On a good day, he’d take the stairs, but today his leg required a bit of care. The lift pinged his arrival at the fifth floor and Cian slipped his tie from around his leg and dusted it off before inspecting the damage he’d done to the fabric. Deciding it wasn’t up to snuff, he shoved it in his pocket and took out the mobile phone, switched it off, and returned it to his pocket. The empty hallway was quiet as he padded down the narrow patch of carpet. Doors on either side bore the names of workers and companies Cian cared nothing for—his focus was on the last door to the left. There, he had business.
As he approached, his steps slowed. The door was ajar, and a female spoke within. Cian paused—his free hand rested on the doorknob, ready.
“I don’t care, Malcolm. Look, if it’s that important to you, why don’t you come up here and hunt her down? I’ve waited two days and she hasn’t shown. I’m not your fucking babysitter.”
Silence, followed by the sound of drawers banging.
“Yes, I understand how important this shipment is. I get it, all right?” A long pause, then, “Fine. Yes, I’ll take the next train to London. What? No, I didn’t buy a plane ticket because I thought I’d have the shipment and you know how fragile it is. I couldn’t trust the airlines not to break anything.”
Cian listened, a curious smile touching his lips. Whoever this woman was, she definitely didn’t fear Malcolm.
“Yeah, okay. I said okay. Geez, take a pill, Malcolm. You’ll give yourself a coronary. Yeah, will do. Bye.”
Cian couldn’t help himself from peeking inside, where he saw her toss the phone on the desk. Her hands went to her face and a long, heavy sigh came from delightfully pink lips.
“Motherfucker. He’s going to blame me for this.”
A slight tremble entered her voice and Cian wondered whether perhaps he’d misjudged her. Maybe she did fear Malcolm.
“This is not good.” Her hands pushed back over her blonde ponytail and Cian was left staring at the most remarkable set of cerulean blue eyes.
The urge to hold her in his arms and protect her from whatever it was that upset her overwhelmed him. Dormant passion, something he prided himself on controlling, woke and flared through his veins. His hand trembled on the doorknob and he tucked it into his pocket. Something terrible wrapped itself around his heart. Not fear; that would’ve been a blessing. Something far more dangerous—clarity that this woman, this stranger, was someone he could love.
He was so screwed.
6
Nikala St. James stared at the man in the doorway. Something about him tugged at her memory. That ridiculous blue suit and that smug smile—of course, it was the man from the coffee shop. She glanced at his empty hand, the only one she could see; the other was tucked into his pocket, where she hoped he didn’t hold a pistol. Guns weren’t her thing. Never had been, and in truth, terrified the snot out of her.
“Can I help you?” She didn’t need this right now. She was in Edinburgh to meet a dealer, but she hadn’t shown. Nikala gave the man a once-over with renewed interest. Perhaps he was the seller’s proxy. Usually Malcolm made the buys, but he was tied up in London at the moment and had sent her to complete the deal. The last she’d heard, the dealer was a woman and this man clearly didn’t fit the description. Plus, Malcolm hadn’t said there would be a proxy.
“I have an appointment with Mr. Dagniss. We were to meet in,” the man checked his watch, “five minutes.”
An obvious lie, but Nikala would let it slide. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Dagniss is out of town on business. His receptionist should’ve called to reschedule.”
He was handsome, this interloper to Malcolm’s offices, but she’d long ago stopped letting pretty men intimidate her. He wore his dark hair not too short, nor too long, but styled away from his face. The suit, of a color that was neither light nor dark, but shy of denim, did not wear him—he definitely wore it. Her gaze roved over his body, noting not just the suspiciously bulging pocket, but the ripped pant leg and, she squinted to make sure she wasn’t mistaken, gold flecks. Sort of glittery dust. What a strange man.
The way he leaned to his left slightly made her think he might have an injury where the trousers were torn. Definitely an intriguing, unusual man. And possibly her contact. Malcolm wasn’t always as detail-oriented as he should be. It wasn’t a stretch to think he might’ve gotten some specifics about the dealer and/or proxy wrong. Yet, mistaking a handsome man for a woman was quite a leap, even for Malcolm. Never mind the fact she’d just gotten off the phone with him and he hadn’t mentioned someone else showing up with the product.
Several curse words tumbled through her thoughts. The dealer might be stalling to get a better price. It didn’t happen often—especially not to Malcolm—but it did happen. She softened her face to appear more inviting. Contact or not, she needed him to feel comfortable in her presence.
“To be honest, I could have the wrong day. My phone died and,” he tapped his temple, “I’m relying on memory, which isn’t always a good idea.”
“Perhaps it’s not. Who shall I tell Mr. Dagniss came to see him?”
