Poison Kisses Part 1

by Lisa Renee Jones

  Amanda pushes away from me and pulls her sweats into place before sliding the skirt off and tossing it under a rack. “You always did like to punish me,” she says.

  “And you liked it.”

  She shoves her feet into a pair of tennis shoes she grabbed somewhere and steps to me again. “Do you know what I discovered during the past three years, Seth Cage, aside from you being the Assassin?”

  I arch a brow. “You miss my mouth on your—”

  “That vibrators don’t kill you and they don’t deny you.”

  “What fun is that?”

  “Fun enough.” She ducks under my arm.

  I rotate and pursue her, challenged all over again. And bleeding. Fuck. I dig into my pocket, drop two hundred dollars on the store counter in front of the clerk, and exit the store just behind Amanda, falling into pace with her. “Now we scout,” I say, tugging my sleeve down and using it to soak up blood. “I don’t want us to scale your back fence and get shot dead.”

  “Agreed,” she says simply, and for the next fifteen minutes, I battle the blood trying to escape my sleeve, while we do just that. Finding discreet ways to bring her house into view, looking for trouble we don’t find, unless it’s already inside her place, hiding. Once I’m certain we’re as clear as we can be, we make our way to the gravel path behind her house. We stop at the neighbor’s house to confirm the SUV is ready and waiting, with the bonus of the key under the mat, which I move to the ignition, preparing us for a rapid departure.

  From there, we use a hole in the fence that connects his house to Amanda’s to clear our path, and then, weapons drawn, we enter her small yard. “The bottom level is an open kitchen and living area,” she informs me as we approach the back door. “A pantry is off the kitchen. One bathroom is off the living area. Upstairs is the bedroom, with a bathroom and closet. Under the rug beside the chair in the corner is a hidden space with my supplies.”

  I open the door and enter the simple L-shaped kitchen that opens directly to the living area, just as she’s indicated. She enters behind me, moving to the pantry and checking the space, while I move to the bathroom and clear it.

  It’s then that something comes thundering down the stairs. I rush that way, weapon aimed, when loud meowing begins and I spot a gray cat. Amanda rushes forward and picks it up. I don’t ask why a CIA agent has a cat. The cat has now told anyone else that is here that we’re here, and I waste no time charging up the stairs, to bring the humble, and intruder-free bedroom into view, taking in what I find: A set of mattresses. No headboard. One worn out simple chair in the corner. I walk to the bathroom, which is equally simple and empty. Then to the tiny closet.

  Holstering my weapon, I move to the rug in front of the chair, and pull it back to find a trap door. Squatting down, I open the wooden door to display a space holding the black case I know to be Amanda’s traveling lab. Next to it is another small leather bag, I also know to be her medical bag. I grab both, shut the door again, and slip the rug back in place, leaving no evidence that we’ve been here. I walk back to the stairs and then turn back to the room. To that bed without a headboard. This is how she’s been living for three years. I’m not sure what to do with that, and I don’t have time to process it right now. But damn. I want to rescue her when I’m supposed to be killing her.

  Scrubbing my jaw, I glance at my bloody hand and curse, walking back to the bathroom, washing it and stuffing a washcloth around the opening of my sleeve. Hurrying down the stairs, I find the cat on the counter, next to Amanda, eating from a bowl. I also find a duffel and an animal travel bag at her feet. I set her lab and medical bag on the floor next to me. “Why is there a pet bag at your feet?”

  “Julie’s coming with us.”

  “Julie,” I say flatly, eyeing the skinny, big-eared animal. “The cat that you’ve been starving.”

  “She’s an Oriental Shorthair. They’re skinny. And I need to stitch your arm before we leave.”

  “Negative on the stitches and the cat. We’re leaving. Now. The two of us.”

  “Julie’s coming with us and I need to at least tape up that wound.”

  “No and no. Agents do not have cats.”

  “Which is why getting her was a good cover,” she argues.

  “You do not have a cat, Amanda.”

  “Yes. I do. And her name is Julie. And I’m not leaving her, nor am I letting some crazy person come in here and kill her because she’s mine.”

