Driven to the Edge: A Bad Boy Hitman Romance (7 page)

W
e have
a few more errands to run before our reconnaissance trip this evening, but all I can think about is Alicia in that navy blue dress. Something about the cut, the color, or just the entire package... it’s incredible. She’s drop dead gorgeous to begin with, but in that dress, that’s the first time she’s ever looked like she
owns
that gorgeousness.

I’m proud to have her as a pretend fiancee.

She also buys a slinky black merino number, a blazer, and a silver sequined dress for the evening. And of course, you can’t wear any of that without the matching black Louboutins.

All told, it rings up at over eighteen grand, including the stockings and underwear. I can’t say I mind. She has to look the part.

She wears the black merino and blazer out. It’s like an upmarket version of her usual uniform, but it changes the way she carries herself. She knows she’s an attractive woman, but up until now, I’ve never seen her walk like she’s flaunting it.

It’s... distracting.

“We’ve got one more stop,” I say. “Then we’ll grab a meal together, hm?”

She says, loud enough for passers-by to hear: “Lovely, dear.”

I feel a stirring in my stomach, the beginnings of desire. She’s playing into this. I know it’s only to appease me, but hearing those words out of her mouth is like a rocket that shoots straight to my cock.

I direct her to a pawn shop on the border of Vegas proper and North Vegas. Close to my old stomping ground. The sort of place that will have exactly what I’m looking for.

I instruct her to wait in the car with my usual warning about slaughtering all the nearby civilians, then duck inside.

Pawn shops are so depressing. Apart from the depressing-as-shit nature of their very existence, I worked in one when I was growing up. Watching people mortgage away their most valuable possessions was a soul-crushing experience. And one of the reasons why Alain and I were so determined that we’d make a good life for ourselves, for our eventual children.

My chest tightens at the memory. But I put on a bored, disinterested expression when I approach the counter.

I scan the jewelry inside. It’s typical pawn shop shit: several very expensive, high-quality pieces. A bunch of mid-range ugly crap.

I don’t need anything too outlandish. Just a big enough diamond to suit the persona Alicia and I are putting on.

Shit. I realize I don’t know her ring size. Maybe it’d be best to just buy three and see which one fits her.

But I know she’s got fairly small hands. I’ve held them in my own, when I was fighting with her, holding her own. I imagine I can eyeball it.

In the end, I select a tension-set diamond in a spiral setting. The band itself is platinum. The rock is big enough for appearances. Two point five carats, or so the tag says. Not that these places are a hundred percent honest.

I haggle him down to just over nine thousand dollars.

Not that I
need
to haggle at all. The thing about working in accounting for organized crime is that it’s a remarkably lucrative field. Not even counting all I inherited from Alain, I’m a wealthy man.

No, the haggling was a principle thing.

You know what they say. You can take the kid off the streets, but you can’t take the streets out of the kid...

Back in the car, Alicia eyeballs the diamond like it’s a snake that might bite her.

“This is insane,” she says. “This is my fake engagement ring? Jesus Christ.”

I take her hand in mine, put on a big old smile. I dip one eye closed in a wink.

“Alicia... hm, Alicia whatever-your-last-name-is. Will you marry me?”

She stares at me like she’s trying to bore a hole in my head while I slip the ring up her finger. It’s a little loose, but not enough that it’s suspicious. She keeps staring at it, turning it over on her finger.

“You can keep it when we’re done with all this,” I offer. “Pawn it off, whatever.”

Alicia glances up, eyeballing me. I can sense the hint of a sarcastic reply on her tongue, but it doesn’t ever come. How strange.

Sinking back in the driver’s seat, staring into the glittering facets of her diamond, she asks me what’s next.

I tell her the plan.

We pull into the valet lot at Augustine’s, one of the Császár family’s casinos. For now, we’re here for a meal and a bit of recon. I even leave the Sig in the car. This is the sort of place where a visible bulge under a jacket is a noticeable thing.

As the valet drives off, I pull Alicia close to me, enjoying the feel of her body pressed in against mine. I keep my posture casual, doting.

“Quick,” I ask her as I sweep her up toward the glittering, black-glass construction. “What’s the most extreme sport you ever did?”

Alicia blinks, hard. But she does answer.

“Uh, scuba diving?”

I bite back a laugh.

“All right. Alicia, my dear fiancee. We met scuba diving. We’ve been engaged for four months. That’s the story if anyone asks. And fucking stick to it, or else.”

She doesn’t need to be told twice anymore.

We stroll in through the rotating doors and into the casino’s lobby, which is all shades of smoky glass and teak. It’s less gaudy than some of the other Császár properties. Classier. More expensive. The sort of place Jake Hawthorne would take his scuba diving fiancee.

