Plain Jane and Mr. Wrong (Plain Jane Series Book 4)

by Tmonique Stephens

  Harden signaled to one of his men to keep following the decoy while he and Bruno stuck to Ora. Weaving through the crowd, it wasn’t easy to keep her in sight. They had to get closer without being obvious.

  Ora stopped at another kiosk and her voice came through his earpiece. “What should I do?” she whispered into the mic.

  The hitman was here. He had to be. “Keep shopping.” Harden ordered and passed on her right to pause two kiosks away.

  “Hi! Can I help you find something?” The chipper saleswoman bounced on her heels, eager for a sale.

  Absently, he fished his money clip out of his pocket and passed her the first bill he touched. “Just put some shit in a bag.” He waved her away, but in the nanosecond, he lost sight of Ora.

  “That’s a pretty one.” A male voice came through the mic.

  Harden’s gaze slid to the left for a peek at the speaker. Unfortunately, he faced the wrong way, blocking Ora from view and thus giving Harden his back. He was a big guy, broad in a black coat, buzz cut.

  “Ah, thanks—ow! Let go!” Ora stuttered.

  “You’re not her!” The man growled.

  Harden spun in time to catch the sight of Ora—her hoodie down, her face exposed—flying into the kiosk and a dark shadow darting through the bushes in the opposite direction.

  “Someone get Ora out of here,” he shouted into his microphone to all that were listening as he shoved his way through the crowd. In the distance, a policeman waded into the masses with no perceived direction. Where there was one cop, there were others.

  Pulling a ski mask out of his pocket and yanking it over his head, Harden followed the man through the bushes and broke through to the road next to Clinton Fort. Behind the kiosks, the man ran, and Harden followed while Bruno took the route more traveled through the crowds blocking the front. If he tried to blend into the masses and lose them, Bruno would be there. Getting away wouldn’t be easy. Not at all.

  He spotted him again rounding the curve of the fort. Dodging between bodies, running as flat out as he could without bowling someone over, Harden lost sight of his target. Reckless, he didn’t slow down. Instead, he pulled his gun and kept it by his side, ready. He rounded the curve and—Bruno slammed into him. Harden slammed to the brick fort. His coat cushioned his back. His head wasn’t that fortunate. It smacked the brick, sending stars streaking through his vision. “What the fuck—”

  Slumping into Harden, Bruno went to one knee, grabbing his side. “I’m hit.” He groaned and pulled up his shirt. Blood leaked from his side. Bruno pressed his hand to the area. “It’s a flesh wound. Go!”

  As Bruno lurched to his feet, Harden took off, praying the hitman hadn’t gotten away, praying it wasn’t too late, the opportunity hadn’t slipped through his fingers. He cut through a hedge and came out by the fountain. Gunfire brought him up short. Two men were in the circular stone fountain, fighting between the jets, one a cop. Guns in both their hands. The two slugged it out, trading blows. The officer wouldn’t go down. A young guy, in decent shape, he wouldn’t give up. Instinct had to tell him giving up signed his death warrant. But it was a matter of time. Harden knew it. Being a hitman was more than knowing how to shoot a gun. It was knowing how to kill in any situation. Emmet could kill a man with a spoon. Harden wouldn’t give this asshole the chance to prove how good he was.

  He approached the scene carefully. Hindsight was a bitch. He should’ve taken the time to wear a bulletproof jacket. Too late now. The hitman fisted the officer’s vest, dropped, and flipped him over his head. The officer went flying, landing on his back with a solid thud, and cracking the back of his head on the flat stone water fountain. Just like that, it was over.

  Almost over. The hitman was on his knees scrambling for the gun he’d dropped in the fight. Harden fired once, center mass. The man dropped to his ass, hard, but didn’t go down. Fucking bulletproof vest.

  Harden fired again, and again. One bullet entered the side of the throat, the other, the chin, blowing away the bottom half of his face. Blood was everywhere. It was enough. No one could survive this…but just to make sure, he dropped to one knee, pressed the gun to the man’s forehead and pulled the trigger.

  Not even a flinch.

