The Hitwoman and the Family Jewels (Confessions of a Slightly Neurotic Hitwoman)

by Lynn, JB

  With a lick to my hand, she bounded toward the barn. Bending to pick up the gym bag, I followed slowly, trying to figure out how to make amends with my murder-mentor. I decided that, “I’m sorry I threw the bag at your head” was probably a good start.

  My prepared apology evaporated the moment I stepped into the barn. Patrick had set up a picnic of sorts on the floor. A blanket was stretched over the straw and a collection of delectable goodies was spread out, the scene lit by battery-operated candles. If we weren’t there to discuss the business of killing a man, I’d have thought it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for me.

  Yet he’d made it clear in Atlantic City, after we’d robbed a professional thief, that he didn’t want me. The whole thing made my head spin.

  “Hungry?” he asked from where he stood in the corner with the dog, his face obscured by shadows.

  “You’re teaching hand-to-hand combat using cheese and olives?” I joked weakly.

  Putting the Styrofoam container on the ground so the dog could finish its contents, he walked slowly toward me. “I wanted to do something nice for you.”

  “Why? I threw this,” I hefted the bag for emphasis, “at you.”

  “But you missed.” He offered me a half-smile. “Sit. Eat.”

  I shook my head eyeing the spread, wondering if it was my last meal—like people get on Death Row. I hadn’t agreed to kill Kowalski. It would make sense for Delveccio to have me whacked out here in the middle of nowhere.

  I glanced at Doomsday, wondering if she’d save me if Patrick attacked. Maybe all these special treats he brought her had been part of his plan. Would she choose helping me over bacon? I wasn’t sure.

  I looked back at the cheese and olives. Maybe they were poisoned.

  I shook my head, annoyed with myself, knowing they weren’t poisoned, that was just old, paranoid thinking on my part. I knew Patrick would never hurt me, but the idea of sitting down with him for an intimate nibble was almost as dangerous.

  I needed time to think this out, to plan an escape. “I’d rather have the training.”

  He shrugged. “Your choice.”

  He lunged at me.

  Swinging the gym bag at him, I screamed. An ear-piercing, “oh-my-god-there’s-a-spider-on-my-head” shriek.

  Ripping the bag from my grasp, he said, “Come on, you can do better than that.”

  Backing away from him, I called, “Doomsday!”

  “Maggie?” She asked in her high-pitched, sing-song voice.

  “Help!”

  Patrick lunged at me again, grabbing my shoulder and spinning me around so that my back was to him. Wrapping one arm around my waist and another around my neck, he trapped me against the length of his body. Even as I struggled to free myself, I noted that, as always, he smelled of mint Lifesavers and soap.

  The dog lay down and watched us as intently as the lizard watches TV. Big help she proved to be.

  “You panic too easily,” Patrick whispered in my ear.

  “I tend to do that when someone’s trying to kill me.”

  “You know I won’t hurt you,” he said, loosening his grip.

  “So my death will be quick and painless?” I tried to wriggle away.

  He shifted his grip, pulling me closer. “You’re doing it again, aren’t you?’

  “Doing what?” I tried to twist free, but his grip was unshakeable.

  “Thinking the worst of me.” An unmistakable sadness filled his tone. “Imagining I’m going to harm you.”

  I grew still. “Can you blame me?”

  “I’ve had plenty of chances to hurt you and I haven’t.”

  I thought about how he’d rejected me in Atlantic City, about how much that rejection had stung.

  As though he heard my thoughts, he murmured, “I know you’re mad at me, but I want you to know I’ve done everything in my power to protect you, Mags. You’ve got to believe that.” The note of desperation in his tone made his voice ragged.

  I thought about how he’d helped me take out Gary the Gun and how he’d somehow managed to convince Katie’s paternal aunt to drop her custody case. “I believe you,” I said slowly.

  “Thank you,” he whispered, pressing his lips to the sensitive spot just behind my ear.

  My knees almost buckled at the sensation.

