“There’s a small college in Jackson,” Armond says. “My very own nephew attends. There is a coffee shop in town with a name that will make your blood boil. Very defendable. When?”
I glance at the map. “Two hours normal speed. Trying to stay under the radar.”
“Plenty of time,” he says. “Take care, my friend.”
Mia pops her head up. She was listening. I figured as much.
“No stilettos!” she says.
Armond laughs. “No movie heroine here, I see, all high heels and dramatic hair amid the gunfire.”
“I’ll be the practical kind,” Mia says. Her affection for Armond is obvious in her pleased expression. “Hair back. Body armor. And sensible shoes.”
“I’ll see what I can do. But perhaps one small addition, for the bedroom?”
Mia’s face turns crimson.
“Ah, sorry, I should not be so coarse,” he says. “My apologies.”
“Good-bye, Armond,” I say. “And thank you.” I switch off the screen.
Mia sighs. “Do you sleep with EVERY woman you encounter?”
I exit the highway to take the back roads to Jackson. “I missed out on this eighty-year-old woman in Romania —”
“Jax! Don’t be mean!”
I can barely contain my laugh. “I tried! She said I needed more potatoes first.”
She punches my arm, and I trap her hand inside the crook of my elbow. I set the car to auto-navigate the narrow two-lane road and hold her fingers with mine.
Her eyes glow a little when I touch her. Just the way I like it. I wonder when I will move us to the next level, beyond the simple bedroom activities and on to those with a little more kick. Something tells me Mia is going to be very receptive.
Maybe tonight.
She drops her head back to the console, letting me stroke her fingers. I look forward to this night together, pushing her, seeing how far she bends.
Nothing’s broken her so far.
4: Mia
Arriving at this fancy hotel will be nothing like the last.
For one, I’m not tied up in ropes. It’s not the middle of the night. And there’s no back entrance with people who know who Jax is. We’re having to arrive under a false name.
Thankfully, I don’t have to show up in my hay-covered pajamas. We met with Armond’s nephew Brink at a coffee shop in some small town on the way. He was loaded down with two enormous suitcases of clothes and shoes and a dizzying array of shampoos, skin creams, and girly accessories.
Including a pair of over-the-knee black leather stiletto boots with peekaboo toes.
That Armond.
Jax hadn’t been able to tell me the name of our stop until he suddenly jerked the car off the road and pulled into a place called “Carly’s Joe.” He scowled like the sign was a grave insult, but when I asked him about it, all he said was “I used to know a Carly in Vegas, and ‘Ho’ would be a better name.” That’s all I could get out of him.
I can’t imagine any woman doing anything but swooning for Jax, but then there’s this Jovana woman. She’s trying to get him killed.
Although sometimes, I understand that impulse too.
I sort through my suitcase in the coffee shop bathroom and select a soft pair of jeans and a bright emerald sweater. A pair of navy ballerina flats make me feel normal again. I do sort of miss the Phase One trainee shoes that are now probably bits of leather and circuits in my blown-up bedroom.
My first act of Vigilantism and it’s gone forever.
Jax seems relaxed as we navigate through Nashville and pull into the valet circle of a sprawling hotel. He’s back in one of the fancy suits I’m used to seeing him in. Armond provided for him as well. This one is charcoal gray with the thinnest stripes.
As we drive, though, he sheds the suit jacket and tosses it in the back. With his shirt unbuttoned at the throat and his sleeves rolled up to his elbow, he looks almost casual.
He catches me watching and nods in acknowledgment of my attention. It isn’t exactly a loving gesture, but I’ll take it. Jax doesn’t smile at much, and I’m just so glad I’m here that I won’t ask for anything more.
Pulling up to a hotel makes my stomach flutter. I have a little better idea about what’s going to happen now.
My pulse jumps as I think about the night before with Jax. The blood rushing down low brings out the mild ache. That soreness is nothing, though, compared to what I want to feel. Even the books I’ve read couldn’t do justice to actually living it.
