by Sam Crescent
He looked at his own plate, the food there unappealing, and wished he’d opted for the Wellington himself. A pork chop, undercooked, the fat around the edge soggy and unappetising, seemed to mock him, the mashed potatoes next to it just as sloppy, just as stomach-churning. He pushed his plate aside and reached for a glass of water, catching a glimpse of his reflection due to the harsh lighting from the chandeliers.
Bishop sighed. He appeared in sore need of sleep, those dark circles beneath his eyes the bane of his life. The inch-long scar on his cheekbone from an assignment last year had at last faded from deep pink to a paler shade, but it still marred his otherwise handsome face, still reminded him he’d failed.
The one who got away…
He grimaced, placing his glass on the table, turning it this way and that for want of something to do. Occupying his mind on occasions like this were always difficult—he watched, he noted, he waited, over and over again until his mark did what he’d been told they would and he had to finish them.
A lock of his black fringe caught on his eyelashes, and he shook his head. Focusing on the woman again, he wondered why she’d been chosen for the job. That long auburn hair of hers would get in the way if she didn’t tie it up, and her slender figure brought forth thoughts of a ballerina rather than an athlete who could cope with running for her life if the need arose. It would, too, if things went to plan, and she’d be running from Bishop, lungs straining, leg muscles screaming.
That’s if she ran. He might get lucky and catch her before she had a chance to flee, but things rarely worked out like that when he was on a job. He had to fight for the end result every time, fate or Lady Luck poking her big nose in, stirring things up so he failed to get an easy ride.
He laughed. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d ridden a woman. Relationships were few and far between in his line of work. It was pointless trying to have one, his long hours, days away from home—weeks, sometimes—didn’t bode well for keeping a woman happy. Still, he had his right hand, and that had been enough. Until he’d set eyes on Fallan Jones. Was that her real name or was she hiding the same as him? He shouldn’t care, hadn’t in the past, but then his marks weren’t usually so bloody…attractive.
Fallan. He rolled that name around too, liking it more every time it echoed in his mind. He imagined calling it out when he came, when she clutched him to her, legs clamped about his waist, crossed at the ankles, heels driving him deeper inside a cunt he imagined would be tight. Soaked.
His cock twitched—the last thing he needed if Fallan got up and left the dining room. He willed it not to grow fully erect, thankful when it didn’t. He needn’t have worried. It looked as though she was going for three courses tonight. A waiter whisked her plate away, and another came by with desserts on a trolley laden with sweet delights.
She ought to be on that trolley, sweet delight that she is.
No, he mustn’t think of her like that. She was a mark, nothing more, someone who needed taking out before she did any more damage.
She pointed to a high mound of profiteroles, and the waiter spooned several into a white dish, pouring melted chocolate over them with such skill the brown liquid didn’t dribble down the side of the jug. With the bowl before her, she nodded her thanks and the waiter moved away, pushing the trolley out of the dining room. Odd, that. He usually visited every table.
Suspicion took hold, twisting in Bishop’s mind, a nasty coil of barbed wire that pricked all his senses, putting him on high alert. He stood, casually tugging the hem of his black suit jacket, and walked across the room to the doorway the waiter had gone through. The trolley stood in a corridor, abandoned, all shelves below the top covered with another of those white cloths. He smiled, thinking of every bad action film he’d watched, where a gun-wielding man hid behind the material, ready to pounce.
Double doors with circular glass at the top let him know the kitchen lay behind them and that he didn’t have much time. Someone would come out of there in a minute, plate-laden hands held aloft, food piping hot, steam billowing like London fog. He sidled up to the doors and peeked through one of the windows, noting the busy staff in their sauce-stained white uniforms going about their business.
Letting out a sigh of relief, he went back to the trolley and lifted the cloth on one side. Desserts, the same as those on top, filled the two lower shelves—muffins, cheesecakes, and some pastry confection that had God knew what in the middle—but nothing else. He crouched, that barbed wire poking him some more, and shifted a few plates around.
A small jewel bag lay under the lip of a large plate, the requisite black velvet, a drawstring bunching the neck tight. He picked it up and slipped it in the inside pocket of his jacket, standing to settle the cloth back in place. His heart rate accelerated from him having bagged the prize so easily, and he thought about the coming days he would have for free time as a result.
One of the kitchen doors swung open, startling him, although he hid it well. The waiter who had pushed the desserts out here stared at him, mouth dropping open at the same time his gaze raked over the trolley.
“I took a wrong turn, it seems,” Bishop said, his voice, through years of practise, coming out steady and bold.
He turned abruptly and strode back into the dining room, using his peripheral to check whether Miss Jones was still wading through her profiteroles. She’d finished and sipped a wineglass half-full of water, staring his way. Bishop reached his table and retook his seat, ready to make a swift move if the need arose. He’d chosen this table for the French doors behind him that led out onto a terrace, the edges lined with square marble planters, flowers a riot of colour in the centre and ivy hanging over each corner, the final leaves on each vine kissing the wooden deck. The terrace gave way to a vast lawn, its outskirts boasting tall conifers. This place, in the middle of the English countryside, was the perfect hideaway for what Miss Jones had been contracted to do. For what he’d been contracted to do.
