Do you really want his attention? A quick no followed.
She also didn’t want to be alone. After the bazaar, she returned to her room for a shower and a nap and ended up staring at the palm ceiling fan spinning over her bed. Anxious and on edge, she considered packing and leaving two days earlier than her planned return to Atlanta.
But why, why the urge to run when none of the hardships she’d suffered in her twenty-five years had ever caused her to cut bait and swim? Something about that guy unnerved her, and she didn't like it.
She wasn’t a runner. Had never been and wouldn’t start now. Besides, she’d left her room hours ago and hadn’t seen him.
A beefy hand landed on her knee and squeezed. She grabbed his middle finger and bent it backward in response.
“Hey!” Her date snatched his hand away. His startled glare was all about “What. The. Fuck.”
She crooked her finger and waited for him to lean in so she could whisper in his ear. “I’ll tell you when you can touch me.” She tossed her napkin onto her unfinished seabass, downed her third drink, and shoved her chair back. She snatched up her purse, gave Daisy the silent code for “I’m outta here,” and headed for the exit. By the time she hit the atrium, Daisy was next to her.
“Chicks before dicks,” she singsonged.
And that’s why they were best friends because, at the end of the day, they always had each other's backs.
They shared a high five and a laugh as they followed the reggae music to the bonfire on the beach. Bailey kicked off her sandals and let her toes sink into the warm sand as she hiked over the dunes with Daisy. She had the right idea wearing a short flowy skirt that allowed her to enjoy the cool breeze on her toned legs. Bailey wished she could roll up her palazzo pants, but that wouldn’t keep them from rolling back into place. At least the warm air caressed her back and shoulders in the lacy halter top she matched with the pants.
Daisy’s fuckbuddy showed up and snatched her away before they got to the bonfire circle. Not so much a bonfire, but more like a large firepit. Still, with the music, and the cold drinks, and the dancing bodies, it was nice.
A guy separated from the circle and came to her. He was young and cute, with cut abs she couldn’t help appreciating.
“Dance?” Not waiting for her reply, he hooked her waist and grooved to the music.
She kept it PG-13, though didn’t mind when he pulled her close and pressed his body into hers. Daisy, on the other hand, went full rated R, bordering on XXX, as were most of the couples grinding on each other. Bailey slipped her phone out of her purse and snapped a pic. Daisy saw the flash and posed for another one.
“Crazy!” Bailey screamed at her bestie and slipped her phone into her pants pocket for easy access.
Her dance partner's hand moved from her waist and cupped her ass. He was really slick about it, easing her into him to cop a feel. You know, any other day, he would've gotten a fist down his throat. Maybe it was the liquor humming in her blood, blunting the remaining edginess over her strange day. Whatever the reason, she went with it when he brought their pelvises together.
His erection poked her. And instead of being turned on, she giggled. Not at his erection. The absurdity of the situation struck her. She’d come to Jamaica with a box of condoms for a week of uncomplicated sex, the same box she’d opened and used once with Richard six months ago.
She extricated herself from her would be lover’s arms. He was a gentleman and let her go. “Thanks for the dance. I’m gonna go home, alone.”
He pressed his hand to his heart and gave her a sad puppy dog look she almost fell for. “Aww. You sure? We could dance some more. No strings.”
Maybe she should… “I’m sorry. I’m exhausted. You won't be alone for long. Those ladies over there have been eying you." She patted him on the shoulder and strolled away.
She found Daisy still shaking her ass and signaled that she was turning in, then made her way around the fire pit to return to her bungalow.
Sandals dangled in one hand, palazzo pants fisted to keep from tripping, clutch braced under her arm, Bailey paused. Between the dancing flames of the fire pit, the guy from the bazaar appeared.
Not the thief, but her rescuer. He stood there watching her while people danced around him.
Buddy. You are fucking with the wrong girl.
