by Cynthia Sax
“I don’t know anything,” I blurt.
“Then why did you run?” The woman’s voice sounds vaguely familiar.
I must have heard it on the video. “I thought you were a saleswoman.” I relay the first excuse I think of.
My hostile’s mouth twitches. “You’re an awful liar.”
She reaches behind her and I inhale sharply, bracing for a gun or a knife or whatever trained professionals use to kill their targets.
“And you do know something.” She extracts a phone and I release my breath, dizzy with relief. “No woman in her right mind would pair a chiffon gown with closed-toe shoes.” She quotes one of my texts to Hawke. “The woman in the blue dress is a brunette. The blonde hair is clearly fake, as no blonde would ever wear that shade of blush. I’m almost certain she’s the closed-toe-shoe-wearing woman from the previous video.” This is the exact wording from the text I sent days ago.
“How did you get my texts?” I demand, my fear morphing into full-fledged terror. “I sent those to Hawke. Did you do something to him?” I approach her, no longer caring about my own safety. “Because I swear, if you touched a hair on his head, you’ll wish you were never born.”
She blinks, her eyelashes extremely long and lush. “Oh yeah?” A smile spreads across her exquisite face. “You think you can take me, little girl?” Her brown eyes sparkle as she clips her phone to her extremely hideous belt. “I’d like to see you try.”
She’s a trained killer. I’m an unemployed fashionista. I know I’ll lose this battle, but no one hurts my man and gets away with it.
“Fuck you, bitch.” I barrel toward her, swinging the hairbrush, prepared to smack the shit out of her.
She knocks the brush from my hands easily and flips me onto my back on the floor. The air whooshes from my lungs and pain shoots up my leg. “You’re my bitch now.” The hostile straddles my waist and restrains my thrashing fists. I tug on my arms, writhe, kick, and can’t dislodge her. The woman laughs.
She’ll kill me now, as she’s killed countless others, as she likely killed Hawke. My eyes sting with unshed tears. I never told him how I felt, and now it’s too late for me, for us.
“If you hurt her, you’ll be cleaning the Road Gator’s latrines for the rest of your life.”
I recognize this voice also. The hostile turns her head. I take advantage of the distraction, wrench my wrist free and strike upward. She dodges my clumsy punch without any effort and recaptures my wrist, the woman having eyes in the side of her head.
“She attacked me,” the hostile states, a hint of guilt in her words.
I glance toward the door. Dawg, Hawke’s war-worn friend, gazes down at us, a smile on his grim lips. He knows she’s an assassin, yet he isn’t doing anything.
Maybe he doesn’t know what she’s done. “She hurt Hawke.”
Dawg frowns. “Did she say that?”
“No,” we reply in unison. “But she has the texts I sent to him,” I add. “She must have done something to him.” I yank on my arms. The woman doesn’t release me.
“You, a tiny untrained civilian, attacked a much-larger hostile because you suspected she harmed one of the most skilled marines I’ve ever met?” Dawg’s gray eyebrows lift.
“I’m average-sized,” I mutter, aware that my actions didn’t make sense. They laugh, both of them, and I scowl. “Are you going to take her out, or what?”
Dawg glances at the woman. The woman raises her chin and holds his gaze. Seconds, minutes pass. Hawke’s friend looks away, shame reddening his wrinkled face.
“Shit.” I struggle to free myself. He won’t do anything.
“Relax.” The woman pins my arms to the floor. “I didn’t hurt your precious Hawke; I doubt I could, and I’d never hurt you. You’re one of us now.”
“I’m one of you?” I huff. “What the hell does that mean?” I fight to be free. “Have I been infected by some alien assassin virus? Will I soon lose all sense of style?”
Dawg brays, his donkey laugh filling the room.
“Stop moving and listen to me.” The woman slams her palms against my chest, knocking me flat.
“Listening,” I wheeze, unable to do more than this.
“Does this sound familiar?” Her face settles into an emotionless mask. “Text your contact information and your location to this number and I’ll personally ensure your message reaches Mr. Rainer,” she recites, her tone cool, her words professional.