  I cross to her, my hands coming down on her arms, dragging her to me. “And yet you left me and Danny behind.”

  “Now is not the time for this.”

  “No. It’s not. But it’s coming, sooner rather than later. We’re leaving. No cat.”

  “What part of she is all I have do you not understand? I’m not leaving her.”

  “All you have?” I demand, anger coming at me hard and fast. “You had me, woman.” I release her, and because we do not have time for this fight, I add, “Take the cat. We’ll find it a home in Texas. I’m going to ensure our path is clear.”

  I start to move around her, and she grabs my wounded arm. “You’re dripping blood. We have to deal with your injury.”

  “Trouble is going to find us if we wait around for it.”

  She lifts her hand to show me the blood now covering her fingers. “This is a problem.”

  “Once we’re out of the city limits,” I bite out. “Right now, I’m going to do that exterior check to ensure you and your damn cat are safe when we leave.” I don’t wait for her agreement, stepping around her and exiting to the backyard. And I don’t let myself think about her empty bedroom, the reasons someone like Amanda would cling to a cat, or the many accusations and lies between us. Right now, it’s about getting us the hell out of here.

  My scan of the surrounding area is quick and efficient, and exactly two minutes later, I re-enter the kitchen. “We’re clear,” I say, grabbing Amanda’s traveling lab and medical bags, while she hoists the cat carrier over her shoulder, her gaze on the blood-soaked washcloth stuffed into my sleeve. But she doesn’t say anything, which suits me fine. I just want us in that SUV and on the road.

  We exit the house and waste no time making that happen. In all of three minutes, we’re loaded in the vehicle, no obvious trouble in our path, which seems a little too good to be true. And too good always sets off alarms for me. Except with Amanda.

  I start the engine, back us up, and put us in drive. And it’s official: the Assassin, the Poison Princess, and an Oriental Shorthair cat named Julie are on the road. I don’t know where that road leads us. I don’t know what role the cat has in any of this. She damn sure can’t be taught to attack or hunt down perps. But as for myself and Amanda, for now, we’re on our way to save lives. And then we’re going to try to take each other’s. But I’m pretty damn sure we’re going to fuck a time or ten before we get there. Because that’s what you do to your enemies. You fuck them.

  Chapter Seven

  Three years ago, and the day she left me . . .

  Amanda and I stand in the gardens of the fifty-million-dollar Davenport family penthouse in Manhattan, mimosas in our hands, a good twenty people around us. I’m in a navy-blue suit, my tie also a shade of blue, the silver one I wore that first night now tied to the bedpost in the apartment where we’ve played Mr. and Mrs. for three months.

  Amanda is in that same prim white dress, the one that stirred my need to see and touch the not-so-proper woman beneath to the point that she ended up tied to that aforementioned bedpost. That the dress hugs every one of her curves as intimately as I have only makes me ready to get the hell out of here, and back to the bedpost. It too would like to hug those curves.

  “How many more of these events do you think we’ll have to attend before the Davenport’s decide we’re worthy of ‘The Circle’?” Amanda asks, her long brown hair piled on her head, wisps of hair around her face, her green eyes glistening with amber in the sunlight.

  The Circle being an elite group of investors
that look out for their wallets, and not always with the best interests of America in mind; one particular Chinese entity is of special interest to the agency, and therefore us. “I have a good feeling about today,” I say. “And my feelings are always right.”

  “So you always say,” she comments, her eyes lighting. “Care to place a bet?”

  I step closer to her. “Does it include a tie and a bedpost?”

  “I was thinking more of the museum. If you lose, you have to go with me and actually try to like it.”

  “As long as I also get the bedpost and the tie.”

  Her pink-painted lips curve. “It will be a hardship, but I’ll endure.”

  “And if I win the bet?”

  “Name your prize.”

  “I get to spank you.”

  “I don’t do spankings.”

  “I get to spank you. ” My hand goes to her hip and I pull her closer. “I’ll make you like it. Just like I know you’ll make me like the museum. Take the bet, Mrs. Jones.”

