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Peyton’s life flashed before her eyes, and all she could see was regret; she had no control over rectifying it. It saddened her so immensely that it overtook her fear and panic for a moment.
Before she could react, next to the gun, he laid a pair of handcuffs and a set of keys.
“I thought you might appreciate these,” he said with an easy smile as he stood away from the desk. She wasted no time picking the gun up and pointing it at him.
Relief flooded through her, but she was still too rattled by the effect he had on her. His nearness disrupted her; the sound of his voice created a tempest in her veins, and his eyes… his eyes seemed to pierce her soul, leaving her bare for his view.
He removed his coat and his jacket. He undid his tie and unbuttoned his shirt.
Peyton clenched her hands into fists, her breath strangled at the base of her throat. She caught a glimpse of rows of rock-hard abs ascending into a chest so sculpted with muscle it looked like marble, yet she knew his skin would be warm under her touch.
She swallowed and shifted her gaze away for a second before she was forced to look at him again.
But there it was, on a pectoral muscle so perfectly defined, she blushed—indisputable evidence that she was, in fact, looking at the real Declan Foster.
She had memorized that tattoo and everything about it. The size, not more than five inches in length, the exquisite style, the sheer beauty of it, the magical skill, the uniqueness, and the fact that the artist who had done it was now dead and no other artist could replicate it.
The man standing in front of her had the tattoo of a scythe. The only identifiable marker on his body that would make him Declan Foster.
Before he died, Osiris, tattoo artist to the felonious, as he was known, had been brought in for questioning regarding his stable of five rather notorious clients. He had drawn replicas of the finest details of the tattoos he had done for those infamous clients, but that was all he was willing to give up. No names. Just the drawings of the tattoos he had done.
A shocking chill took hold of her.
Declan Foster was undeniably the most dangerous, uncatchable, and trained assassin of all time.
And she had her gun pointed at him in the manager's office of a small, boisterous bar, still alit with Christmas decorations and festive music echoing in the background.
But why her? Why did he seek her out and hand himself over to her? And only her.
Chapter Two
Peyton couldn’t believe that just over ten minutes ago, she had actually been enjoying the holiday season, happy to be back home with her family and spending time with Ellie, despite the fact that the answer she gave on New Year’s Eve was bound to change her life forever.
And now she was facing the most dangerous man on the planet.
Still reeling from the conclusive evidence that the man who called himself Declan Foster was in fact, Declan Foster, she could not believe his next words.
“I’m handing myself over to you, Peyton Adams,” he had said as he resumed buttoning up his shirt.
By the time the shock of his declaration wore off, he was fully dressed and fiddling with the cuff of his shirt beneath his jacket and coat, looking as immaculate as he had been before.
“I’m all yours. You have my word. You should know by now that I only do what I want to do.” He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. That gaze of his glided over her face, making her feel exposed just by looking into her eyes.
“I’m Declan Foster, after all.”
She needed to think. She needed a lifetime, but she had minutes.
With only a very slight quiver in her hand, holding the gun pointed at him, her gaze not leaving him, she dug into her handbag and retrieved her phone.
She called her boss on his cell, knowing he was home with his family. But this was too important. He wouldn’t have believed her if she hadn’t seen the tattoo of the scythe with her own eyes and known at once that it was the work of the original artist.
The highly trained killer insisted she put her boss on speaker while he made it abundantly clear only Peyton herself could transport him to Washington.
Only her and no one else.
Any other interference, and he wasn’t going to be responsible for how he responded. Both Peyton and her boss believed him.
Her boss was not taking that chance and agreed to his terms. He then told Peyton to take him off speaker so he could talk to her privately. He instructed her to keep him in her sight at all times. He had already commandeered seats for them on the next flight out.
