“What the fuck is this?” I murmur to myself before going to put it back, only I think better of it and suction it to the table beside the box, letting her know exactly where I’ve been.
With the massive dildo slowly swaying side to side, I keep searching the apartment, looking in every nook and cranny, and apart from her kitchen knives, a small bedazzled handgun in the entryway table, and a baseball bat shoved behind the door, I come up blank.
So, maybe I’m overthinking this. Maybe she’s not the woman who stole my hit, and her weekend vacation to Barcelonawas just that: a vacation.
There’s nothing here that raises any flags.
Sure, there’s a gun in the hallway table, but that’s nothing to blanch at. A single woman living alone in a busy city should have a gun to defend herself. As for the gun itself, there’s nothing special about it. Apart from the fact that it’s been bedazzled with hot pink and silver rhinestones, there’s not a single bullet in sight. I don’t know what she plans to do with it if she were attacked. Maybe we need to have a little chat about that, but she’d likely try to use me for target practice.
Deciding that it’s all my imagination, I turn to head back into her bedroom and slip out the same way I came in, but as I pass the kitchen, my gaze shifts to the digital planner on the fridge, and I pause.
Do I really need to know when she goes to her yogalates class? No, but I’m about to commit it all to memory.
Stepping in front of the planner, I learn what her days look like. I see no evidence of yogalates, but there’s definitely something here. Her trips and, more specifically, the dates she was there.
Obviously, her trip to Barcelona is there, and judging by what this says, she’s planning on returning home tomorrow, giving herself another day on the beach, but what gets me is the timing of her trip to the South of France two weeks ago. But why?
Something is tickling my brain, and I pull my phone out before pulling up her Instagram page and finding the last few posts that detail a two-week vacation to Nice. But despite already knowing how she likes to exaggerate the length of her vacations to her followers, there’ssomething about the specific timing of her trip.
Her posts show her down on the stunning sandy beach in Nice, and the flight logs on her planner tell me she was there for no more than three hours, a time frame that directly lines up with the assassination of what must be one of the dirtiest politicians to have ever graced France. And right in the background of the selfie she has on the beach is the exact location that assassination took place.
Coincidence? I think not.
A million-dollar contract for that job came through two weeks ago, but it was scooped up by another assassin before I got the chance to accept. And that assassin is Kiara St. James.
There’s no doubt in my mind.
Barcelona alone could have been seen as a coincidence. It’s completely plausible that she just happened to be in the city the same time that Javier Rodríguez was killed. And it’s absolutely plausible that the same could have happened in the South of France.
But the likelihood of that happening twice in a row? No chance in hell.
Kiara St. James is an assassin just like me. I have no idea who this woman is or how she ended up so central in my life, but I intend to find out, even if it’s the last thing I do.
CHAPTER 13
KIARA
Pulling into the underground parking garage of my apartment complex, I drive around to my designated spot only to see the most infuriating Audi RS7 not only parked between the two spaces, but parked completely horizontal across them with a neon-yellow wheel clamp to keep me from moving it.
Fucking asshole. Just one day I’d like to come home and not instantly be irritated. Hell, after everything that happened in Barcelona, a part of me had started to wonder if perhaps things might get easier between us. Apparently I was wrong.
Letting out a loud huff, I drive over to Mrs. Macy’s available spot in 410. I climb out, and not willing to risk that Raiden won’t mess with my car to get even, I turn the alarm on. Then, as I’m making my way toward the elevator, I can’t help but notice little specs of pink andsilver glitter scattered across the ground.
A laugh bubbles up my throat, and I take myself up to level three, more than ready to crash and take a few days to recoup. Despite giving myself an extra day to relax in Barcelona, I’ve never felt so exhausted, and it has everything to do with Raiden Kane.
Making my way down the corridor toward my apartment, I aim to pass Raiden’s door and keep moving, but my fist pounds the heavy wood before I know what I’m doing.
A laugh rumbles through the apartment inside, and it only manages to grate my nerves even more. Raiden approaches the door, taking his sweet time, and my frustration shifts from mildly irritated into full-blown fury.
The door swings wide in front of me, and Raiden appears in nothing but a pair of low-hanging basketball shorts, showing off every inch of that sculpted torso. A light sheen of sweat coats his body, and his cheeks are flushed as though he just returned from a late afternoon run. And damn it, he’s got me burning up.
He leans against the door frame, that signature smirk resting on his lips. “Oh hey, neighbor. What brings you around?”
I grit my teeth, and my only response is to lift my hand and flip him the bird.
“Oooh, she’s a feisty firecracker today. What’s wrong, baby? Your spontaneous little trip didn’t manage to work those . . . pent-up frustrations out of your system? Why don’t you come on in and tell me all about it? I’m sure I can help with that.”
My hands ball into fists, and I resist the urge to ram them straight into his gut before immediately stalking off, knowing that one more second spent in this doorway is going to result in me on my back, screaming his name. And considering I was the one who said that wasn’t going to happen, I need to follow through.