Bailey continued her way, her pace deliberate. She had options and utilized her first one. “Excuse me,” she called to a security guard standing near the entrance to the hotel, her pace unchanged as she approached. “There’s a man following me.” Wasn’t quite true, but the guard didn’t need to know that. “I believe he’s a guest, but I’m feeling very uncomfortable.”
The guard looked over her shoulder, peering into the night. “I will speak to him right away. Can you point him out to me, please?”
She didn’t expect him to be standing under a streetlamp, fully illuminated, waiting for her to point a finger labeling him a stalker. Though, it would’ve made things easier. “He’s six-three, dressed in a white shirt with dark jeans. Dark hair with a beard and mustache, silver watch on his left wrist, no jewelry. Don’t go alone. I saw a gun in his waistband.”
The guard unclipped his walkie-talkie. “Need back up. Man with a gun on the property.” He gave the description Bailey provided as he jogged into the crowd.
Three more security guards dashed out of the building. That gave her some breathing room, but she wasn’t stupid enough to believe she was out of the woods.
She waited for the guard to return but spotted another guard moving through the crowd coming at her. “Ma’am, I will escort you to your room.”
“Did you find him?”
“Not yet ma’am, but I’m certain we will. For your safety, I will see you to your quarters.”
That was a good idea. She nodded and cut through the hotel, taking the long way through the full lobby, the restaurant, and the conference center. Her guard’s phone rang. He turned the volume down and gave her an apologetic smile.
They exited out of a side door on a path leading to the private bungalows lining the beach. Hers was next to Daisy’s, the last two bungalows out of ten.
She loved the privacy when she arrived three days ago. Now, all she saw was the danger. Isolated, with dim lighting, the music from the firepit and the outdoor club on the second-floor terrace would drown out any scream.
“Have they found him?” she asked the guard.
“Not yet,” he said quickly with another smile.
How would he know that when he hadn’t checked in. Clipped to his shoulder, the walkie-talkie was silent. He just kept grinning.
Bailey let her sandals slip from her fingers into a potted plant lining the walkway. The flat thongs wouldn't help, and the guard didn't notice as he rechecked his phone. She opened her clutch and rifled around the inside.
“Trying to get this keycard,” she mumbled to herself while pushing the keycard out of the way. “Small purse, but I’ve got everything in it.” Lipstick, comb, gum, credit card, and a pen.
Her bungalow was up ahead. She didn’t have much time. Palming the Bic with her last three fingers, she pulled out her keycard, tucked her purse under her arm, and switched the keycard to her other hand.
Slow breath in. Slow breath out. The door to her bungalow was up ahead. The guard cut in front of her. “Allow me, ma’am.” He pulled a keycard with a black strip down the middle and swiped it through the lock. A low snick, a turn of the knob, and the door swung open to the softly lit interior.
He stepped back, giving her plenty of room to sweep past him and enter. Then, he would follow her inside. She wondered how much he was paid to what? Keep her here and tenderized her for the main event? Rape her? Kill her? Both? Was the man who’d rescued her at the bazaar behind this? She didn’t buy that last train of thought. He wasn’t the type to need help to take what he wanted whether it be a woman or a life.
Bailey stepped into her bungalow. The maid had tidied up. Fresh sheets, fr
esh mints on her pillow, a towel twisted into the shape of a palm tree. Lamp, towel, chair, coffee pot, and mugs, all the things she could use to defend herself, combined with all her years of training, crystallized in her head.
Adrenalin pouring into her bloodstream, Bailey tossed her clutch onto the chaise, gripped the pen tight in her hand and spun. Sure enough, the guard was inside her room, with his phone pressed to his ear. “Bring da money. I got her.”
He nudged the door closed behind him, but it banged open and a big body barreled into him. Stunned by the fast assault, the guard was knocked to the ground. A rubber-soled boot to the throat kept him there, along with a silencer to the temple. Held by the man from the bazaar.
“Who sent you? Answer fast. I don’t have time to waste.”
The guard managed a garbled sound until the boot eased off his throat. “Didn’t get a name. Promised me money to keep her here for him.”