The waiter barged through the doorway, trolley in front of him, and made straight for Fallan’s table. He conversed with her, and anyone watching might think nothing untoward was going on, him taking her empty bowl and placing it on the trolley top. She didn’t widen her eyes, nor did she exhibit any telling body language. She smiled, nodded, and twisted her wineglass around by the stem.
Oh, she’s good.
As the waiter walked away, his strides clipped, his head darting this way and that until his gaze landed on Bishop, Fallan rose. She smoothed down her short black dress—a ridiculous outfit considering the nature of her job—and picked up her red clutch bag from the table. She tucked it under her arm and made her way towards him, hips swaying, those legs of hers going on forever. Lush, full breasts shamelessly sat above a low neckline, giving every man in the room more than an eyeful, and, Bishop suspected, a few lecherous thoughts.
She appeared unaware of the attention she gained—definitely not a woman who knew how appealing she was, how incredibly alluring, and pretty in a sophisticated way—and walked past him without a glance. Her perfume lingered in her wake, a combination of flowers and something spicy he couldn’t work out, and he took a deep breath, imagining how intoxicating that aroma would be in a sex-heated room. Cloying. Erotic. Sexy as hell.
Stop thinking about her like that. You’ve still got work to do. Get it done, then get the fuck out of here.
He knew he should, knew he ought to fulfill his obligations, pack his small bag and check out, taking the goods to his boss. Have a few days off before another assignment came his way. But he couldn’t resist getting up and following her, a hound dog chasing the scent, across the terrace and around to the front of the hotel.
She stood leaning against the building beside the semi-circular front steps, talking into a mobile phone. He stopped short, mind whirling with options, and decided on staying where he was, her spotting him be damned. She grew agitated, talking in sharper tones, pressing one hand to her free ear as if she needed to hear better. She nodded, gla
nced up and spotted him, then muttered something before cutting the call.
He smiled, wanting to put her at ease, but it clearly hadn’t worked. She stared at him, eyes wide, that caught-in-the-act face he’d seen too many times to count. He sighed at having such a delicious mark—it made his job more difficult—but he had to take her out whether he found her attractive or not. If he didn’t…well, it just wasn’t an option.
In three long strides he was beside her, gripping her elbow and steering her to the other end of the hotel, where darkness cloaked the side of the building and the trees looked nothing more than black blobs against the inky sky. Cloud coverage was nil, and the moon hung behind them, giving him the perfect setting to perform his last task here.
She struggled, quite the hellcat, but didn’t say anything, walking beside him until they reached the far corner of the building. He let her go, bracing himself for her to turn more feral, some kick-arse woman who knew martial arts and could take him down without a second’s thought.
She didn’t, instead leaning against the hotel, her face hidden by shadow and the night.
“What do you want with me?” she asked.
He savoured her voice—such a shame she wouldn’t speak ever again after five minutes with him—and clenched his teeth knowing what he had to do. Sometimes he hated his job.
“You know what I want, Fallan Jones. Know what I’ve got to do.” He kept his hands by his sides, delaying the inevitable lift and clutch, her neck snapping beneath his grip.
“I…I don’t know what you mean,” she whispered. “And how do you know my name?”
Very good. She sounded genuine, was quite an actress, and he nodded his approval.
“The bag you put on the dessert trolley.” He sniffed, drawing her scent into his nose again.
“What about it?”
He chuckled. She was coming clean, then, giving up the pretence that she didn’t know what he wanted with her.
“What’s in it?” He guessed jewels—wasn’t it always jewels in those bags?—and waited for her answer.
It came quickly. “I don’t know. I was told not to look.”
Just as he’d expected.
“Who do you work for?” he asked, taking a step closer in case she had a mind to bolt.
“Asda.”
He laughed heartily at that. God, she was playing the game right until the end, wasn’t she? Asda…couldn’t she have picked a shop a little more upmarket? Waitrose, at least?
“It’s a job,” she snapped. “It pays the bills.”
“I’m sure it does. What about your other employer?”
She snorted. “You think I have time for a second job? I work all the hours God sends as it is. What do you want with me? I phoned someone back there, and when you came along I told him. You’ll get caught for whatever you’re thinking of doing, the man told me that.”
He ignored her, unperturbed by the threat. “You must earn a good wage to be able to afford to stay here and wear a dress that must have cost two week’s wages working for Asda…”
“I won this weekend away! What has it got to do with you anyway?”
He had to guess, what with the darkness, but he’d bet she looked at him now, mutinous, angry.
“It has everything to do with me. You’re lying. Who do you work for?” He snatched her wrist up, squeezing with enough pressure to let her know he meant business but not enough to leave a bruise.