Breezing through the lobby to the elevators, we take one up to the fourth floor. There’s apparently eleven floors. The guy who forwarded Martinsen the flight plans works on this property, but fortunately he has no idea what I look like, so I’m not concerned. Although that also means I have no idea what he looks like.

I’m aware of Alicia’s presence beside me even as I case the joint, noting positions of security. Cameras, guards, locks on the elevator doors. The sort of thing that seems like good casino security is also a benefit if you work in organized crime.

We don’t need our cover stories at all, it turns out. When we reach the restaurant floor, we’re led to a table without an inquisitive question between us. The staff here must be very well trained to mind their own business.

Our meal could either be a late lunch or an early dinner, depending on how you look at it. Alicia and I both get the wagyu beef, and to my surprise and amusement she orders a steak twice the size of mine.

“Is it just because I’m paying?” I ask, playful.

She gives her eyes a slight roll across the table.

“It’s because I’ve barely eaten for the last three days.”

Fair enough.

God, I can’t stop looking at her. Maybe it’s the new clothes, maybe it’s the slightly less wary demeanor she displays now. Or maybe it’s the fact that I’ve touched her in her most intimate of places, heard her cry out in pleasure.

She’s mesmerizing now. I can’t look away.

I order us a bottle of champagne and sit back while the sommelier pours it, wondering why she’s crawled so deep under my skin.

Maybe it’s because she’s the only thing in my life right now that isn’t gunpowder and revenge and death.

A thought creeps unbidden into my mind:
we haven’t talked about what happened in the bathtub.

But why on earth would we? She’s my hostage. She was drunk. It was a weird moment of weakness on my part. There is no future between us. No mutual attraction. It was just a failing of defenses on both our parts. I still feel like I shouldn’t have done yet.

Yet when she sips her champagne, she watches me over the rim of her flute. And later, when she’s tearing into her steak, she dips her tongue out to lick her mouth clean, and her eyes meet mine.

It can’t be unintentional.

Is she just trying to seduce me so she can run away again? Or is it possible that this spark I might be feeling is mutual?

Over the slow, relaxed course of our meal--and the entire bottle of Moët--I find my attention torn between wanting to observe the security at Augustine’s and observe Alicia.

I’m so close now. I can’t let myself get sidetracked.

T
here’s
a difference between cheap champagne and the good stuff, it turns out. The problem being I don’t realize how much I’ve had until the server asks if we want another bottle. Fortunately, Jake says no.

The steak is incredible, melt-in-your-mouth and cooked to perfection. It’s easily the best meal I’ve had in my entire life. Me being me, I got french fries for my side. But they’re french fries with shaved European cheese I’ve never heard of and truffle oil. Holy
shit.

On the way out, I notice Jake eyeballing the exits and the staff. He said he needed to come to Augustine’s Casino to
check it out.
Which left a bad, bad taste in my mouth. I’m assuming his version of
checking it out
means preparing to murder a lot of people here.

Light-headed with a buzz and feeling foreboding, I’m relieved when Jake leads us back outside. The Vegas evening air has just a hint of a chill to it. I’m glad I wore my blazer. We were in the restaurant for almost
three hours.

“We’ll be staying just down the road,” Jake tells us. And then to my surprise, he climbs into the driver’s seat once the valet brings the Maybach back around.

But I suppose it makes sense. I’m his fake fiancee now. Not his chauffeur.

He drives us to a slender, high tower three blocks down the street. Now that the sun is starting to fade, the lights of the Vegas Strip have come out to play. And they’re breathtaking.

The hotel we’ve chosen is just off the main strip, presumably for security reasons, but that gives us an excellent view. The glittering lights and iconic architecture bring out the photographer in me. I wish I had a camera with me, to capture the way the giant spotlight bursts from the roof of the Luxor or the streaking cars down the broad lanes.

Another valet sweeps the Maybach away and we go to check in to our room.

I don’t know what to expect. The hotel is smaller than many in this part of Vegas, but it seems private and upmarket. There’s a wrought-iron fence all the way around the building and when we walk into the lobby, I catch a glimpse through a glass panel of a lushly-manicured courtyard.

Jake drags me with him to the marble desk that splays along the lobby wall and I force myself to look like a winsome newlywed. Or about-to-be-a-newlywed, rather.

He gives the desk clerk a completely different name--his fourth or so that I’ve heard him use--and before long, a bellhop is guiding us over to a glass-walled elevator.

“The Founder’s Suite is our finest room,” the bellhop says to Jake with a twinkle in his eye. “You’ll love it.”

When he throws open the French doors, revealing our suite, I can’t say I disagree with him.

The sprawling suite looks like something out of a movie set. Like it can’t even be real. I’ve stayed in some nice hotels doing what I do for a living, working with the clients I work with, but nothing like this. The high-ceilinged room, all gleaming walnut wood and cream leather furniture, has a touch of authenticity about it that you don’t often see in Las Vegas.

