There's no footsteps, no silhouettes, nothing. He's not following me.
Relief washes through me, but it's tangled with something else. Something far more irritating.
I slow to a jog, scanning the area, and when my eyes land on my car, I run a bit faster.
I slip inside, lock the doors, and toss the hard drive onto the passenger seat. My fingers are still shaking as I pull out my phone and enter the address for the drop-off location.
The GPS loads slowly, the blue line tracing a route out of Constan?a to some town called Mangalia, forty-four minutes away.
I start the car and pull out, keeping my speed normal as I move toward my destination, but my heart won't stop racing.
I take a breath through my nose, trying to force my body back into its calm state. I glance at myself in the rearview mirror and bite my bottom lip.
I can still feel the heat of him.
His weight pressing me into the floor. His chest heaving against mine. His face inches away, close enough that I could see the specks in his dark eyes.
Close enough to kiss.
I shake my head, my eyes returning to the road, and grip the steering wheel harder.
It was tactical. A distraction. A standard maneuver to exploit a man's weakness.
I've done it before, and I'll do it again.
Men are predictable that way. Give them the slightest hint of something sexual, and their brains shut down. Their focus splits and their guard drops. They think they are in control, but they're not. I mean, how could they be when all they're thinking about is fucking you?
And Victor was no different. He did exactly as I thought he would. Expected, even.
I lick my lips and stare at the road ahead as I mull that thought over and then reluctantly admit the fact.
He was different, and that's the part that pisses me off.
Because when his face was inches from mine, when his breath brushed my mouth, when his gaze dropped to my lips and lingered there, I wanted him to close the distance.
Not as a tactical move. Not to throw him off balance or gain the upper hand.
I just wanted it, if for nothing but out of curiosity.
The thought rises uninvited, unwelcome, and I shove it down hard. My jaw tightens and my fingers flex on the wheel.
This is not who I am.
I don't get curious about men. I don't wonder what their mouths taste like or how their hands would feel tangled in my hair. Idon't lose focus in the middle of a job because some pretty boy posing as a politician-turned-hitman pinned me to the floor.
But Victor isn't just a pretty boy. That's the other part that rattles me. I may have underestimated him, badly.
Even after our first encounter, I assumed he was all polish and no substance. A man who used charm and blackmail instead of his fists. A politician who hid behind bodyguards and some type of diplomatic immunity crap.
But when we fought, he moved like a trained predator, fast and controlled.
I mean, he blocked my strikes, read my movements, and countered how I would. He's all fluid with a natural flow. And when he pinned me, he didn't just overpower me, he dominated me.
I replay the fight in my head, cataloging every moment, every mistake I made.
He's more of everything than I thought. There's no doubt he'd been trained for more than what he shows the world, more than just running government offices.
And that gunshot.
