Ispend several frozen moments staring wide-eyed at his hand covering mine and attempting not to topple off the ladder from shock. Then I whisper, “Did you follow me here?”
His reply is low and instant. “Yes.”
“Have you been watching me?”
“Yes.”
Holy shitsicles. He’s been watching me. How? From where?
I swallow hard. He’s standing so close behind me, I feel his body heat. He’s radiating it. The man is burning up. He’s his own five-alarm fire.
I want to ask him why the hell he’s wearing a black wool overcoat when it’s eighty degrees outside, but get distracted when he leans closer and puts his mouth beside my ear.
“Come with me now,” he says urgently. “I can get you away from the guard. I’ll take you anywhere in the world you want to go. You can start a new life.”
Cue the sound of screeching brakes.
Shit. I forgot. He thinks I’m Declan’s captive prostitute.
Turning my head to look over my shoulder, I meet his eyes. His pale green, blazingly intense, burn-the-barn-down eyes.
Wow, this is gonna be super awkward. “Um…I’m not what you think I am.”
His grip on my hand tightens. After a beat, he says gruffly, “I’m not trying to fuck you. I’m trying to save you.”
Hearing him say “fuck” makes my cheeks burn.
But I don’t know how to feel about the rest of it. Should I be offended or complimented that he thinks I’m a hooker, just not one he’d pay to have sex with?
Deciding this conversation is awkward enough already without him having to make his case for a swift escape to my profile, I turn around on the ladder and face him. Because I’m up two steps, we’re at the same height. We’re standing eye to eye, and he’s even more stunning up close in broad daylight.
After a moment, I manage to get my tongue to work. “No, I meant that I’m not a prostitute.”
He draws a slow breath. Somehow, he makes it look sexy.
His tone gentle, he says, “I’m not judging you, malyutka.”
Okay, I really like it when he calls me that. I like it an unreasonable amount. It’s not healthy. But I can’t get distracted from what I need to say.
“I’m not a sex worker. And I’m not saying that because I’m afraid of you judging me. I’m saying it because it’s true.”
A furrow appears between his dark brows.
That he apparently doesn’t believe me is irritating. “Making the jump from me wearing a revealing dress to me selling myself is a big stretch.”
“It wasn’t only the dress,” he says, frowning.
“What else was it? The heels?”
Ignoring that, he steps even closer and demands, “Who are you, then? Why are you staying with him? Why did you say he was keeping you prisoner?”
“No, you go first. Why are you watching me? And what are you doing in Bermuda?”
“I’m watching you because I like to. And maybe I live here.”
Bypassing all the internal screaming his “because I like to” comment evoked, I say, “Nobody who lives in Bermuda owns a knee-length black wool overcoat.”
“I could be on holiday.”
“I think a man who spends his time spying on people, dispensing cash like an ATM, and appearing out of thin air in locked rooms is up to something other than vacationing.”
“Then maybe you should stop thinking.”
“So you’re telling me you’re a good guy?”
After a pause, he says darkly, “No. I’m not good. In fact, Riley Rose, I’m the worst man you’ll ever meet.”
He stares at me with the truth of it burning in his eyes.
I’m sweating. My heart is pounding. My knees knock together so loudly, he can probably hear them.
Despite all that, I’m not scared.
Jacked up on adrenaline, yes. But deep down, not really scared.
But we’ve already established that I’m a moron, so this shouldn’t be news.
I say breathlessly, “But you’re not a danger to me.”
“Not to you, no.”
The way he says “you” confirms my suspicions.
Malek isn’t a danger to me, but he is a danger to other people.
People, for instance, like my future brother-in-law, the head of the Irish Mob.
I close my eyes and moisten my lips. When I open my eyes, Malek is staring with intense focus at my mouth.
I whisper, “Declan.”
His lashes lift. His fierce gaze drills into mine. He says nothing.
“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You came for Declan. But then you saw me and got distracted from killing him by trying to help me.”
The expression on his face is indescribable, but it does tell me one thing for certain: I’m right.
I put together the trail of crumbs, made a stretch even bigger than the one he made about me being a prostitute, and I’m right.
Starting to shake, I say, “Please don’t kill him.”
He replies vehemently, “You don’t know what you’re asking. And why do you care if he lives or dies? Who are you?”
“His future sister-in-law.”
Malek’s reaction is so stunned, I might as well have slapped him across the face.
His nostrils flare. His pupils dilate. He jerks back abruptly, like you’d recoil from a snake, and stares at me with black eyes filled with revulsion.
A man calls out, “Riley?”
It’s Spider.
From the sound of his voice, I know he’s close. He’ll walk around the corner of the aisle any second. And when he does, one of two things will happen.
He’ll shoot Malek, or Malek will shoot him.
