“It was poetic. I wonder if the police are going to leak the surprise I left him.”
“Do I want to know?”
“Do you?” Dark amusement tinges his voice, and it sends a shiver of excitement rushing through me.
What was Guy capable of?
“Tell me.” The words escape like a whisper, but there’s a satisfied sigh on the other end.
“Good girl.” My eyes close as those words purr in my ear. Goosebumps rise along my skin, and it’s like someone’s trailed satin across my flesh. My nipples pucker taut against my bra, and warmth blossoms between my thighs.
Hawkeye’s whine pulls me back into my body, and those big brown and blue orbs stare up at me with more love and playfulness than I deserve.
He whines again before scratching at the patio doors.
I hoist myself off the cozy couch and slide the door open. “Good boy.”
“Goddamn, that’s hot.” Guy’s gravely voice sucks my imagination into some sort of sick fantasy world with him groaning behind a mask as I fall to my knees and open my mouth to…
Nope. Not going there. My mouth goes dry as other parts of me get wetter.
“Not you,” I tell him. “Hawkeye.”
“Oh. Well, that’s disappointing.”
“Yeah, well. What can I say? I’ve always been adisappointment.” It was supposed to sound like a joke, but the bitterness in my voice says it’s not funny.
“I highly doubt that.”
“I shouldn’t have brought it up. What did you leave on McArthur’s desk?”
“I’m coming back to that disappointing remark in a second.”
That’s what you think.
Guy clears his throat. “I left him a copy of the bill, covered it in peanut oil. And gunpowder.”
“Gunpowder? Okay, Guy Fawkes.”
“AmericanGuy Fawkes.”
“You’re a real Yankee Doodle boy. I don’t know if killing politicians makes you American.”
“No, Princess.Hatingpoliticians makes me American.”
He’s got a point.
Wait, no, he doesn’t. Well, maybe, but he killed someone. He doesn’t get points today. Not on my scoresheet.
Hawkeye barks as he chases a dragonfly across the yard, the bug darting out of snapping distance before zipping away. I wish I were a puppy. Life would be so simple and carefree. When do I get to eat next? Where should I poop today? Which squeaky toy do I want to play with?
Not, when is Guy going to kill again? Who is he going to kill? Am I on hisV-for-Vendettahitlist?
“Daphne?” Guy’s voice derails my train of thought. “You’ve gone quiet.”
“Just thinking.”
“About what?”
