up in Barcelona, wanting to spend the weekend on a European beach sipping cocktails.
Shit.
Shit. Shit. SHIT.
Somebody is fucking with me. Somebody is using me as a pawn, and I’m going to find out who.
But first, I need to find out exactly who Kiara St. James is.
Considering her Urus wasn’t parked down in the parking garage, and there’s not a sound coming from her apartment, I take it as my sign that she’s not yet returned from her potentially lethal trip to Spain. Not knowing when she intends to come back, I figure there’s no better time than the present, and I slip out of my apartment before taking two quick strides and positioning myself in front of her door.
I try the handle because you never know when someone might accidentally leave their door unlocked, but Kiara doesn’t play like that. She might storm down corridors and slam on strangers’ doors in her underwear, but she keeps her home safe.
Rattling the lock, I get a feel for how easy it might be to break through, but the deadbolt doesn’t wobble the way the cheap ones do. It doesn’t even budge an inch. She must have an industrial-strengthdeadbolt. But how? Does the landlord have a sweet spot for her? The lock on my door is flimsy as shit.
Realizing I’m not going to get through this door without causing serious damage, I go for option two: the bedroom window.
Letting out a sigh, I head back into my apartment before going straight through to my bedroom and opening the large window that leads out onto a fire escape. And it’s as simple as taking a handful of steps before coming to a stop outside her bedroom window.
Naturally, the window is locked, but she doesn’t have the same precautions on the window as she did on the front door. I waste no time jimmying the lock until it comes loose, and the second it does, I slide the window open before slipping straight inside.
My feet come down on her bedroom floor, and I look around.
So this is Kiara’s bedroom.
It’s cozy. Much cozier than mine. She clearly takes pride in her home. The bed is made with an abundance of pillows and throw blankets while large artworks decorate every spare wall. It’s as though she’d hired LA’s more luxurious interior decorator to come and pimp out her home. On the other hand, my place looks more like a forgotten shell with hospital-white walls.
Not wanting to be in here any longer than necessary, I start looking around, starting with her closet.
There’s nothing out of place, nothing that screamsI’m a deadly assassin who’ll steal your hit right out from under you, but there certainly are some things that I’d sell my fucking soul just to see her in.
There’s no hint of anything.
No hollowed-out books that hide small handguns.
No decorative bowls that are weighted for defense.
No heavy paperweights strategically positioned.
No discreet high-tech security systems.
It goes on and on, and I look everywhere. Under the bed, in her dresser, and even in her bedside drawer. But apart from the stack of vibrators stashed in there, I come up blank.
Moving out into her kitchen, I head directly to her cabinets, when the big purple box of sex toys on the counter catches my eye. A chuckle pulls from my chest.
Screwing with her has been way too much fun, and then just for shits and giggles, I peer into the massive box, looking over the selection of toys that some lady put together for me while I was on my flight to Barcelona, and my jaw drops as I take out the biggest dildo I have ever seen.