The thought of it makes me lose my senses.
I jump off the ladder, grab my laptop from the floor, and turn back to Malek. “I’m begging you. Please don’t hurt Declan. I believe you could, and if you did, it would kill my sister. I could never live with myself if that happened.”
I turn and run down the aisle, rounding the corner just as Spider’s walking up.
He stops. Holding a cup of coffee in each hand, he peers at me suspiciously. “Why such a hurry?”
“We need to go. Now.”
I brush past him, walking fast, not looking back. Within seconds, Spider’s right by my side.
Like I knew he would be.
“What is it, lass?” he demands.
“I’ll tell you in the car.”
I burst through the front door of the bookstore and make a beeline for the SUV, clutching my laptop to my chest like a shield. Following on my heels, Spider tosses the coffee cups to the sidewalk and jogs ahead of me, opening my door. I hop in, he slams the door behind me, then runs around to get into the driver’s seat.
We pull out of the parking lot, tires squealing.
As we’re taking a corner at warp speed, Spider commands, “Talk to me.”
“A man followed me into the bookstore. The same man who followed me into the ladies room at the restaurant the other night. He’s here to kill Declan.”
Spider takes all that in stride. He simply drives faster, glancing into the rearview mirror. It isn’t until I add, “He’s Russian. His name is Malek,” that he almost drives off the road and up onto the curb.
Narrowly missing driving head-on into a streetlight, he shouts, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Malek?”
I take it they’re acquainted.
“Bloody hell, Riley! Did he hurt you?”
“No. Please tell me you’re not going to turn around and try to kill him.”
“As if I could! The bastard’s a bloody ghost! He’d have my head on a spike before I knew what hit me!” He stops hollering and looks at me. “Why don’t you want me to kill him?”
A very good question, indeed. I rack my brain for a reasonable answer.
“I don’t want to be around when anybody kills anybody else, okay?”
It must have sounded sensible enough, because Spider turns his attention back to the road. Tense and glowering, he snaps, “Tell me everything he said to you. At the restaurant and just now. Don’t leave out a word. It’s important.”
I do my best to tell him everything I remember. When I’m finished, he’s horrified.
“Christ. He came into the house?”
“Yes.”
“He could’ve killed you, lass. He could’ve strangled you in your sleep!”
I say drily, “Thanks for that. But he didn’t hurt me. And I believed him when he said he wouldn’t.”
“That’s daft!”
His outrage makes me feel defensive. “Daft or not, he was actually quite sweet.”
Spider almost drives off the road again. He thunders, “Sweet? The man’s a bloody assassin! He’s the most ruthless bastard there is!”
I decide this isn’t the time to point out that he’s sweet, too, and he also has murder in his job description. “So you’ve met him before?”
Raking a hand through his hair, Spider huffs in frustration. “No one’s met him before. He’s like the Bogeyman: a nightmare who exists solely by reputation. He’s the right hand of the Moscow Bratva king, and the main reason the man rose to power. Malek’s extremely talented at removing obstacles.”
And by obstacles, he means enemies.
The man who tried to rescue me from a life of prostitution and gently cupped my face in his hand like it was made of porcelain is a Russian assassin of such terrifying reputation, he makes “regular” killers like Spider quake in their boots.
I bury my face into my hands and moan. It makes Spider freak out.
He shouts, “What is it?”
Oh, nothing. I just realized I’m attracted to a killer who walks through locked doors and makes the Terminator look like Britney Spears. This sort of thing happens to me every day. Nothing to see here. No big deal.
“Lass!”
“Please stop shouting at me. I’m having a minor breakdown is all. Last week, I was living my nice quiet life in my nice quiet apartment in San Francisco. Since then, I’ve discovered that my sister is getting married to the head of the Irish Mob, and that I caught the eye of a notorious Russian assassin whose hobbies include stalking, appearing out of thin air, making wildly incorrect assumptions about people based on their wardrobes, and handing out large quantities of cash to strangers in restrooms. He’s also on a mission to kill my future brother-in-law. It’s been an eventful few days.”
Spider blows out a hard breath. He mutters a series of colorful curses. Then he takes a sharp turn off the two-lane road we’re speeding down onto a larger highway.
He’s not headed back to the house.
“Where are we going?”
“The airport.”
“Why?”
He glances at me. His jaw is as hard as his eyes. “When the Hangman discovers where you live, you disappear before he can pay you a visit.” With an oath, he corrects himself. “Another visit.”
He stomps his foot onto the accelerator. We rocket down the highway. He picks up his cell and makes a series of calls, speaking tersely in Gaelic through each one.
While I sit slumped in the passenger seat, replaying everything in my head.
Especially Malek’s nickname: the Hangman.
I try hard not to imagine how he got it.
