Page 2 of Art of the Hunt
His intel told him the owner of this place was a guy, a lazy son of a bitch bully who paid thugs to do his dirty work because he didn’t have the physical strength to do it himself. But maybe his intel was wrong. Maybe this chick was the owner. Made more sense that someone with her confidence would be running a joint like this.
Before he could work out how to ask without actually asking, they’d reached a matte black door with a number three drawn on it in white paint. She knocked twice before throwing it open. “Thirty minutes. If you want thirty more, you pay double.”
Really, that’s how math worked? He bit his tongue. “Got it.”
She closed the door, bathing him in total darkness, and he waited for Denise to flip on a light. He obviously couldn’t see, but he could sense that there was another person in the room with him. He opened his mouth to whisper her name when something that felt suspiciously like a boot connected with his chest and sent him flying across the room until he slammed into the wall and slid down to the floor on his ass.
Holy Christ.
If that was Denise, what the hell was she still doing working here against her will? That kick had knocked the breath out of him, and he was a pretty healthy and in-shape guy. He had no doubt she could hold her own against any one of those security thugs he’d seen hovering around the place.
Hunter rubbed his sternum and tried to determine where the hell his attacker was in the utterly dark space.
“Denise?” he finally asked while still sitting on the floor.
“Wrong.” It was female, but that was definitely not Denise’s voice.
“Uh, where’s Denise?” Had somebody made him and they sent this woman to teach him a lesson?
“Nunya.”
“Seriously? You can’t even saynone of your business?” Everything about this place was classy.
Not.
Hunter slowly inched his way to his feet, sliding up with his back to the wall. The voice was coming from his right; the door was on his left. He could make a run for it, or he could give this person a taste of their own medicine.
That kick hurt just enough to make him bitter, so, without warning, he charged right, bending at the waist so that when he made contact, he caught his opponent in the gut with his shoulder. He kept going until her back slammed against the wall, just like his had a moment ago.
And he noted a couple of things. Whoever this was, she was tall. Thin. Muscular, with a narrow waist. And he was pretty sure she was wearing a skintight spandex outfit.
The woman grunted and shoved him away and then a light flared, bathing the room in pale blue. Weird, but that light didn’t appear to be coming from a lamp or an overhead fixture. Rather, it was just sort of bouncing around between him and the other person in the room.
Who, he noticed despite himself, was pretty fucking hot. Like, goddess hot.
She had silver hair, twisted into a braid that draped over one shoulder, and golden eyes, which he assumed was a trick of the light because gold was not a typical eye color.
He sure was spending an unacceptably long time focusing on her eyes.
Not that the knowledge stopped him from continuing his perusal, noting that those eyes were wide and rimmed with thick lashes.
Finally, he moved on. To her nose.
Which was narrow, patriarchal, with a delicate gold hoop in the left nostril. He noted a small tattoo of a crescent moon on her right temple.
Damn, he was certainly taking his sweet-ass time studying her features, wasn’t he?
And her body was straight-up perfection. He was going to conjure fantasies tonight about that catsuit she was wearing, even if she was one of the bad guys.
The door abruptly opened, and Denise—there she is—rushed into the room. “Artemis, Artemis—oh, Hunter. Hey.”
“Hey,” he responded, and then, “Wait. Did you just call her Artemis?”
The woman whose name was in question furrowed her brow and puckered her lips.
“Yeah, she’s just like you. She’s here to help. She’s—”
“Named after a Greek god.” Why that bit of information was important enough to point out, Hunter couldn’t say.