My eyes widen. “You’re Ellen.” This gorgeous, fiery creature works for the Organization, spends time with Hawke. Jealousy coils low in my stomach.
“You didn’t introduce yourself?” Dawg asks.
Ellen rolls her eyes. “She didn’t give me a chance. She took one look at me and ran.”
“I assumed you were here to kill me,” I mutter, embarrassed by my overreaction.
“If I was here to kill you, you’d already be dead,” she states with no uncertainty.
“That’s good to know.” I’m surrounded by crazy people. “Can I get up now?” I wiggle under her.
Ellen jumps to her feet, her ponytail bobbing against her shoulders. She steps to the side and holds out her hand.
I eye her calloused fingers warily, not wishing to be thrown to the floor a second time, and I attempt to stand on my own, aching with the effort, my toe throbbing.
“You’re stubborn and brave.” Ellen grabs one of my hands and drags me upright, her lean biceps flexing. “You might be worthy of him, though you can’t fight worth shit. That attack of yours was embarrassing.” She shakes her head.
“That shirt of yours is embarrassing,” I retort, offended by her insult and her sense of style. “Do you shop at the same store Hawke does? That isn’t even a woman’s T-shirt.” The garment hangs from her breasts, making her appear as though she has no waist.
Dawg snorts. Ellen glances down at her chest. “It’s a T-shirt. They’re all the same.” She sounds serious, as though she truly believes the nonsense she’s spouting.
“They’re not all the same.” I stare at her, appalled. “Next, you’ll ask if shoes are important.”
Crimson creeps up her neck and Dawg peals another round of donkey laughter. Ellen glowers at him and his mirth abruptly dissipates. He hadn’t lied at the Road Gator. Ellen does scare the shit out of him.
“Thanks to you,” Ellen says through gritted teeth, “I’m now aware that clothing and makeup may be weaknesses of mine. Hawke questions my competency, and the entire team has been busting my ass about failing Phase One Girl.”
Dawg guffaws, earning him a stern look from Ellen.
“They should bust your ass,” I agree. “Your T-shirt is hideous,” I point out, unable to move past her horrendous top. “I have to fix it.”
I tug on the hem and knot it tightly under her full breasts. She has a thin waist and abs to die for, muscles where I’ve never seen muscles on a woman.
“See? Better.” My satisfaction is edged with misgivings. If Hawke hadn’t noticed Ellen before this, he will now.
She looks down at her body as though she’s seeing it for the first time. “This is why I dropped by,” Ellen states brusquely, waving one hand at her washboard abs. “I need your help to put together a look for tomorrow night.”
It takes me a full minute to digest this bizarre request. “You chased me into my bedroom and flung me to the floor because you wanted fashion advice?” I gaze up at her, stunned.
“Yes.” Ellen grins sheepishly.
She wants to learn about clothes. That’s the only failing I can see in the woman. Ellen is strong, drop-dead gorgeous, can help Hawke protect others while not requiring protection herself. She’s already part of their group, trusted and respected by his men, included in their closed circle of confidentiality, a circle that excludes me.
Ellen is the better choice to be Hawke’s girl. If I realize this, my extremely perceptive military man will soon figure this out also. It’s merely a matter of time before he leaves my civilian ass.
Chapter Three
“WHAT TYPE OF event are you attending?” I lead Ellen and Dawg into the main room, uncomfortable with entertaining guests in Hawke’s bedroom.
Dawg drags one of his feet, his limp heavier than mine. The older military man claims the bar stool closest to the door, dials his phone, and speaks quietly, using code only they understand.
Ellen clunks around the space in her grotesque boots. “It’s a cocktail party at a private estate. I can’t tell you more than that.”
I grit my teeth, feeling more and more excluded.
The woman gazes at the bouquet of flowers, her forehead wrinkling. “Did Hawke send you these?”
“The French corporal sent the flowers,” Dawg answers for me. “As well as the wine.”
I frown. “Do I have any secrets?”
“No,” they both reply.
“Hawke wants to speak with you, miss.” Dawg avoids Ellen’s gaze as he hands me the phone.