  Sensing my weakness, he tightened his grip around my waist, pulling me tighter against him, making me aware of every inch of his body pressed against mine. "Delveccio doesn't know about you and Kowalski."

  "H-he doesn't?" It was hard to concentrate on the conversation with him nuzzling my neck.

  "No. For him, this contract is strictly business." Shifting his hold on me, Patrick no longer had his arm looped around my neck. Instead his thumb traced the sensitive column of my throat.

  "W-what about y-you?" I asked breathlessly.

  "What about me?" His thumb drifted upward, over my chin, to lightly brush the bottom edge of my lower lip.

  His teasing touch set off a firestorm of tingling pleasure. "Is it strictly business for you?" I gasped.

  Dropping his hand away, he leaned his forehead against the back of my head. He didn't say anything. He just stood there, his arm wrapped possessively around my waist, leaning into me.

  I didn't dare move. I didn't dare breathe. I just waited, trying to ignore how right it felt to be held by him.

  "Nothing that involves you is strictly business," he murmured finally.

  Releasing me, he turned away, arms crossed over his chest, every muscle tense.

  I stayed rooted to the spot, unsure whether it was a good idea to pursue the line of conversation. Things had been simpler between us when we had a professional relationship. Every time we veered into personal territory, they became more complicated. My life was complicated enough.

  "That's not poisoned, is it?" I asked waving toward the food on the blanket.

  "What? No!" He didn't turn back toward me, but I could tell from his tone I’d offended him.

  "It looks good." I moved toward it, hoping that by breaking the inertia that gripped us, the uncomfortable tension would dissipate. "You got all my favorites."

  He didn't respond or move as I sank to my knees on the blanket. Absentmindedly, I popped an olive stuffed with feta cheese into my mouth. I took a second to savor the salty-goodness before I tried to drag the conversation back to business. "So why does Delveccio want Paul dead?"

  For a second I thought Patrick wasn't going to answer, but then he stuck his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and turned to face me. His expression was somber. "Rumor has it someone's taken a contract out on the Delveccios' heads."

  Sometimes I forgot that the man I thought of as Delveccio was actually identical twin brothers." Isn't that kind of commonplace for someone in the Delveccios’ position?"

  He nodded. "Yeah, but you can't blame the guys for taking it personally."

  "And Paul is the hitter?"

  "Look at you," he teased with a slight smile. "You've gotten the lingo down."

  Glad to see his mood lighten, I coaxed him closer by holding up the container of feta olives.

  He hesitated, as though he couldn't trust himself to be near me, but then stepped forward and plucked one of them out of the holder. "Yeah, they think Paul is the hitter."

  "Seems risky," I mused, patting the blanket beside me. "A cop taking on a mob boss."

  Patrick didn't take my invitation, but Doomsday bounded over. Sitting beside me, she eyed the olives hopefully.

  "You can't have any of those," Patrick said, lowering himself to the floor on the other side of the dog. "They'll make you sick."

  Dejected, she lay down, resting her head between her outstretched paws.

  "So why do it?" I asked.

  Patrick stared at me with an expression so startled, I wondered what he'd been thinking.

  "Why would Paul take on the Delveccios?" I elaborated.

  Patrick blinked, looking decidedly relieved. "I dunno." He looked away. "He
's a strange one. I've never been able to figure out what makes him tick."

  "You've tried?" I asked, surprised. He'd never made it a secret that he didn't like the other man.

  "After you got involved with him," Patrick admitted grudgingly, looking away.

  I ate another olive as I digested that piece of information. Had he been jealous of Paul? "I wasn't involved with him."

  Doomsday rolled over so that he could give her a belly rub. He patted her distractedly.

  “A couple of dates don’t make a relationship,” I told Patrick.

  “What does?”

  “A connection.”

  He swung his head back to look at me, his gaze searching. “You didn’t have that?”

  My mouth suddenly dry, I shook my head.

  “Why not?”

  I heard his unspoken challenge, saw the heat shimmering in his steady stare. He wanted me to say I’d found a connection with him.