Bailey backed up. She could do a lot of things. Dodging a bullet wasn’t one of them. If she could make it to the screen door and onto the beach, she may have a chance to make it back to the hotel.
“Don’t. Move.” His gaze landed on her and leeched all the heat from her body.
A sharp rap sounded at the bungalow door.
He kicked the guard in the jaw, knocking him out cold, and crossed the short distance separating him from her. His gun still in his hand.
“What do you want?” she croaked, afraid for the first time today.
The knock sounded again at the door, harder, angrier.
He stepped right up to her, towered over her, crowded her, tried to intimidate. “Bailey Michela Monroe.”
Body blow to the gut. How the fuck does he know my name?
"Your father sent me to save your life, and that's exactly what I'm going to do." He pointed the gun at the door and fired.
Chapter Four
"Bullshit. My father doesn't know I exist." She wanted the words to come out hard as an indisputable fact; instead, they were a raspy whisper.
That got his head cranked to the side and his brows furrowed with a silent question. “Henry Murray. Also known as Hank, is your father, is he not?”
He had the right name, but that didn't mean anything.
Shots pierced the cheap wood of the door. Bailey ducked and dove onto the chaise. She had nothing for cover, except her purse which wouldn’t offer much. Mr. No Name snatched her hand and pulled her to the screen door. He unlocked it, slid it open a crack, and slipped onto the deck. He held a hand up for her to wait.
A gunman in front of her. A gunman behind her. No other options available, she waited and counted off the seconds. She made it to thirty, then he threw the screen wide and hauled her ass out of the room.
“Run. I’m right behind you.”
No shoes on her feet, Bailey ran. The man claiming her father sent him to save her, close behind.
Yeah, claiming.
He shoved her left, she stumbled as a bullet clipped a nearby palm tree. He spun and returned fire while she huddled in the bushes. “Why does someone want me dead?” she hissed.
“They want me dead.”
That was a relief.
“So they can kidnap and torture you to get to Hank.”
That was bad.
He hauled her up by her arm and pushed her in front of him. They took the long way around the party, through overgrown bushes hiding what the hotel didn’t want the guests to see and exited through a broken gate into an alley filled with dumpsters. She ran through filthy, stagnant water, praying she didn’t slice her feet open and end up having to amputate a limb.
“Right.”
That single word had her veering right into a parking lot.
“The Celica.”
She raced up to a battered Celica and hopped into the passenger seat. Her savior dropped into the driver’s seat. Gun pointed out the side window, with his free hand he started the car and shifted the gears. The engine roared much louder than any Celica she’d ever heard. A man raced out of the alley and had to dive behind a dumpster or eat bullets. Her savior didn’t stop until his gun ran dry and the hotel was in the rearview mirror.
Her heart had relocated to her throat, and sweat coated every inch of her, while the man next to her was as cool as his icy eyes. He sat in his bucket seat as if he owned the world even though his knees hit the underside of the dashboard.
“What is your name?”
Focused on the road, he took his time answering. “Emmet.”
Not good enough. “Last or first?”
“First.”
She folded her arms and waited for the rest. And continued to wait. Fine. “Prove you know Hank.”
“When we get to the airport.”
Airport? She was not getting on a plane with him. However, he didn’t need to know this yet. “Prove it now.”
That got her his attention, well, a quick glance, and then he refocused on the road. “When we get to the airport.”
Bailey settled back in the seat and studied the few road signs. Not easy in the dark, on a road cutting through the jungle.
She didn’t know this man, and jumping out in the middle of nowhere with another man willing to kill and kidnap her, wasn’t smart. But she would be ready. With the airport an hour away, she would have her chance.
Thirty minutes later, they drove through a bustling town she didn’t remember driving through when she first arrived. People milled about. There had to be someone willing to help her, get her to the consulate. When the car rolled to a stop at a red light, she took a chance and yanked on the handle.
And nothing happened.
“Lock is disabled.”
