That would mean that we’ve been in the same city all this time and neither of us realized. Is that even possible? I desperately want to take him at his word because… well, I want to. But can he be trusted? If you had asked me last week, I wouldn’t have hesitated before saying yes. Now, though?
He found me first, but he didn’t say anything until now—until I confronted him with it and forced his hand. That’s suspicious as fuck.
“How did you find me?” I ask, scowling. “Is there a vulnerability I need to patch in my security protocol?”
The corners of his mouth lift again. “No,” he says, sounding delighted by the topic shift. “Your protocol is quite impressive—even I couldn’t get around it.”
Pride floods my face with warmth, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how pleased that makes me. His ego seems big enough. “Then how? You expect me to believe you just happened to walk into the same coffee shop as me after all this time?”
“No…” The shake of his head is somewhat sadder this time, and he heaves a huge breath that rocks both of us. “Your name appeared on a list, Madison. A hit list.”
The silence that follows that declaration is thick enough to cut, and I go completely still. My mind races as I analyze this information. It could be true—myinformation brokering could have pissed off the wrong person. My identity is well buried, but I can’t rule out that possibility.
But even if it’s true, it’s still just a piece. It’s not the whole story.
“Okay, but that doesn’t really explain everything, like how you know about this hit list, or why you’re here...” I watch him work a swallow, and I feel a kernel of sudden realization pop in my chest. “Unless… Is it because it’syourhit list?”
His eyes blaze, and he stares up at me with such raw admiration I can feel it in my soul. “God, the way your mind works… You already know the answer, Madison. Keep going. Put it all together for me.”
Excitement swells in my veins at the challenge. “So you’re an assassin,” I murmur, feeling strange saying the word out loud. He nods, urging me to keep going. “And you were supposed to kill me. Then you realized who I was and decided to… date me instead? Is that about the gist of it?”
He grins. “Got it in one.” His eyes drift down my body slowly enough to draw a path of goosebumps. He licks his lips, shifting his hips under me again.
I make a humming sound of amusement. “Well, it’s a nice story, I guess.”
“What, you don’t believe me?” he asks, unsurprised.
“You’ll have to forgive my skepticism,” I drawl. “But even you have to admit that it’s pretty inconceivable. And it would be kind of fucking dumb to take you at your word, considering how many of your words have been big ole lies.”
“If you’re open to the truth, I can give you proof.”
I tilt my head, examining him. I’m no expert or anything, but I like to think I can tell when someone is obviously lying. I know some of the common tells, which he’s not exhibiting. He’s meeting my eye, speaking calmly, and his story is consistent—if improbable.
I’d like to get to the bottom of this, and I suppose that means believing his answers at some point… as long as the proof is compelling. And I’m still in control—I’ve still got the upper hand. He’s cuffed, and I’m the one with the gun. Sure, it’s not loaded, but he doesn’t know that.
“All right,” I decide. “I’ll look at your proof.”
Relief washes over his features, and it reassures me. After how calm he was with a gun in his face, this is the right kind of response, at least. “It’s on my phone, which is in my pocket.”
Instantly suspicious again, I glance up at his hands in the cuffs. “Fine, but I’m not giving it to you. I’ll drive.”
“Fair enough.”
I shift back far enough on his lap that I can reach the top of his pocket in his jeans. I curl my fingers inside, and his stomach tenses.
“The pocket of my jacket,” he clarifies with a grin so amused that it reveals his dimple.
I heave a sigh, roll my eyes and dismount, hip creaking in protest as I climb off his lap. I find his phone in his jacket draped over the arm of my couch, weighing down the leather on one side, and stare down at the screen as I walk back into the bedroom. It doesn’t wake with motion, and I scowl. I’d kind of been hoping to find out what his lock screen was. Is he a blue background kind of guy? I bet it’s a photo of, like, a galaxy taken by the Hubble telescope or something. That seems sufficiently nerdy.
“What’s your passco—”
I stop dead, seeing him sitting on the edge of my bed with a cocky grin, handcuffs dangling from his left arm—one cuff hanging open uselessly.
I gasp. What the fuck? How did he…? This giant piece of shit! Was he out of the cuffs thewhole time? IknowI locked them—I heard the click!
That’s what I get for buying my interrogation tools from The Pleasure Chest.
“All these toy restraints have a release lever in case you lose the key,” he explainsin a low voice, eyes drifting down my body as he divests himself of the other cuff and lays the pair neatly next to him on the bed. His expression turns predatory as he stands, filling the room with his presence.