Not that it mattered. She’d be dead in a few minutes. A pity, that.
“I told you!”
She tried to wrench her arm free and, failing, sagged against the wall. He wished he could see her face, read her expression, but perhaps it was just as well he couldn’t. He might well start believing her.
He sighed. “You know what happens now, don’t you?”
“What?” she asked, that one word spoken with the first hint of hysteria. “Please, I don’t know what you’re talking about. And you’re hurting me. You have me mixed up with someone else.”
He laughed again, quietly this time. Didn’t they always say that? Wasn’t that the general patter they came out with every time he caught up with them? A script that every mark was instructed to use, taking their true identity and that of their employers with them to the grave.
A shuffle to their right brought him up short. He should have expected it. The waiter would have passed a message on by now, and whoever had booked a night here in order to collect that bag would be on the lookout for him. He glanced to the side, tightening his hold on her, and saw a retreating black movement—someone’s shadow following the person it was tagged to. Whoever had peered around the side of the building had stepped back out of sight after making the mistake of creating noise.
“Come with me.”
Bishop made for the hotel’s rear, dragging Fallan behind him. She stumbled several times trying to keep up with him, pulling against his hold, tiny whimpers coming out of her. He forced himself to remember she was acting, that she’d been paid to do just this, and forced her to walk faster. Once at his car, he shoved her inside, strapping her into the passenger seat.
“Don’t even think about getting out.”
She stared up at him, eyes full of fear, and he almost felt sorry for her. Maybe she was new to this game. Maybe this was her first job. Whatever, it shouldn’t matter to him, shouldn’t be something he even thought about, but he had and would have to address that when he had some downtime. Marks weren’t supposed to get to you. Marks were meant to be removed from the equation, quickly, easily, no mess. Marks weren’t meant to sit in your bloody car and look at you in that way, melting the ice around your damn heart until you convinced yourself they were telling the truth.
Fuck it!
He slammed the door, rounded the bonnet and climbed into the driver’s side. Engine revving, he swerved out of his parking space, making a mental note to call the hotel in the morning and check out. They could send along his bag containing a few changes of clothes, toothbrush, deodorant and shower gel, but then again, it might be safer if they didn’t. There was nothing he needed desperately, nothing he’d mind being without. The waiter having something to do with this… No, they could keep his bag and send it to the address he’d booked in with.
Out on the main road, Fallan silent beside him, he eased his foot to the floor, conscious of the pinprick headlights behind them. If he put his mind to it, he’d lose that bastard and take Fallan to his flat in London, deal with her there and have his boss send someone to remove her body.
“I heard that if you do as you’re told,” she said quietly, “an abductor is less likely to kill you.”
He frowned, eyeing the rear-view mirror again. What the fuck had made her say that? “I heard, that if you work for dodgy outfits, you’re more likely to get killed than if you worked for a company like, say, Asda.”
He wanted to laugh again but held it back, concentrating on the distance between his car and the one behind. It was gaining on him. Fuck.
“I swear,” she said, “I don’t know what you mean. I won that break away, won it!”
“How? Where did you apply?” He may as well humour her.
“It was a treasure hunt thing. Offer came through the post. Several people each won a weekend away at different locations, and each of us had to hide some treasure. Shit, I wish I’d never applied now, but I couldn’t afford a holiday and it seemed the perfect thing to do. And I didn’t expect to win. Didn’t think I had a cat in hell’s chance and I—”
“Be quiet.” He needed to think. Either she was a pro or she was telling the truth.
Something inside him leaned towards the latter.
Jesus Christ, this is all I need. Some innocent caught up in this crap.
He gritted his teeth, jaw muscles pulsing, and looked in the rear-view again.
The car was getting closer.
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About the Authors
Natalie Dae is a multi-published author in three pen names
writing several genres. She lives with her husband, children, and three cats in an English village. She writes full time and is also a cover artist and blog designer. In another life she was an editor. Her other pen names are Sarah Masters and Charley Oweson.
Email: [email protected]
Sam Crescent has always had a love of fiction; through her teen years she would find friendship between the pages rather than in an actual person. By the time she turned sixteen she discovered Mills and Boon and never looked back. She loved the quick happily-ever-after read. A guarantee that, no matter what happened, the heroes and heroines would always find their soulmate. After college and starting a degree, one lonely, bored night she searched the internet looking for a new author to read. On that night, and in the years to come, she discovered romantica and erotic writing.
Email: [email protected]
Natalie and Sam love to hear from readers. You can find their contact information, websites and author biographies at http://www.total-e-bound.com.
Also by Natalie Dae
A Gentleman’s Harlot
Shadow and Darkness
Fantasies Explored: Think Kink
Fantasies Explored: Thinking Kinkier
The Coterie: Lincoln’s Woman
Stiff Upper Lip: Minute Maid
With Lily Harlem
That Filthy Book
Also by Sam Crescent
Office Hours
The Valentines: Robert