Bailey cranked her head around at him while he slammed a new clip into his gun. On their left, a police car rolled up next to them.
“I know you’re thinking about screaming, slugging me, drawing attention to the car.” He placed the gun on his lap and returned his hands to the wheel. He tipped his head in greeting at the lone officer. Focused back on the road, he whispered, "Do so, and that man will die. His blood will be on your hands. Can you live with that, Bailey?"
She swallowed the sudden lump blocking her throat, keeping her from breathing.
Now, he fully met her gaze. "Your father gave me one job, and I will not fail. I will kill without a moment of hesitation and sleep the sleep of an innocent babe afterward. Understand me?”
Yes. She understood perfectly.
Hank had sent a man with no heart, no moral compass, no conscience. A man who did as he pleased. A man just like him. Hank had sent her a killer.
Chapter Five
The car slowed. “Wake up.”
Bailey wasn’t asleep. She’d rested her eyes and centered herself for whatever came next because she wasn’t getting on that plane.
Sitting up, she studied the small airport with a spat of two propeller airplanes parked well back from the runway. The hell she was getting on one of those. Gated, they needed entry, which was provided by a man armed with an AK-47 slung over his shoulder.
“One of your men?” she asked when he waved them through.
“No,” he growled, clearly not happy about it. A large hangar came into view. “Listen well. When I get out of the car, you will stay in the car until I come for you. Understand me.”
Statement, not a question needing an answer. Why formed on her tongue and stayed there as three men blocked the hangar entrance, two of them armed. Behind them, a G6 waited.
Emmet parked, but he didn't cut the engine. He reached into the back seat and retrieved a duffel bag. As he climbed out of the car, she caught, "Streets, how are you," from the guy in the center before Emmet slammed the car door closed.
Bailey hustled her butt over the gears and eased into the driver's seat. No one noticed, and if they did, no one cared.
She could shift into reverse, spin the car around, crash through the gate to freedom, and no one could stop her. Instead, she hit the window button.
Did Emmet hear the gl
ass lowering? If he had, his attention didn’t deviate from the men in front of him. Her foot hovered over the gas, her hand rested on the gear shift. She could be out of there in seconds, simply shift into drive and hit the gas. Except, what if this Emmet asshole hadn’t lied and this wasn’t some elaborate kidnapping? What if Hank had sent him to protect me?
Options. Options.
Emmet moved in front of the car and rested the bag on the hood. He unzipped it and pulled out two bricks of cash. Separated by a windshield, their gazes met. He stared as if he knew her indecision. Should she trust him? Could she? Even if Hank had sent him, which was reason enough to head for the hills. Fuck. How could she when she didn’t trust Hank, never had.
A fraction of a smile tweaked his lips at the same time he gave a subtle shake of his head.
“What going on?” one of the men shouted, his accent thick.
“Getting your cash.” Emmet angled sideways, presenting a smaller target, and allowing her to see the trio. “Send one of your men over to collect.”
Middleman motioned for his associate to get moving. He came forward, snatched the cash off the hood and returned to his boss. Money in hand, middleman weighed the brick as if he could tell the amount by touch alone.
Would he question the amount, demand Emmet give him more? Or was there truly honor among thieves?
“What else in dey bag?”
“Dirty underwear.”
Middleman chuckled. "Is dat all?”
Emmet’s hand slipped beneath his shirt and out came his gun at his side. “Come see.” Clearly a threat though spoken softly.
The men carrying the AK’s stepped up to the challenge and got a gun pointed at them from Emmet, and the G6 parked behind them. Someone was on the stairs, with a big ass gun. Friend? Foe? Shit could get messy.
Bailey revved the engine of the Celica. “Get out of the way,” she mumbled. Running him over would defeat the point. Emmet didn’t move.
Run him over.
She hit the gas. The back tires smoked and the souped-up engine, that baby roared. The body may be old, but the heart of the beast was young and ready for roadkill.
Plain Jane and the Hitman Page 3