“Hi there,” I chirp, attempting to hide my physical distress. “How are your contract negotiations?”
“Did she hurt you?” Hawke growls, ignoring my question.
He’s worried about me. I straighten, my body aching from the effort. “Why do you assume she hurt me? I could have hurt her.” I roll my shoulders back, sharp jabs of agony shooting through my form, and swallow a groan. “I watch a lot of action movies. I know how to fight.”
My former marine doesn’t laugh at my feeble joke. “Dawg said Ellen pinned you to the floor.”
“The pinning was brief,” I lie. “I was resting, preparing for another round. She was about to face my full fury.”
There’s a long pause.
“You were upset because you thought she hurt me,” Hawke says softly.
Warmth radiates from my cheeks. I glare at Dawg. The older man slides his gaze away from mine, studies the bowl he’s filling with water.
The chicken shit. My lips twist. “He told you that, huh?”
“Yeah.” Hawke’s tone is smug.
“You believe that means something, but it doesn’t.” My words lack conviction. “I would have defended any of my friends.”
“We’re much more than friends, sweetheart.” I hear the caring in Hawke’s voice. “Are you okay?”
“I’m okay,” I confirm, aware that he wouldn’t have asked Ellen the same question. He would have assumed she was okay, could take care of herself. “Dawg shouldn’t have bothered you.” I cast the man another dirty look.
“If he hadn’t, he would have been reprimanded,” Hawke replies. There’s a moment of silence. “Do you trust me, Belinda?”
“Of course,” I answer with no hesitation. I’d trust my honorable military man with my life.
“I’m concerned about your mom.” His tone grows serious. “The paparazzi are trying to locate you. They might track down your mom and harass her.”
“They can’t do that, Hawke.” I tense, this possibility horrifying me. “She’s alone, unprotected.”
“She’s not alone or unprotected. She has us,” he reminds me, the calmness in his voice easing my fears. “I want to move your mom to my parents’ farm.”
“The apple orchard?” I ask. Hawke has told me wonderful stories about his childhood home. It’s become an almost mythical place in my mind, filled with tree-climbing future marines, pie-making moms, and cute, cuddly newborn kittens. Their farm is the ideal place for a relaxing vacation, and my mom does need one of those.
Reality intrudes on my fantasy and my excitement fades. “If she goes there, she won’t be able to work,” I point out. My mom needs the money to pay her rent. Being jobless and trapped in the condo, I don’t know how much I can help her.
“She can’t work with the paparazzi hounding her,” Hawke murmurs. “She’ll be safe with my mom and dad until the interest in you dies down. That shouldn’t be more than a week.”
A week without income will destroy us. Tension stretches across my shoulders.
“Okay,” I relent, having no other choice. I’ll find a way to pay all of our bills. “If your parents don’t mind.”
“My parents are looking forward to meeting your mom,” Hawke assures me.
I frown. Why would his parents be looking forward to meeting a complete stranger?
“My mom has been digging out all of my baby photos to show her,” he adds. “I had even less hair then.”
I laugh. “That can’t be possible.” Hawke’s hair is buzzed close to his scarred scalp. “Will my mom be fine?” It has always been my mom and me. Having Hawke to rely on feels strange, yet somehow right.
“She’ll be fine.” He gives me the reassurance I need, easing my concerns over the only parent I’ve ever known. “I’ll be with you soon.” The line clicks.
I limp toward Dawg. “Here.” I hand him the phone. “Next time you tattle on me, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t share every little detail.”
“He asked, miss.” Dawg doesn’t appear at all contrite.
“A distracted marine is a dead marine.” I quote Mack, one of Hawke’s men. “Whether Hawke asks or not, you’re not to call him with trivial concerns while he’s on an assignment. Got it?”
The older man maintains my gaze. “Got it.” He doesn’t look away, his lips silently moving as though he’s debating with himself.
I raise an eyebrow.
“He wants you to talk to Hawke, to tell him I’m ready to lead the high-profile assignments.” Ellen’s eyes glitter with excitement.
“That is Organization business,” Dawg barks. “He wouldn’t appreciate us discussing it.”
She shrugs.
