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I remember watching the first rays of sunlight pour in through the window early this morning, bathing her silhouette in soft light. My eyes followed the curve of her hip, the dip in her waist, up, up, up to her slender neck and sweetly scented hair. The light tangled in the pale blonde strands, making me want to comb my fingers through it.
My whole body is tense just thinking about it. There’s more, though. Yes, my lust for her is out of fucking control. I mean, Jesus, my dick has been hard for hours, pretty much since I first laid eyes on her.
When I look at her, however, I don’t just want her body. I want to know how her mind works. I want to know what put that look in her eyes, the one that tells me she’s seen some shit far beyond what I put her through last night. I want to know everything about her. And that should worry me.
I’m not one for relationships or even casual flings. It’s been years since I was even tempted to look at a woman with more than a fleeting interest, but this little slip of a woman? With her blonde hair and light blue eyes? I want to do so much more than just look.
Can I really trust myself around her while we’re alone in this tiny apartment? I already want her something fierce, despite my best efforts to shove my lust way down deep with all the other emotions I refuse to feel. This pull between us feels inevitable, but I need to stay focused. One last job. One more unsavory assignment and then I get my freedom. But at what cost?
No, dammit. My freedom comes before anything else. Doesn’t it? That’s been my goal ever since I found myself in debt to Mario. I can’t let some woman, sometargetthrow me off track.
I shake my head, trying to refocus on what’s important, like figuring out how I’m going to keep her quiet for the next few days since my drugs are clearly an empty threat. I know it, though she might not. I can’t bring myself to stick her with a needle. Just the thought of her terrified eyes when I showed her the syringe makes me rub the heel of my hand over my heart in an attempt to ease the sharp pain there.
I bite back a curse at my own weakness, then head back into the bedroom to see if she’s awake yet. It’s close to noon already but I let her sleep. It’s not like there’s anything else for us to do in this apartment until I get the phone call saying it’s okay to come back.
Besides, if she’s asleep, she’s not making any noise. Seems like a win-win. Now, however, I’m growing suspicious. The little lady had some fight to her and I wouldn’t be surprised if she tried to pull a fast one on me.
I knock on the door lightly, then roll my eyes at myself. Why am I offering her the courtesy of a knock? Before she can respond, I swing the door open, barging right in.
She’s still on the bed but she’s moved. From the look in her wide blue eyes, I know she was trying to get out of her binds. I don’t blame her. In fact, I shove down the feeling of pride before it can swell up in my chest.
My girl is a fighter.
Fucking hell, I’m so screwed. She’s not my girl. Never will be. I don’t have the right to her. And even if I did, I keep reminding myself she belonged to Mario first, and I’m all too familiar with the kind of women he surrounds himself with.
The target huffs out an impatient breath and glares at me, though I see fear lingering deep in her eyes. She’s a survivor, that much is clear. The way she’s able to swallow back her fight or flight instinct and give me attitude without even saying a word speaks volumes to whatever she’s been through in her life.
She eyes me warily as I sit down next to her on the bed, but doesn't recoil like she did last night. Thank God. I don't think I could handle that. I hated every single time she cringed and backed away from me, though I can't blame her.
I lean forward, cutting off the zip ties and tossing her the bottle of water, granola bar, and banana I found in the kitchen. She tugs the scarf out of her mouth and scoots away from me on the bed as she opens the water and nearly drinks the whole thing in one go.
Another sting of regret hits me in the chest knowing she was that thirsty. I should have checked on her earlier and made sure she had everything she needed.
Fuck, I was assigned to kidnap her, not be her butler. What should I care about her comfort?
My head is spinning as thoughts war and thunder in my mind. One minute I want to hold this woman in my arms and take away the pain I see in those crystal blue eyes, and the next minute I’m reminded of my end goal: freedom. Ah, fuck, I feel a migraine coming on. Perfect.
“I’m not who you’re looking for,” she says when she swallows the last of the water. “I’ve never met a Mario whatever his last name was. I’ve never even been to New York.”
She seems sincere, but Mario’s mistress has to know what’s going to happen to her as soon as she’s back in New York. Mario probably won’t kill her, but he won’t be gentle, either. I shove down the image of anyone laying a hand on her in anger. Fucking hell, my head and heart are all over the place. Despite my all-consuming attraction to her, I remind myself of who she is and why I’m here.
She’s lying to save herself.This is just another one of her tricks. I can’t fall for it.
This is just an act, I repeat to myself several times. This is how men like Mario get suckered in. This is exactly how he ended up with a thief for a mistress. She probably lied and manipulated him, too, lulling him into a false sense of security. Not me. I won’t fall for it. I won’t.
“Like I told you last night,” she continues, her voice earnest with a hint of annoyance, “I just moved into this apartment last week. I’m subletting it from some lady. She must be who you’re looking for.”
I glance over to the corner of the room. There are a few boxes stacked up there, which could corroborate her story, but could also indicate that she was planning to run, thus only making her look guiltier.
This girl can’t be trusted,I remind myself again.She’s lied before and she’ll lie again.
“Nice try.”
She groans, the sound frustrated. I could fuck the frustration right out of her lithe little body. I could take away the tension bunched up in her shoulders. I could...
“My name is Keyera,” she suddenly says. “I’m from Las Vegas. You can check my ID.”
"IDs can be faked. Aliases can be made. People lie," I tell her dispassionately. It's true. She of all people should know that.