  No time to savor the moment, he cleaned out the gunman’s pockets—keycard, wallet, and phone. In a stroke of inspiration, he pulled out his knife, sliced off a thumb and forefinger. Both went in his pocket before he took the scenic route around the park via the promenade to the main road.

  “Bruno!” he barked into his mic.

  “I’m alive and back at the car.” He grunted.

  “Everyone else alive?” One by one they reported in, including Ora.

  Police cars screeched to a halt and the officers emptied into the park. Harden was just one of many fleeing for safety. His mind wandered to Emmet. All it took was one mistake, one twist of fate, and his friend, the best in his field, could have the same fate. It wouldn’t happen, not to Emmet. Fate was afraid of that fucker.

  Back in the car, he signaled for Quincy to take off. Bruno rocked in the seat beside him. He steadied his best friend.

  “The doc should be waiting when we get back to the penthouse.” Quincy weaved between cars like he was a driver at NASCAR.

  “Good.” Because there was too much blood for a flesh wound.

  “Did we get him?” Bruno asked, his voice weak.

  “Yeah. One down, one to go.”

  “Not if he sends more.” Bruno grinned.

  “Thanks for bursting my bubble.”

  “That’s what friends are for.”

  Quincy wasn’t lying. The doc was waiting across the hallway in Bruno’s apartment with all his supplies displayed in the master bedroom. Harden watched him work on Bruno and didn’t leave until his underboss was patched, loaded with painkillers, and sleeping. It wasn’t quite a flesh wound. He’d be down and out for a while and grumpy as fuck. But he was alive.

  Harden leaned in. “Don’t you ever do something like that again.”

  “What?” Bruno shifted in the bed and groaned.

  “Push me out of the way. I get hit, you’re in charge.”

  Bruno snorted. “That’s why I pushed you out of the way, asshole. I don’t want to be in charge.” He slurred the last sentence and slipped away.

  “That’s still no reason to walk into the path of a bullet, asshole.” But it was typical Bruno, and Harden couldn’t love him more for it.

  He left his friend sleeping and sought his own bedroom in his own home. Rest, hours of uninterested sleep, but first, he needed a drink. Whiskey. A stiff one. And he needed news. A call to his contact at the police headquarters confirmed the cop would make it. The identity of the dead gunman was still unknown.

  And it would stay that way. Right now, one of his men was picking his hotel room clean and the phone was on the way to the kid, along with the thumb and forefinger to unlock it.

  Harden’s gun and clothes were already on their way to being melted down and burned. Today was a good day. He sipped his whiskey and entered his bedroom.

  And halted at the sight of Jentry asleep on the leather chaise at the foot of his bed. Hands curled under her chin, dressed in the same jeans and sweatshirt, she was an angel in waiting. His angel. From the short curls crowning her head to her painted toes, his. One he didn’t deserve. If that made him her demon, then so be it. Neither stopped him from scooping her into his arms.

  She stirred, her eyes peeling open to meet his gaze. In their depths he saw confusion, then acceptance, followed by joy, and hope.

  “You’re back and…okay?”

  He nodded.

  “Everyone else okay? Ora? Bruno? Quincy? Your men?”

  Cradled in his arms, he said, “Ora and Quincy are fine. Bruno will be.” Worry flared in her brown eyes. He shook his head as her concern warmed his heart. “It’s minor.”

  “Oh.” She said nothing else as he lay her in the middle of the bed.

  He gave her plenty of time to lea
ve as he kicked off his shoes and stretched out next to her. Curled on their sides, they faced each other, silent. Any second she would roll out of bed and leave him. He wouldn’t stop her, though he may beg her to stay.

  As he predicted, she rolled onto her other side and…settled her head on the pillow and…stayed.

  Carefully, afraid any touch, breath, movement on his part would spook her and send her out of his bed, he crept closer. He was a far cry from the head of the syndicate who killed a man in Battery Park a few hours ago. Here, in his bedroom, lying next to the woman he loved, just short of begging for her forgiveness, he was simply a man.

  Slowly, he wrapped an arm around her pliant body and pulled her into the lee of his body. Her back to his front, her head tucked under his chin, she sighed and settled against him.