Or in hotels anywhere else, rather.

I can see why Jake likes this place now. It must be older, back when luxury was something real, rather than a facade every building on the Strip felt the need to put on.

I turn in a wide circle as I step inside, admiring it all. There’s a full kitchen with stainless steel everything, far more furniture than we could ever need. The gleaming wooden floor is softened by sheepskin throws, a gleaming shade of white that stand out brighter than the off-white leather of the couches.

“It’s amazing,” I say, genuinely breathless.

Jake tips the bellhop and he skitters away, leaving us with only Jake’s single silver case. I don’t know what’s in the bigger case, but given what I saw him do, I can imagine.

I’m glad that case is still in the car.

“While we’re here, we may as well act the part,” Jake says.

He strolls into the kitchen, where there’s another bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket of ice on the gleaming white stone counter.

Oh no.

Fifteen minutes later, we’re reclined on one of those big leather sofas, champagne flutes in hand, and I can’t believe it, but I think I might actually be relaxing.

I try to remind myself over and over that Jake Hawthorne--or whatever his real name is--is a dangerous man. That nothing good will come of this. But the sweet champagne tickles my tongue and caresses my brain and tells me it’s okay to just let go for a bit.

After all, seducing Jake was my goal, wasn’t it? I’m a lot closer to that now. He’s sitting close by, suit jacket removed, lounging back against an overstuffed cushion like he might actually enjoy being here.

I wish I knew just a little bit more about him.

Surely the same charming man who tried to coax me back to his hotel and the man who bought me dresses and joked about free range meat at dinner can’t be the same man who cold-bloodedly shot a security guard in the face.

It makes my head spin. I just can’t believe it.

For a moment, I have a horrible thought: that it isn’t
fair.
Because otherwise he’d be such a good guy.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I down the rest of my drink in a hurried gulp, which causes Jake’s eyebrows to raise.

“In a hurry to get completely fucked up?” He jokes. “I can order some pills or something. It’s Vegas. Won’t be hard.”

My head swimming a bit, I also laugh, though awkwardly.

“No,” I say. “It’s just... really good.”

It’s a weak lie. But he doesn’t press the subject. I’m grateful.

There I go feeling grateful to him again.

“So Alicia,” he asks after a while, running a finger along the rim of his crystal glass. “I have to ask you.”

Caught off guard by that, I tilt my head, my bangs falling into my eyes.

“How does a girl like you end up working as a driver?”

I cock my head at him, silently wondering.

“I mean, not that you’re a
bad
driver. You’re great. But isn’t it an odd line of work for someone as obviously intelligent as you?”

I can’t tell if he’s being genuine or just flattering me. But either way, I play along.

“It’s a job,” I say. “I need the money.”

One corner of Jake’s mouth twitches upward.

“Student loans?”

I snort.

“No. I... had a business, actually. It fell through. Real messy. Owe a lot to the bank.”

Surprise passing over his features, Jake leans in a little closer, resting his hands on his knees. He watches me like a hawk, equal parts captivated audience and predator. It sends a chill up my back.

“Sorry to hear that.”

He sounds sincere.

Then he says something that blows my mind.

“Look, if I... if I get through this unscathed, I’ll take care of that.”

“Take care of what? My debt?”

“Yes.”

He scoots closer to me, setting his empty champagne flute aside. He dares--the man that kidnapped me
dares
--to put his hands on one of my knees, over the smooth merino of my dress.

“I dragged you into this mess. You weren’t supposed to get involved. If I don’t end up with a bullet in the back, I’ll pay it all off.”

I lean back a little, avoiding the penetrating intensity of his eyes.

“I don’t need your dirty money. I’m paying it off fine on my own. I don’t know you. I don’t know what you do for a living. I don’t know how you can afford all this. But I know it can’t be legal.”

Jake begins to massage his thumb along my knee, running it in a small circle. I can’t help it, the touch sends a fire racing up my thigh. My leg stills under his touch.

“I’m not a bad guy,” he says. “I just worked with some people who did bad things.”

I look him in the eye, even as his fingers smooth over the fine wool covering my leg.

“You killed people. I saw you.”

He’s staring at me with those eyes now, the darkness in them almost tangible. I could fall into them and drown, never see the surface again.

“They’re bad people.”

Then he leans in closer, takes a deep breath of my scent. The tickle of his breath on my ear is almost unbearable. One of my hands curls into the leather of the sofa. I take a deep breath and hold it.

“Besides,” Jake whispers, his voice coming from very,
very
close. “I saved you.”

Then he leans in and gently, oh so gently, slides the tip of his tongue over my earlobe. I shudder reflexively, both from surprise and how good it feels. How does he do this to me? He’s a dangerous man. I can’t.

Yet I can feel the heat radiating off of him. I can feel how close he is. I can feel the puff of his breath on the sensitive skin of my neck.