  Chapter Four

  I looked away. “There’s something I don’t trust about him. Anger. This violence bubbling just beneath the surface.”

  “He is a killer,” Patrick reminded me.

  I looked back at him. “So are you.”

  He flashed a self-deprecating smile. “But I have standards.”

  Doomsday whined pitifully, wanting his attention, but for once he was focused solely on me.

  I swallowed hard. “Plus,” I continued, pretending I didn’t feel the tension between us. “He lied to me.”

  “You’re upset he lied to you, but it wasn’t a relationship?”

  “It wasn’t so much that he lied, but what he lied about.” I ate another olive.

  Doomsday sighed, signaling her frustration at being ignored.

  He waited for me to continue. He’s like that. Patient.

  “I went to visit my father and--”

  “Do you do that often?” Patrick interrupted.

  I shook my head. “More since the accident.”

  He nodded as though he understood. “Okay, so you went to visit your dad and…”

  “Paul was there.”

  “Why?”

  I shrugged. “He told me some BS story about being there to appear before a parole board or something, but they don’t meet on Sundays. Do they?”

  He shook his head.

  “So he lied.”

  “And there’s nothing between you?” Patrick leaned closer.

  “Nothing. Except the matchmaking efforts of my aunt, which means I’m going to see him tonight for dinner.”

  The redhead leaned back. “You’ve got a date with him?”

  “It’s not a date.”

  “Dinner sounds like a date.”

  “This,” I said, waving my hand over the blanket, “looks like a date.”

  I waited for him to deny it. He didn’t. He just watched me. My heartbeat doubled.

  “I wanted to do something nice for you,” he said finally.

  I wanted to believe him. I wanted to have a guy in my life who would set up a picnic lunch on the floor of a barn. I wanted to be with this man who could melt my insides with just a look. I did, but being back here reminded me that Patrick lugged around almost as much baggage as I did. When I’d first met him, he was juggling two families and two wives. Now, since one of the women had moved across the country and married someone else, his life was a bit less complicated, but he was still legally bound to another. I might be a hitwoman and a thief, but was I really willing to play second-fiddle to another woman. “You have a wife. And I don’t think I’m mistress material.”

  Giving up on either of us acknowledging her, Doomsday got up and went over to the empty bacon container, sniffing it hopefully.

  Without the barrier of the dog between us, Patrick leaned close. So close I could feel the heat rising from his body. He brushed his lips softly against mine before pulling back to look in my eyes.

  “I thought I was dead inside.” His voice was little more than a whisper.

  I got the distinct impression he was sharing his deepest secret with me.

  “And then I met you, Mags.” Tenderly cupping my cheek with his palm, he pressed a kiss to my forehead. “The woman who ‘stopped, dropped, and rolled’ to take out a bad guy.”

  We both smiled at the memory of my unorthodox method of taking out Alfonso Cifelli, the son-in-law of mob boss, Delveccio, when he tried to smother his son in the hospital.

  “I’ve tried to keep my distance, not take advantage of you, to do the right thing,” he murmured, rubbing his thumb across my lips.

  I’m pretty sure I stopped breathing. That would explain the sudden wooziness I experienced.

  “But it doesn’t feel right. All I want, all I can think about, is you.”

  I took a shallow breath.

  He waited. For me to kiss him. For me to respond to his declaration. For what, I’ll never know.

  “I--” I began.

  His phone buzzed, interrupting me.

  “Ignore it,” he said.

  “It might be important,” I countered. I needed a moment to gather my thoughts, to figure out what to do about the most romantic moment of my life.

  Scowling, he whipped out his cell phone. “It’s work.”

  “Answer,” I suggested. “I won’t make a peep.”

  “Mulligan,” he growled into the phone.

  He listened intently for a minute, his expression growing darker by the moment. “Uh huh. Forty-five minutes tops.” Turning off the phone, he jumped to his feet. “I’m sorry about this, but I’ve got to go.”

  I stared at him dumbly.

  “Now.” Bending down, he grabbed my hands, yanking me unceremoniously to my feet.