  He listened to her breathe, slow and steady, the rhythm lulling him to sleep, sleep he desperately needed. With her in his arms, the world fell away, leaving only the two of them and a comfort he’d never before known. He was lighter in body and soul.

  He couldn’t let her go, couldn’t give her up, but if that’s what she wanted, if that’s what kept her safe, somehow, he’d rip out his heart and excise her from his life.

  If only he could get her to stay.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Soft, succulent lips—the taste intoxicating, familiar—brushed his, then nipped at his bottom lip, urging him to open. Desperate for more, he complied and licked against the small tongue darting into his mouth.From dead to the world, to suddenly wide awake, he tensed. Jentry? Where were they?

  It took a moment for it to all rush back to him—the park, the chase, Bruno shot, hitman dead, and how Jentry came to be in his bed.

  Then, he relaxed, let it all wash away as she hungrily devoured him. She couldn’t get enough, and neither could he. In the mellow glow of the dimmed bedroom lights, he skimmed her body—her naked body—touching everywhere, but not nearly enough places. She arched, tipping her upper body over his arm and cupped her breasts to feed them to him. He laved, then sucked each nipple into his mouth. He worshipped them as one hand grabbed her ass and the other swept into her slick folds.

  She sighed, gasped, rocked her hips and… “More.” She reached between them for his buckle.

  He stopped her. Though his cock was an iron pipe lodged in his pants, and she was warm, wet, and willing, he stopped her.

  “What is this? Twenty-four hours ago you weren’t speaking to me.”

  “I want to thank you.”

  His blood turned cold. “With sex?” Though it pained him, he grabbed her hips to remove her from his lap.

  She covered his hands and scowled, then settled higher and balanced on her knees instead of his erection. “No. Not with sex,” she said sharply. “I wouldn’t do that. That’s why I’m sitting here talking to you.”

  “Naked? Legs spread over my cock.” He tsked. “That’s not how you have a serious conversation with any man.”

  A sly grin graced her mouth. “There’s talking, and there’s after talking.”

  He could get with this kind of discourse. He moved his hands over her smooth, warm thighs and stared into her warm brown eyes. “Talk.”

  “Thank you for coming for me last night.”

  He didn’t want her thank-you; however, he said, “You’re welcome.”

  “Thank you for putting your life on the line for my sister. You didn’t have to—”

  “I did have to. When you care about someone, you care about the people they love.”

  Her hands coasted up his arms. “And that’s why I thank you. When shit hit the fan, you came for me. When I needed you to protect my sister, you did, without question. Bruno took a bullet for you. You both could’ve died. For me.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t you dare—”

  She slapped her hand over his mouth, but her jiggling breasts were more of a distraction. “Yeah, he was a hitman and targeted Jesenia to get to you through me. It doesn’t change the fact you could have died.”

  Jentry removed her hand and kissed him. She poured her fear and relief into her lips caressing his so sweetly, and pulled away much too soon. Forehead to forehead, eyes closed with her lashes seeming to fan her high cheekbones, her freckles in stark relief against her cheeks, she shuddered and tucked closer into his body. She had more to say, he knew it and waited for her to spill.

  “When you kill your brother and the Russian—”

  “You cut right to the heart of the issue, don’t you. I like it.” Wrapping his arms around her, he settled her more intimately against him. This was the relationship he wanted. No secrets. No lies. Trust. Honesty. Loyalty.

  Her chin tipped up. Her gaze smoldered and goose bumps flashed over her skin. She shivered as her breaths stalled, then kicked up into a pant. “Your brother and the Russian, when they’re dead, what next?” Her voice was small, hopeful.

  He didn’t want to talk about them, but she did. He shrugged. “I don’t understand. We live.”

  Settling her sweet spot exactly where he needed, she shook her head and let out a frustrated huff, causing her breasts to jiggle again and his brain to fog. She twirled her fingers around the buttons on his shirt. “What about…us?”

  Oh! Pleased with the direction of her questions, he let his gaze wander. Her body was a wonderland of hills and valleys, silky smoothness, and different shades of brown melding into each other. Her areolas a darker cocoa color, her nipples tightly peaked. Between her legs, her lips glistened, welcoming him home.

  He had a home, and she was it.