His attention is focused as he drops the car into park, scanning the doors, the doormen, no doubt watching for abnormalities and scanning for threats. Then his eyes rest on me and he calms.
This makes my stomach settle. I’m good for him. He doesn’t know it yet, or won’t admit it. But I can see it.
The valet opens his door, and a young man in a uniform starts pulling the suitcases from the trunk. We are barely through the hotel entrance when we’re stopped by an older gentleman in a suit.
“Viscount Argetti,” he says smoothly. “We’ve arranged for an early dinner in your room, plus the champagne you asked for. Here is your key and the elevator pass to the executive floor. Please let me know if I can be of any assistance.” He bows like Jax is some sort of royalty.
“There is one small matter,” Jax says.
“Anything, sir.” The man seems eager to hear.
“I’d appreciate it if we were allowed to use an exit that is less,” Jax glances at the glass entrance to the hotel, “public.”
“Certainly, sir,” the man says. “Just ring me and ask for an escort. I’ll send our most discreet security to show you out.”
“Thank you,” Jax says. “It is a load off my mind, as my wife here is expecting and we would like to avoid any stress.”
The man bows again. “Then congratulations, sir. We will do our utmost to prevent anyone from noticing your arrivals or departures.”
“Thank you,” Jax says and takes my hand to lead me across the lobby.
When we get to the elevator, I whisper, “Viscount? Expecting?”
Jax almost smiles. I see the corners of his lips come close to lifting. “A ruse that ensures my situation is managed to my expectations, and our privacy is assured.” He pats my belly. “Everyone wants to protect a baby.”
“You’re terrible,” I say, even as my stomach flips from his touch and the very idea of having a child with this man. I wonder what it takes to have a Vigilante vasectomy reversed.
“You haven’t even begun to know how much,” he says and presses the button for the top floor. It blinks, the elevator unmoving until he waves the executive key card at the pad. We begin our smooth ascent.
When the doors open, I’m frozen in place for a moment. Instead of a hallway, we’re in a large atrium, sunlit from above with wide skylights. Sofas are scattered through the room and there is a bar in one corner with a silent observant bartender.
There are only four doors out of this room, two on each side. Jax takes us to the right and opens the second door.
If I thought the hotel back in St. Louis was fancy, I don’t even know what to call this.
A fireplace so large you could walk into it dominates one wall. Above it is a towering painting of a girl playing a piano. There’s a private bar in here too, minus the bartender, fully stocked with bottles. And a grand piano in the corner.
Like the atrium, one wall is floor-to-ceiling glass. Nashville spreads out below, colorful and bright in the late afternoon.
“It’s beautiful,” I say. I walk over to the piano to trail my fingers along the keys. “Do you play?”
“Rarely,” he says. He walks over to the bar and pulls a bottle of champagne from a silver ice bucket. While he opens it, I notice an archway and head that direction. It leads into a dining area with the same window view. A round table is set with covered dishes and two candles, already lit. A bottle of wine is open and waiting to be poured.
“You’re feeding me this time,” I call out over my sho
ulder. “I must have gone up a notch on your scale.”
I hold on to the back of the cushioned chair. Everything in this room is a soft blue. The wallpaper. The chairs. The tablecloth. Even the dishes are white with blue trim. It’s like living in a dream.
Jax comes up behind me. “Yes, a few notches,” he says. He wraps his arms around me, each hand holding a sparkling flute of champagne.
I take one from him and he turns me around. It doesn’t feel like afternoon now, but much later in the day. We each take a sip. It’s delicious, bubbly and light, like drinking air.
Jax looks down at me, and I shiver a little. Even though we did do all those things last night, I’m still a little lost about the places we might go.
“I probably still have hay in my hair,” I blurt.
Jax gives me one of those rare smiles, and I swear it’s like being lit up from within. “You always say the most unexpected things,” he says.