  “All right,” she says. “I agree to your terms.” Her smile fades. “If you’re right, you might not get a chance to complete the terms. We’ll be split up.”

  “No,” I say, my voice firm. “They won’t split us up.”

  “They will. The same way they brought us together.”

  I reach up and swipe hair from her eyes. “Not this time. I have a plan we’ll talk about tonight.” Like her marrying me and saying fuck you to the agency.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Jones.”

  We turn to find a man in a tuxedo standing next to us. “Yes?” I ask.

  “I’ve been asked to seat you in Mr. and Mrs. Davenport’s private room.” He glances at our drinks. “Feel free to bring your glasses.”

  “Excellent,” I say, my hand settling possessively on Amanda’s back. “Lead the way.”

  Five minutes later we’re center-right of a twenty-thousand-dollar African wood table with a dozen people, a fireplace in the corner, a ten-thousand-dollar oriental rug beneath our feet. Our drinks are in front of us, along with chocolate croissants.

  Brad Davenport sits at the far-right end, his dark brown hair slicked back, while his wife, Laura, sits on the opposite end. They’re both in their thirties. Both are Yale educated. Both cobras when it comes to business. And for reasons the agency seem to know in advance, they click with us. They see us as newfound friends, their equals. A couple with a business and money to invest. But we aren’t sitting next to them for a reason. Over time we’re being evaluated by each person in their Circle.

  And so, the conversation and questions begin from yet another cycle of “friends,” the questions all the same:

  What business are you in?

  How long have you been in New York?

  Yadda yadda yadda.

  “So, Jennifer,” Betty, a hotel heiress billionaire, says, the name a reference to Amanda’s Mrs. Jones cover name. “I hear you’re a Chanel girl?”

  That’s it. I’ve reached my limit with talk of Chanel. My hand settles on Amanda’s leg, fingers walking her skirt up her leg. She reaches down and covers my hand, lifting her free wrist to display her bracelet. “My addiction,” she confesses, while I slide my fingers to her panties and watch her swallow hard. “I didn’t know my reputation was so well known,” she adds.

  “Laura told me,” Betty says. “She said you two have made several trips to the flagship store.”

  I stroke aside Amanda’s panties while her fingernails dig into my skin, which is hot as hell, and I’m now hard as hell. “Much to my husband’s distress,” Amanda says, while a man to my right laughs.

  “I feel your pain, my man,” he says to me. “But my golf bill is held up as evidence.”

  I slide a finger along the wet seam of Amanda’s sex. She stiffens and cuts a sharp hand through the air. “Men,” she says. “How often they forget the very special gifts we bring to our endeavors.”

  Betty laughs. “Oh so true, my dear.” She pats the table and I slide a finger inside Amanda as she adds, “We have to remind them who’s in charge.”

  My lips curve and I look at Amanda, my voice a low taunt, my thumb flicking her clit. “Is that how it is, Jennifer?”

  She looks at me and says, “You’re treading on dangerous ground, husband. ”

  Betty, and those listening in, all laugh. I, in turn, slide my finger from inside Amanda, and curl them around her panties. “Well then,” I say, “I guess I had better behave, now shouldn’t I?”

  She leans over and whispers in my ear, “You are going to pay for this. As in blue balls and all.”

  I laugh, and flatten my hand over her sex, a rumble from my chest I cannot contain, a problem I haven’t had since I was a child, if even then. She pushes her chair back, and I drag her dress back into place as she announces, “I must find the ladies’ room. Please feel free to torture my husband with the most embarrassing of questions while I’m gone, though I must insist you share details when I return.”

  “We will indeed,” Betty says. “But before you go, let me just enjoy this moment we’ve created with your husband all the more.” She glances at me. “Chanel can be beautiful, in many ways.” She glances between us. “There’s a charity Chanel runway show in a month downtown. Some people I believe you might find interesting based on my chats with Laura will attend. I’ll be sending you both an invitation.”