Hawke knows she can lead the high-profile assignments, but I don’t relay this because Dawg’s right. My military man won’t appreciate them discussing Organization business, not with me, an outsider.
Plus I’m not certain he will ever delegate this responsibility. I won’t raise my new friend’s hopes.
“Do you really want to lead those assignments?” I gaze at her. How crazy is she? “They’re extremely dangerous.”
“They’re challenging, not extremely dangerous.” Ellen rolls her eyes. “The team is thorough. We reduce the risk of assignments to almost nothing.”
They reduce the risk of assignments to almost nothing. My lips flatten. There’s still a chance that Hawke could die, could leave me forever. If Ellen was his girl, our relationship would end, but he might live.
“Ellen can lead the assignments, miss.” Dawg doesn’t meet my gaze. He knows he isn’t supposed to be talking about this. “Hawke is more valuable out of the field.” He sets a bowl filled with ice water on the floor. “Soak your foot.”
I open my mouth to protest, not having the time to baby my big toe.
“Hawke’s orders,” he adds.
My former marine is an arrogant, bossy man. I sigh, accepting the inevitable, bend over, and unwrap my toe. As I lift the white gauze, I feel an uncomfortable pulling sensation, followed by a sharp pain.
“Oh, God.” I stare down at the toenail clinging to the bandage. “It fell off.” The exposed skin is hideous, my toe a torn, bruised mess.
Dawg peers at my foot. “It happens.” He shrugs, placing the soiled gauze and my broken toenail in the trash. “It’ll grow back.”
“It’ll take months to grow back.” My bottom lip trembles. My relationship with Hawke is doomed. I’m the target of hostiles, have no job, no home, no prospects, and now this. “I want to wear sandals now.” I dip my foot in the ice water, and needles of cold pierce my skin. “I can’t deal with this.”
Dawg gazes at Ellen. “Do you know what the problem is?”
She shrugs. “I failed Phase One Girl, remember?”
Does no one understand seasonal dressing? I stifle a scream. “This isn’t a problem. This is a disaster.” The ice water numbs my physical pain but not the agony in
my heart. “My toe is ghastly.”
Hawke’s number one man takes another look at my foot. “That’s ghastly?” He pulls up his left pant leg, revealing angry red, twisted skin. “Then what’s this?”
“Or this?” Ellen folds the waistband of her pants over one hip. A long ugly gash mars her perfection. Judging by the width of the scar, it’s a miracle she didn’t lose her leg.
Shame sweeps over me. They’ve suffered true trauma and I’m whining about my toenail. I’m a Carter woman. Damn it. I’ll survive, deal with this lost toenail, the possible end of my relationship with Hawke, a brief stint of unemployment.
“What about this?” Dawg lifts his shirt, showing me another grotesque scar.
“Okay. Okay. You win the ghastly contest.” I hold up my hands in mock surrender. “The prize is grating duty.” I plunk a block of cheddar cheese in front of Dawg. “Wash your hands first.”
He complies, mumbling something I’m glad I can’t hear.
I turn my attention to Ellen. “You’ll boil the pasta.” The woman opens her mouth. “Once the macaroni is in the oven, we’ll talk fashion,” I explain.
As we cook, my two sous-chefs natter back and forth, talking about training programs and past assignments, no names or locations or details given. I listen, learning new terminology and absorbing knowledge of Hawke’s world.
My efforts won’t be enough to put me on an equal footing with Ellen. She will always know more than I do, be better qualified to help my military man. They can’t even talk openly around me, omitting information due to my presence.
Dawg watches the screens hanging on the walls, changing the views to survey all of the building complex. The older man stands between me and the door. Ellen blocks access from the window. I can’t imagine the paparazzi parachuting into the condo, but I say nothing, trusting them to do their jobs as they trust me to fix the assignment situation with their leader. That’s one small thing I can do to repay them, to repay Hawke.
After I slide the first pans of macaroni and cheese into the oven, I turn my focus to Ellen’s issue, scanning through one of my favorite fashion sites on my laptop. “You said it’s a cocktail party? Is it being held inside or outside?”