  “We go on.” He cupped her breasts. “You, me, Allie.” Maybe a son or another daughter in a few years. He stroked his thumb over her nipples, catching her throaty sigh. “We make a life together.”

  Her breath caught. “That’s what you want? Us, together? A life together,” she whispered, continuing to play with his buttons. “Because…I want that too.”

  He’d never seen her like this, uncertain and unafraid for him to see her vulnerable. After Carl and the way he treated her, the hesitation was understandable. But Harden wasn’t Carl. He would never be him. He would never hurt her. The love he had for her was pure, yet volatile with the need to protect. Never ever hurt her.

  Just having her with him, in his arms, in his bed, in his life, put her in danger. Her and Allie. It was selfish of him to keep them with him, but he couldn’t be without her. He would spill blood, sweat, and tears to keep her and Allie safe. Nothing and no one would take her from him. Just the thought made him violent.

  “I shouldn’t have sent you away.” His voice was gruff with emotion. “I was wrong. I won’t promise to never send you and Allie away again. I do promise to never leave your protection to another. This I swear.” He brought her hand to his heart. “Losing you would kill me. I love you, Jentry.”

  Panic flared in her eyes and she shushed him. “Don’t say that.”

  What? “Jentry, I—”

  She slapped her hand over his mouth and leaned in. Voice trembling, she said, “Do. Not. Say it again.”

  Patiently, he waited for her to remove her hand because he understood her fear. It was the same fear he had but overcame when the emotion rooted in his heart couldn’t be denied. “I wait thirty-four years to tell a woman I love her, and she tells me to shut up. Damn!” He snorted. “The irony is a bitch.” He took her face in his hands and brought her close until all he could see was her and nothing else. “I love you. I think you love me too. And when you’re ready, you’ll say the words.”

  He wrapped an arm around her hips and brought their pelvises together. Lips hovering a hairsbreadth away, so close they shared breaths, he said, “You and I. That’s what you want, and that’s what I want.”

  He closed the distance and took what he wanted, what they wanted. With a tilt of his head, his lips brushed over hers, once, then again with a sweep of his tongue across her bottom lip. She sighed, parted her plump lips and let him feast. And feast he did with his hand on the b
ack of her head keeping her where he wanted and with his tongue deep in her mouth drawing silent moans. He was rough, possessive, the pleasure from just a kiss, addictive. She was his drug, his obsession. Her taste, scent, felt every single time. It was the same, it would be the same forever because she was a part of him, the piece of his missing soul he thought he didn’t need.

  Her hands trailed from his abdomen to his chest, over his pecs to his shoulders, his nape, and threaded into his hair. He palmed both ass cheeks and ground into the juncture of her thighs. Sharp fingernails raked his scalp, sending a shot of lust straight to his straining cock.

  Without breaking contact, he ripped his shirt open. Next, he unbuckled and unbuttoned his pants. She took over at the zipper, and had him in her greedy palm, stroking until she guided his thick erection between her parted thighs.

  She spread her wetness around his broad head, then brought him to her hot core. A tremor shook her, shook them. Eyes locked and he lost himself in her brown depths. He tilted his hips and thrust into her moist sheath with one long, breathtaking stroke, and lost himself in her body.

  Jentry groaned as the pleasure was too much to bear, yet nowhere enough. And he was right there with her, gasping, moaning, losing his damn mind. Seated, his cock buried to the hilt, for this moment in time, everything was right in the world. And his world was in his arms.

  Her sex tight, a molten vise around his erection. “Jentry.” He wanted to slam into her over and over until the all-consuming desire burned out. He didn’t. Harden relaxed into the bed and watched her work her hips. Oh, the warm, wet bliss of her. Up and down, breasts bouncing, head thrown back, she rode him, just as obsessed, and possessed as him.

  He tried, he really did, but couldn’t stop his hips from pumping, couldn’t staunch the escalating urge to lose himself inside her. He grunted, going deeper with each thrust.

  “Fuck me,” she cried and squeezed his hands positioned on her hips.

  He didn’t hold back. With a hard surge, he drove into her and didn’t stop until her pussy clamped onto his throbbing length and she screamed. “I love you, too. I don’t want too, but I do.” Her pussy fluttered around his length.