  “We’ll look forward to it,” I assure her, wondering how the agency tagged her as a minor player, when she is absolutely a major hitter. And I’m betting the interesting people include Ming, who authorized her to invite us.

  “We’re quite flattered by the invitation,” Amanda adds. “We will be there with our pocket books open and our interests piqued.”

  “Go powder your nose,” Betty says, waving Amanda on. “We’ll torment your husband for you.”

  Amanda laughs. “Thank you,” she says, then rushes away.

  I wave a finger. “I’m not staying for the torture. I’m going to have a word with my wife.”

  Betty gives me a nod. “I’m sure you do want a word with your wife.”

  I give her a nod and stand, pursuing Amanda and finding her in the main foyer as a waiter directs her to a hallway. I catch up to her, wrapping my arm around her and walking with her. “Don’t even think about going in that bathroom and making yourself come.”

  “I can’t believe you did that to me.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “Okay I can, and what was that Chanel thing? It’s a month from now. That’s a long time.”

  Before I can answer, a male voice calls out, “Collin,” which is my Mr. Jones code name.

  Amanda and I turn to find Brad Davenport approaching. “Chanel is going to be interesting, but it’s a month away,” he says, stopping in front of us. “And turns out, there’s someone who’s become impatient to meet Mr. and Mrs. Jones.” He glances between us. “Someone very powerful, who can make you both a tremendous amount of money.”

  “I’m intrigued,” Amanda says.

  “As am I,” I insert. “Do we get a name?”

  Brad gives a negative shake of his head. “He prefers to introduce himself.”

  “When?” I ask.

  “Eight o’clock at my private club and restaurant,” he replies.

  “Eight o’clock,” I say, and Brad gives us a twisted smile, before he turns and walks away.

  “What just happened?” Amanda says, watching him disappear around the corner.

  “It’s all one big mind fuck and test,” I say, turning to face her, my hands at her waist. “But can I just take a moment before we analyze this further to remind you that tonight is the night, they accepted us, thus I’ve just won our bet.”

  “Yes.” Her chin lifts. “I suppose you did.”

  “You know what that means, Mrs. Jones ?”

  “I know the terms of our agreement,” she says, her words formal, her voice firm in that way she masks her trepidation to everyone but me.

  My hand settles o
n her lower back. “Say it.”

  And because Amanda will never cower, despite what I know to be her nerves, she does. “You’re going to spank me.”

  I lean in and press my lips to hers, my hands settling on her backside. “And you’re going to like it, sweetheart. I promise.” And with that, I smack her cheek, to which she gives a small, controlled intake of air. That’s the thing about Amanda. She’s all about control. It’s her shelter. It’s her way of surviving. But that need to always hold it is exhausting her. It’s tearing her down. And now, I’m going to show her how it can be when she gives that control to me.

  Really gives it to me.

  I cup her face and tilt her gaze to mine. “I will never hurt you. Ever.” I kiss her, and drag my thumb over her lips. “Let’s finish this game they’re playing with us and get out of here.”

  “So you can spank me?”

  “No,” I say. “Not tonight. Tonight, we make a deal with a Chinese devil.”

  * * *

  Hours later, only a few minutes before we leave for the Davenports’ private club, I have a bit of déjà vu, a repeat of the night I first met Amanda.

  I exit the Manhattan bedroom of the expensive penthouse Amanda and I have shared in our façade as Mr. and Mrs. Jones for the past three months to find the balcony door off the living area open. A sweet, floral scent I now know as Amanda’s perfume lifts in the air, a favorite she indulges in now, with me, when anything predictable for an agent is otherwise dangerous. Crossing the room, I exit to the balcony and like that first night we met, she faces me. This time in a short, black dress that flows with the wind, as does her long brown hair, that I’ve come to know as silk in my hands, on my face, on my stomach. The neckline of that dress, a deep V that draws the eye, but shows nothing but creamy white skin. A dress that is fitting for an invitation to that private club, worn by a woman that I once was certain the agency would order me to kill.

  A woman that I would now die to protect. A woman whose kiss I crave. A woman whose smile pleases me, in ways I cannot begin to define.