I remain frozen in place, unmoving, even as Jake leans down and slowly presses his mouth to my throat. His tongue slides along the hollows there, slow and teasing, ‘til he finds my pulse point. He grazes his teeth ever so slightly along the skin and it’s like there’s a fire burning inside me, eating me from the inside out.

My fingers digging into the leather of the sofa, I down the last of my champagne like it was a shot. My head’s spinning.

When I lower the glass, Jake is there. He replaces the champagne flute with his mouth, crushing me in a sudden kiss that’s far more intense than anything we experienced in the bathtub. I groan hotly into his mouth as he leans in against me, his massive frame bracketing me against the arm of the sofa.

The dim, almost candlelike light of the suite is fuzzy, surrounded by halos that blur in my drunken state. I fall backwards, pressed against the arm of the couch, as Jake all but climbs atop me.

He kisses me like he’s trying to steal the breath from my lungs, the claiming pressure of his heavy body atop mine a constant reminder of his power, his strength, of how easily he could crush me. He slips the blazer off my shoulders and I realize the implication there but it’s too late, I’m too far gone.

Once he’s bared my shoulders, he traces his fingertips over my flushed skin, exploring every inch of bare flesh. He kisses down my neck to the collar of the dress, then slides his fingertips up the smooth fabric. Over the dress, he gropes roughly at my breasts, hauling them into his hands, squeezing, caressing. I clench my eyes shut.

While one of his hands works my breasts, he slips the other beneath the hem of my dress, skating his fingertips along my inner thigh. I shiver with nerves at his touch. He hikes my skirt up hard. I cry out as he hauls the fabric up around my waist, almost hard enough to tear it.

When I next catch a glimpse of his eyes, I can tell he’s lost. He’s all animal instinct now, all desire. There’s no man left.

Jake hauls the dress up around my waist and drags me down, pressing his body against mine on the couch. I feel the weight of him, trapped beneath it, and savor the feeling. While it’s a little alarming to be pinned like this, there’s a certain seductive allure to it. A protective quality.

Then he’s yanking my panties down my legs and my eyes go wide. I cry out in surprise.

His fingers brush over my sex, hot and ready and wet for him, and I bite my tongue as he begins to explore the deepest parts of me, the parts he’s only seen beneath the water before. He wastes no time going straight for my clit, thumbing hard at it, causing my hips to buck involuntarily.

This is so wrong. This is twice now I’ve let this man who kidnapped me bring me to a writhing mess beneath him.

Then Jake’s crawling beneath the drape of my dress, his head disappearing between my thighs. I tense up, I know what’s coming, but when I feel his hot breath on my thigh I still gasp.

Then I feel his tongue. Oh.
His tongue.

Jake slides his tongue along the seam of my outer lips, gentle, teasing, caressing the hairless skin there. He dips his tongue just
barely
inside, then parts my folds with a fingertip.

He takes his time, slow and teasing, and oh God, I just want to rip out handfuls of his hair if he just doesn’t
hurry up...

My thighs clenching at his broad shoulders, I cry out when his mouth first descends on my clit. He laps his tongue over that most sensitive place, then works a finger deeper into me while doing so. Within seconds, I’m squirming on the couch, panting, breathing with my mouth open, thrashing every time he flicks his tongue along my nub.

It’s going to be over so soon. I’m almost embarrassed.

But then he pulls away, right when I’m on the edge. He sinks back a bit, working at my sex with only his fingers now, thrusting two fingers slowly in and out. On the way out, he curls them just a hint, the pads of his thick fingers pressing against my inner walls. I shudder. It’s a different type of pleasure. Deeper, more long-lasting. Less intense, short spikes.

Rolling my hips in time with the thrusts of his fingers, I let myself go. There will be all the time in the world to wonder why I let him do this. All that matters now is how good it feels.

When was the last time I just gave in and let myself feel good?

Jake growls against my thigh, nips his teeth into the skin there. I squeal, heels kicking, and he drags my legs up and over his shoulders. Then his mouth descends on my sex again and I lose control.

The first time his teeth hit my clit, I scream. I cry out hard, then twist on the sofa to bury the sound of it in the leather. Jake keeps his mouth working, his fingers twisting inside me, milking my body through the shuddering orgasm that he draws out of it.

My internal walls spasming around his hand, I clutch at him with my thighs, shuddering and shaking, sweat beading on my brow.

When I finally slide down from my peak, I feel like a fractured mess of a person. Like I can’t string together two coherent thoughts. Jake slides out from under my dress and clambers back atop me. I can feel the rock-hard press of his erection against my thigh, even though he’s still clothed.

Breathing as hard as I am, Jake presses his face to mine. He seeks out my mouth, our tongues tangling in a hot kiss. I can taste myself on his tongue.

He positions himself between my legs. A sudden thrill of surprise races up my spine.