“I know. It’s a curse.” God, I’m so embarrassed. Why is someone like him interested in this small-town country girl?
“It’s endearing.” He takes my glass and sets them both on the table. He pulls out a chair. “Let’s eat something,” he says. “Then we can take care of the errant hay.”
My face burns hot, but I just plunk down in the chair he offers.
I peek under the silver dome. The aroma of grilled steak and creamy pasta makes me want to swoon.
Jax removes his lid and peers at the meal with suspicion.
“You don’t have a poison-sensing gadget?” I ask. “I can eat first if you’re worried.”
Jax picks up a fork. “It’s my curse,” he says. “Mistrusting food.”
If I’d been poisoned twice at hotels, I’d probably be the same way. “Offer still stands. I can go first.”
He shakes his head. He cuts a piece of the steak, carefully watching the juice, then lifts it to his mouth.
For a moment I’m mesmerized by each of his movements. The swift precise movement of the knife. The perfect angle of the fork in his hand.
I’m such a goner.
“It’s delicious,” he says. “You should try it.”
I startle at his words. I’ve been staring. “Yes!” I say. “Of course.”
The first bite tastes like pure heaven. I think I’ve been too busy or freaked out to eat anything since I met him, even during those couple of days apart. I find myself wanting to scarf it all quickly and force myself to slow down.
“Aunt Bea never cooked anything like this,” I say.
He watches me with bemusement. It’s the most relaxed I’ve seen him since that first night at the hotel in St. Louis, when he watched me with those hawk eyes.
“Tell me more about this aunt of yours,” he says, his tone even. He pours the dark red wine into a glass by my plate.
A prickly sensation goes down my spine as my senses go on alert. This has always been a difficult topic. He has accused me of lying about my aunt so many times.
I swallow another creamy bit of pasta, knowing full well I won’t be able to eat anymore if this conversation takes a bad turn. I take a deep breath. “She took me in when my parents died.”
“A boating accident, right?”
“Yes. They were always big regatta racers. They liked going out in storms.”
Jax’s dark eyebrows draw together, creating his hooded look that always makes me a little afraid. “Even with you?”
“Not in storms,” I say. “Although it happened.” I can remember being wet and cold, the wind tossing our sailboat around. “My dad tied me to the mast once, to keep me safe. I wasn’t afraid. I knew the knots.” I smile at the memory.
“Sounds frightening for a child,” he says.
I shake my head. “Oh, no. I felt amazingly free, tied down, so that I could stare at the storm, the crazy waves. It was exhilarating. That loss of control in the face of such unstoppable power. It’s one of my favorite memories.”
Jax sits back in his chair, watching me. He lifts his wine glass to his lips and just holds it there. For a moment I’m totally mesmerized by this.
“So you do have memories of them,” he says.
I pick up the wine. Liquid courage. I get that now. It’s heavy and strong flavored. Jax probably doesn’t even know I’m only twenty and don’t drink. It doesn’t matter here.
“Sure,” I say. “I was eight. I can remember them.”
“Did they ever leave you alone with a babysitter or family friend?” he asks.
I don’t know where he’s going with this. “Sure, to go out sometimes. I had a girl named Lori who would watch me.”
“Just for evenings? Or longer?” He leans forward and sets down his glass, fully attentive.
“Just a few hours. Never overnight.” I pick up my fork then set it down again. My appetite is gone. This feels like an interrogation now.
“Did one of them go away for long periods?” he continues.
I try to think, my face hot. Suddenly I get a terrible, awful feeling that everything that has happened between us was to get this information from me — even last night. What do I know about Jax? Other than he is wanted by a lot of people?
My courage flees completely, and I can’t eat another bite.
“Did they?” he asks again.
“I don’t remember!” I say. “Why are you asking this?”
He seems to realize he’s being too harsh and sits back again. “It doesn’t matter. Not now. Eat, Mia. It’s good.”
I can’t possibly do it. My stomach is in knots. “Why do you want to know about them?”