The man’s eyes narrowed and he took in her appearance, the same as she’d done to him. Idly, she wondered what he thought of her, but not enough to give it any further concern. What he thought, or didn’t think, wasn’t important. Getting him out of Malcolm’s office was. Unless he was the seller. Although, the longer he stood there, the firmer her belief became that he wasn’t. Not only didn’t he fit the brief description Malcolm had given her, he didn’t have the merchandise.
“Cian MacNair.”
Lord, but the way he said his name, pronounced “Keeyun” with a delectable accent—Highlands, maybe?—made her want to lick every syllable. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from letting the thought amble where it ought never trespass.
“I’m down from Aberdeen for a few days and would appreciate a reschedule.”
Aberdeen. Fuck. It might be a coincidence, but she didn’t believe in happenstance. “Assuming you had the date wrong.” Nikala raised an eyebrow for emphasis, which he ignored.
“Of course.”
He finished his roving of her face and body, a smirk firmly planted on those oh-so-kissable lips. That was it. She’d had enough of the stranger distracting her.
“Well.” She stepped out from behind the desk and crossed her arms, then uncrossed them. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. MacNair. I’ll let Mr. Dagniss know you’re available. Can I tell him the purpose of your visit?”
“I wish to discuss Acelyne.”
If she wasn’t mistaken, he’d said the name with a certain inflection. To test her, perhaps, but the name meant nothing to her.
“I’ll let him know. Good day, Mr. MacNair.” She held the door for him with a soft smile. The kind she used to get men to do what she wanted.
Cian MacNair was having none of it. The smile he returned was equally as fake.
“Good day, Miss…?”
“St. James.”
This time his smile was genuine, and full of cockiness. Fuck. By omitting her first name, he probably took it as a silent challenge.
“Nikala St. James.” Better to just give it to him than play all the games.
His hand gripped hers and, swear to the gods above, an electric current ran the length of her arm straight to the apex of her legs. She snapped her hand away, desperately wanting to wipe it on her pants, but refused to give him the satisfaction.
The smirk was gone from his smile, replaced with a look of confusion. A moment later, it disappeared and his confidence returned.
“I hope we meet again. Soon.” He left the office and she was tempted to make certain he wasn’t lingering outside. When the lift pinged, she waited to the count of five before popping her head through the doorway. At the sight of the empty hallway, she exhaled the breath she’d been holding.
Whoever Cian MacFuckingNair was, he was Dangerous. With a capital D. And what Nikala didn’t need right now was more danger.
She closed the door behind her and made sure she locked both locks before she returned to her search of Malcolm’s files. Thus far, after two days of searching, she’d found nothing on the Dawn Project and was beginning to think she’d misheard. To be fair, she had been eavesdropping at the time, and there was a wall between her and Malcolm, but she’d been so certain he’d been discussing something called the Dawn Project.
Whatever it was, Malcolm was keeping it secret from her, and Nikala hated secrets. Especially when they were meant to keep her in the dark. No matter. This was simply a new challenge she would conquer.
But not in Edinburgh. She slammed the final cabinet drawer closed and huffed several choice words. She’d been sure the files would be in this office. The fact that they weren’t—and Malcolm’s mysterious trips to London, not to mention all the time he’d been spending down south—added up to a sum Nikala didn’t like.
Malcolm was moving the entire operation to London. Which meant she was fucked.
He was in London.
Despite herself, a shiver tracked its way from the base of her skull to the divot above her ass.
Hunter Pearson.
The one man in all the world she’d gladly kill, but the only person Malcolm strictly forbade her from harming. It was all kinds of fucked up. But then, when had her life been anything but?
With controlled force, she punched a hand into the desktop, enjoying the snap of flesh hitting wood. Another blow and she let the anger recede. Her fist glowed an angry red and showed several cuts where splinters tore her flesh. She smoothed her good hand over the damage and watched, fascinated, as the skin knit back together, the redness paled. In a matter of minutes, broken bones would be healed, all evidence of injury vanished. Damaging the desk was her only regret.
She blew out a long breath and arched, smoothing her hair away from her face as she did. Hunter was a part of her life, always had been. She’d have to make peace with that at some point. It didn’t matter that she’d spent the better part of the last two years traveling anywhere, especially the grimiest, loneliest places, just to avoid him. She resisted the memories of faceless men she bedded to excise demons of her own making. The days and nights spent in a haze of pity and rage. Nothing—not drugs or alcohol or mindless fucking—could erase what she’d endured. She’d sworn off drugs and sex, replacing those addictions with a cruel focus on her skills as an assassin.
