She’s anxious. Whatever this is, she’d never done it before. Crossing and uncrossing her legs, she leans forward. “Do we have a deal?”
I’m still staring at her legs. They’re long and shapely with muscle tone. Her dress has risen a bit on her thighs and the subtle movement of her body is making me hard.
Jesus Christ, it’s like I’m some fifteen-year-old arsehole again, tryin’ to get into his first girl.
“I’ve brought everything you requested,” she continues, “pictures, his schedule, where he’ll be every moment of the day. Fortunately, he’s predictable, Uncle Bastard.”
I laugh boisterously. “Uncle Bastard? I like it.”
“Believe me,” she says vehemently, “he is. He went after my little sister the minute I went out of town, telling her he was arranging a marriage for her with some syndicate asshole and expected herenthusiastic cooperation.”
Ah.
The ten-million-dollar statue and her description of Uncle Bastard are starting to make sense. This bonnie thing thinks I can perform a “service” for her. How lethal is yet to be determined.
There’s a cliff in front of me, and I can’t see the bottom. I do what I always do. I jump anyway.
Leaning forward, I capture her wide-eyed gaze. “So we understand each other. If I do this for you, I want something only you can give me. Are we in agreement?”
She looks a wee bit confused, though I can see the slight softening of her stiff, anxious posture. Nodding toward the sculpture appraisal, she says, “We are. What do you need from me to get this done?”
So many things, baby.
Leaning back, I grin. Though she never said the words, it’s clear she thinks I’m an assassin and she wants me to kill her uncle. Now I want to know why.
“Tell me more about Uncle Bastard.”
Crabbit - Scottish slang for cranky
Chapter Three
In which Aria endures a mix of a job interview and a first date.
Aria…
It’s not like I haven’t met people who performed murder for money before.
But this man… I expected a short, business-like discussion and then getting the hell out of here. He’s relaxed in his chair, cradling a glass of Scotch with one leg crossed, ankle on his other knee. This feels like a weird mix of a job interview and a first date.
“Why do you want Uncle Bastard dead?” Lachlan asks.
“Why does it matter?” I snap, feeling anxious.
“Because it all factors into the difficulty,” he drawls. “If he’s tipped off to what you’re planning, that makes the job harder because he’s expecting it.”
“He’s not,” I say bitterly, “he’s still basking in the glow of killing our parents and taking over my family’s business. I didn’t… I never thought this would be something I could do. It’s the only way. I’ll have to live with what I’m putting in motion here, but protecting my sister and brother from this homicidal prick is the only thing that matters.”
“Most Made Menarepricks,” he agrees, scratching his chin. “Though in this context, lass, I do agree with ya’ that Uncle Bastard is an overachiever.”
“You do?” Why does it matter what an assassin thinks of my motivation for wanting someone dead? But with this man, somehow it does.
“Aye. Family is everything. He took yer parents.”
“I’m terrified that he’ll go after my brother next,” I suddenly volunteer. What is wrong with me? Confiding in a hired killer?
Shut up, Aria!
He nods. “It seems likely. How loyal are your men?”