  Off balance, I caught myself against his chest. I could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath my splayed fingers.

  “There’s been a prison break,” he explained, setting me away from him. He hurriedly folded the blanket and all the delectable goodies into a ball.

  I winced at the loss of delicious food.

  “It’s all hands on deck. I’ve got to get to the station and get my assignment.”

  I marveled at the way the man juggled his law enforcement career with his illegal activities. No doubt he’d use the same skill set to manage a wife and a mistress. The thought made me frown.

  Catching my expression, Patrick speared a finger through his hair, signaling his frustration. “I really am sorry, Mags.”

  “Things happen.”

  Doomsday rushed over to see what all the commotion was about and to snag a piece of cheddar that had dropped from the blanket.

  “In the car.”

  I wasn’t certain if the command was meant for me or the dog, but we both complied.

  After dumping the gym bag, duffle bag, and blanket into the trunk, the police detective jumped into the driver’s seat and started the car. He’d driven maybe fifty yards when he slammed on the break, startling me and sending Doomsday slamming into the front seat.

  “Ow,” she whined.

  “Sorry, girl.” Patrick reached over the seat to pat the mutt’s head.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Everything,” he muttered.

  Leaning over, he claimed my lips in a hard, possessive kiss that rocked me to my core.

  “Mmm,” he murmured, “Salty and sweet.”

  Just as suddenly as he’d stopped the car, he tore himself away from me. He drove fast, glaring at the road ahead like it was his mortal enemy. The trip back to the mall was quick and silent.

  “Mad Patrick?” Doomsday asked timidly from the backseat.

  I couldn’t answer her, but I did reach back to rub the spot between her eyes, offering soundless reassurance that everything was okay. Even though I wasn’t so sure it was.

  I practically jumped out of the car the moment we pulled into the spot next to my parked car.

  Patrick didn’t even turn to watch us leave despite Doomsday’s softly woofed, “Bye bye.”

  I closed the back door
and moved to slam mine shut, but at the last minute I stopped myself. Leaning back into the car, I said, “Be careful.”

  “You too,” he muttered, still staring straight ahead.

  I closed the door and watched him roar off.

  “Us back he?” Doomsday panted worriedly.

  “I hope so,” I murmured, trying not to think about the danger he’d be in chasing down escaped criminals.

  “Now?” The dog climbed into the back of my car.

  “We’re going to the B&B,” I told her.

  A scary place.

  A place I’d need to be careful.

  Chapter Five

  Aunt Susan was sitting on the porch when I pulled up outside the Bed and Breakfast. She looked cross.

  I glanced at the clock on my dashboard to make sure I wasn’t late for dinner. I was a couple hours early.

  Climbing out of the car slowly as she marched down the stairs toward me, I braced myself for whatever lecture she was going to deliver.

  “That man,” she complained.

  “Which man?” I asked wondering if she’d had a spat with Bob Waites, the man she was dating.

  "Templeton," she growled, naming her sister Loretta's fiancé.

  Relieved that it wasn't me she was upset with, I relaxed, leaning back against my car. "What did he do now?"

  "He's emptying the barn."

  The barn is actually an oversized garage painted barn-red behind the B&B. It's stuffed with about thirty years of junk.

  "He thinks that there are a lot of antiques back there that should be catalogued and appraised."

  I thought about the dusty contents. "He's probably right."

  "But he's pawing through my things." She was so distraught I half expected her to stamp her foot in protest.

  "So tell him to stop. It's your home. They're your belongings."

  "Oh no," she shook her head so hard I was surprised she didn't give herself whiplash. "It's been made very clear to me that this is not my house, but our home. Those aren't my things, but our things. Loretta's insisting that he have carte blanche to do whatever the hell he pleases, my wishes be damned."

  Shocked by the level of animosity in her tone, I blinked dumbly at her, unable to compose a response. I'd never heard her speak so angrily about any of her sisters. Usually this level of frustration was reserved for my father, deservedly so, since she'd been left to raise his children after he'd gotten himself thrown in prison.