His gaze shifts to his wine glass. He swirls the liquid easily. “I just want to know everything about you.”
I don’t buy it. I try to let go of my tension, but it doesn’t quite ease. I make a great show of cutting off another piece of meat and sticking it in my mouth.
He reaches across the table, his fingers lightly grazing the back of my hand where I’m holding the stem of the glass. “This is our down time,” he says quietly. “I won’t ruin it.”
My belly unfurls a little. I swallow. “What about your parents?” I ask. “Did they leave you sometimes?”
He tilts his head, as if trying to decide how to answer, then says, “Of course they did. They were Vigilantes. They had missions.”
I choke and snatch up my glass, breaking his touch. Does he think my parents were Vigilantes? I gulp champagne, realize the bubbles are making me cough more, and switch to wine.
“Easy, Mia,” he says.
“Is that what you think?” I sputter. “That my parents were like you?” I shake my head. “No way. They were normal, ordinary parents. My dad worked at a bank. My mom had a part-time job as a florist.”
His eyes don’t let go of my gaze. I’m not sure he believes me, or if he thinks I’m deluded. But he lets it go. “And what did your aunt do?” he asks.
I frown. So we’re back to that sore subject. “I don’t remember her doing anything. She was always just there.”
“Was she independently wealthy? Have you uncovered accounts since she died?”
My voice is small and timid. “No.”
“And you never wondered how she kept up that house or paid her bills?”
“She got money for the hay,” I tell him. “The neighbors used her land and gave her a cut.”
“Was that enough?” Jax won’t let up.
My anger starts to rise up. “She didn’t need much. She didn’t have a mortgage to pay. Just electric and gas and a few little things here and there.”
Jax slices at his steak with more power than necessary. Somehow this makes me think of him killing someone. He said he had done that.
My anxiety peaks. I have to know who this man is.
“How did you kill him?” I blurt.
He stops, fork halfway to his mouth. “Kill who?”
“The guy. The one that got you put in jail.”
He sets the fork back down. “Strangulation.”
“With your bare h
ands?”
“With my bare hands.”
I stare at those hands of his. Beautiful. Strong. I can still see them on my body, his dark fingers against my skin.
And they had killed someone.
“Why?” I ask.
He picks up his wine and takes a sip before answering, looking over the rim at me.
“Because I was under the impression at the time that he was trafficking young girls in the sex trade.”
My jaw falls open. Hell, I would have killed him too.
“But you were wrong?” I ask.
“No, he was in the business. But I had no idea he was a Vigilante.”
“But killing him was good, right?”
He holds his glass with both hands. “I don’t take killing someone lightly.”
“How do you know who to kill and who not to kill?”
He twirls the glass, looking intently at the swirling wine. “Generally, if they are shooting at you, it’s okay to kill them.”
“But this guy. He wasn’t shooting at you?”
“Doesn’t matter. He was a Vigilante. You don’t murder one of your own.” Now his eyes meet mine again.
I have to clear my throat before I can squeak out, “But you’re a Vigilante and they’re trying to kill you now.”
“That’s different. I’m under a kill order.” He sets down the glass without taking a sip and picks up his fork. “They’re following orders.”
“Does a kill order ever get canceled?” I ask, my heart hammering.
“I don’t know,” he says, twisting the fork in his pasta. “There’s never been one for a Vigilante before.”
My back is ramrod straight. My hands are in tight fists. I don’t see any way for us to get out of this. How long can we go before they catch up to him?
My face burns hot. I pick up my fork, trying to quell my nerves. This is what I wanted, right? To have Jax to myself. To go with him no matter the consequences. But now my only home is in pieces. Everything I own is lost.
Suddenly I remember the stash under the pantry floor.
“Won’t the fire department find all the Vigilante things?” I ask. “Won’t they know something was up?”
Jax shakes his head. “It will be handled.”
The Vigilante's Lover III Page 2
