It’s been the most difficult test of my self-control I’ve ever endured to sit across from Madison’s perfect, luscious, curvy, naked body and not reach out and touch. I’ve pictured grabbing her and dragging her onto my lap at least a dozen times. My cock is aching, and it hasn’t gone below half-mast since she got home. Not even when the topic takes a turn towards the darker, more concerning stuff.
“Not to bring up the elephant in the room, but we should probably talk about the wholemy name appearing on a hit listthing…”
I set aside my wine. “I expect you want to know where the list came from.” At her nod, I launch in. “My team and I have been working for a man we know as the General for several years now. He’s the one pulling the strings. He’s the one we need to find and kill.”
She inhales sharply, a line appearing between her brows. “So he’s your boss? That can’t be good. The General,” she repeats, like she’s tasting the word. “How do you know killing him means I’ll be safe?”
My smile is almost rueful. “Always asking the right questions. The General runs a dark web interface for hitmen and criminals. It’s how he contacts us with the jobs, how we send our proof, and how he pays us.”
“Sure,” she nods, playing it cool though I can see her eyes widen as she looks down at her nearly empty plate. And I don’t blame her. Even having been on the fringes of the dark underworld like she has, I doubt she ever imagined something like this. “No General, no interface, no money. I can’t imagine a hitman would bother to do a job without the promise of payment. It’s not like it’s personal or something. It’s work.”
“Precisely.”
“So you want me to help you ID the guy, right? You’re thinking he’s probably related to some intel I sold?”
“Precisely,” I repeat, lips twitching. Am I even needed for this? I bet with the right push, she’d do it all on her own.
She cocks her head, and her hair spills down, coiling temptingly around a tawny nipple. “How does this guy contact you? How do the hits come? Is it posted on that forum or something?”
Eyes locked on her breast, I shake my head. “In an email directly to me.”
“Only you?”
“Until we decide whether to take the hit. I’ve always assumed they went out with some sort of priority based on track record.”
Seeing where my attention has landed, she grins and shifts back in her chair, spreading her thighs to give me a glimpse of more. “When did you get the email?”
My throat is dry. “About a week and a half ago.”
“Be more specific.”
Loath to look away, I quickly pull out my phone and call up the message. “The 25th at 2:49 PM.”
“That was the day I quit SmarTech. That wasjust a fewhoursafter I quit—and waltzed out their front door with a panda’s ass full of stolen information,” she breathes, excited about a lead. “There’s absolutely no way that’s a coincidence.”
“SmarTech?” I repeat, brow furrowed. I ignore the panda’s ass bit, assuming she’ll explain later. “Interesting. There may be a connection there. Some of our other hits have used SmarTech encryptions. You stole data from them?”
“Yeah. The guy who hired me to do it—mytío—should have some answers for us, too. At the very least, he’s got all that data I stole.”
Odd. There was no mention of extended family in her background check. I file that information away for later. “Do you know what he wanted? Why he sent you?”
“He never tells me,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I just copied over everything I could get my grubby little raccoon paws on. Client files, employee files, program files…”
“You are thorough,” I say approvingly, finishing my meal and collecting both our plates. As I move into the kitchen to place them in the sink, she watches me with a heavy-lidded stare.
“Then it’s settled. Tomorrow we can fake my death, head to your safe house, and we’ll grab the USB drive on the way. Love it when a plan comes together.”
I give the plates a cursory rinse, then wash my hands. When I’m done, I head back around the counter.
“It’s settled,” I agree. “And are you satisfied with your meal?”
I watch the question land, watch the fire burn a little brighter in those warm, caramel brown eyes, watch how her pulse thrums in that vein on her neck. “Yes,” she breathes, shifting in her seat and pressing her thighs together. “Does this mean it’s time to play?”
“Yes. But first, I brought you something,” I say, reaching into the bag dangling off the back of my chair and producing a box.
Her eyes light up. “Something sparkly?”
I laugh. “What are you, a crow?”
