Page 55 of Rogue
I’m going to take care of their problem just as soon as the right opportunity to present itself.
If I’m going to poison them, I’ve got to get in close. Except, blonde or not, they know who I am. My befriending them, using “my skills” as Declan advised, isn’t an option. Finesse and a whole shitload of strategy is what I’ll need to pull this off. Don’t want to give Paris a nasty reputation for food poisoning; the Lucky Six will be my only fatalities.
If only my main mark, Novák, was sunny-side up.
Patience. Yeah, yeah, it’s a virtue, right?
I tap my foot on the pavement, then fiddle with the umbrella, rotating it like a top around my head while performing my own mental rendition of “Singin’ in the Rain.” Biding my time on the sidewalk across the street and waiting for them to finish lunch. Hoping Novák will slither out of his hole to join them.
As I give my umbrella one last twirl, something catches my eye half a yard up the hill and located dead center in the road. Something shiny, like a coin. Rain dances across its body and its nozzle points straight at me. I lift my eyes, and my hold on the umbrella tightens.
Jaxson’s pistol.
Is he following me or the Pricks?I wonder.
My favorite line from a poem by Lord Tennyson pops into mind, which goes something like, “Now is not the time to reason why, now is the time to do or die.”
And, I do. I really dowantto do. Not die.
I turn and hurry down the hill. Once around the curve and out of sight, I take off in a full sprint, weaving my way between tour buses and shoppers, mindless of how the sky seems to have opened up. The open umbrella slows me down. With no time to close it, I reluctantly let it fly loose over my shoulder.
They’ll be others.
“Damn it,” Jaxson curses. Far too close for . . .
His arm snakes around my abdomen.
I jab my elbow into his, and he lets go. Releasing that umbrella had been a mistake; I could use it right now to jab him in the eye or that fickle heart of his. Instead, I try to nail him with my satchel, but he’s too fast. I blink as he slams me up against an old iron fence, hauling my arms overhead and using his body to hold me in place.
“Meeting friends for lunch?” he asks.
I buck my ass against him, wanting to maim him. Except on the next thrust, I feel him hardening beneath me. Years ago, he’d teasingly said, “I like it rough.” Maybe not such a lie, after all. “You’re wearing on my nerves.”
“Well, sweetheart, the feeling is mutual.”
“Call me sweetheart one more time, and I’ll reintroduce your face to my boot,” I hiss.
He brings his face close, brushing his lips against mine. Warmly. A feather’s touch. My tongue touches my lower lip, unconsciously . . .yeah, right. Nothing I have ever done with this man has been unconscious. He has a knack for making me want him. Makingwomenwant him. He swoops back in for seconds, a light, teasing touch. I catch his lower lip between my teeth, applying enough pressure to show him I mean business.
“Not so sweet anymore,” he says, pulling away.
God, drive a dagger in my heart. “Sweet gets you nowhere. Right, player?”
He looks at me, really looks at me . . . like he wants to say something.
“Let’s go,” he says, grabbing my wrist in a death grip and dragging me with him.
“Why are you doing this?”
“The answer’s damn clear, sweet thing.”
Grrr.“We need to talk,” I snap.Talkbeing an understatement.
“Talk? Fuck maybe, now that you’ve got me hard. Say our good-byes—yeah, that too. Time for talking expired nine months ago.”
Did I hear him correctly? “You stubborn, arrogant jerk. Like I’d let you inside my panties again.”
Liar, liar, panties on fire.