As long as Malcolm continued to do business with the sadist, Nikala had to tolerate his presence.
She straightened and another shiver raced across her skin. Unconsciously, she gripped the amulet she wore, her thumb stroking over the smooth glass.
“You lived through his hell. He can’t ever touch you again.” The words, spoken out loud, did nothing to reassure her nerves. Malcolm had no idea what she’d been through. Even if she told him, she doubted he’d believe her. Fucking men and their code of honor.
Or maybe Malcolm knew and that’s why he’d given her to Hunter when she was eight years old. Although, Malcolm preferred to see it as he’d placed her in Hunter’s care to be raised as a respectable lady while he built his empire.
A quiver started low, down where she’d avowed no man would ever touch her again. Not that Hunter had ever touched her sexually, oh no. That was all her own fucked-up fantasizing and wrong on so many levels she couldn’t keep count. It was desire and fear and guilt and hatred knotted together and she was helpless to stop it. Just thinking about Hunter brought about feelings she’d tried to bury for most of her life.
If not for Malcolm— She stopped the thought. Hunter Pearson would be a burr she’d have to deal with forever. No matter how many times she imagined his death.
Her phone beeped and she pushed the bubbling emotions to the far corners of her mind. Some day. One day. But not today.
Surprised to see the pendant clasped in her palm, she tucked it between her breasts, where it had been since she’d stolen it from Malcolm two months ago. A wry smile spread across her face. Not even the pretty little amulet could lift her spirits. With a sigh, she collected her coat and bag, the one she’d had packed and ready, but now was half empty because her contact never showed. Whatever. Let Malcolm sort it out. She had other business to attend to, and it didn’t involve being his personal mule.
Gods, but she wanted to change out of the starched white shirt and dress pants she wore, but she’d play—and look—the part of being a good SIRE employee for a little while. This farce as a businesswoman didn’t suit her personal tastes, and the clothes were a little too confining. Once she arrived in London and pacified Malcolm, she could slip back into her jeans and T-shirt. Maybe seeing her dressed up might keep him from totally losing his shit. Doubtful though she was, one could always hope.
After making certain the office was secure, she hurried out of the building. The train station was only a mile away, less than a twenty-minute walk, which gave her ten minutes to buy her ticket. Plenty of time. It was one of the things she loved most about Edinburgh—the village feel of a big city. Nothing was entirely too far away and on a nice day, she could walk a good part of the city. By habit, she swept her surroundings with a quick surveillance. That man, Cian, lounged against a building across the street. She’d half expected to see him, but it was another gentleman, several meters from where Cian stood, who made her senses sparkle and snap.
She’d seen him before, this oddly dressed fellow. The long brown oil coat he wore didn’t fit with his tweed jacket and trousers. He looked like two different people had dressed him—a professor and a sheep herder. Her glance took in his shoes. Neither work boots nor Oxfords, but hybrid hiking trainers. She shook her head with a giggle. If he was trying to blend in, he needed a refresher course on spying.
But why would someone be spying on her? Her right hand went to her cleavage. If Malcolm knew she’d stolen the amulet, he might be cross with her, and rightly so. And it might give him the impression she wasn’t to be trusted. Again, rightly so. But to send an oaf to take her out? That didn’t sound like Malcolm. No, if he wanted her watched or eliminated, he’d send someone slicker. She hurried up the street and caught her reflection in the window of a shop.
He’d send someone like Cian MacNair.
She quickened her pace and strode past the gardens, with the castle watching over her to the right. As castles went, it was hunched and ugly, but Nikala loved everything about her castle. Especially the little chapel on the hill. Something about the place gave her comfort and she often retreated there to find solace.
As much as she could use the peace, a visit was not in the cards for today. She was headed to London, where she’d have to console the irate head of SIRE. Seriously, if the shipment was that important to him, he damn well should’ve been the one to meet the seller.
It didn’t matter. She knew somehow Malcolm would blame her for the buyer not showing. Why she stayed at the company, she had no idea.
Loyalty. A sense of family. Love. All those misguided ideals she’d been instilled with—and desperately believed in—long before Malcolm had traded her to Hunter. Had traded her, for SIRE. Whatever. She was a grown woman who could do whatever she wanted. She didn’t need SIRE or Hunter or Malcolm. She could make it on her own.
How many times had she had the same conversation with herself? How many times had she promised the woman in the mirror that she’d leave? She’d live somewhere remote, where neither man’s spies could find her. She’d tried that and yet, here she was, hurrying to catch a train with not one, but two strange men tracking her every move.
All this fuss over a pendant. Why? Why had she taken it? “Because it spoke to her” was about as naïve a reason as she could think of. Yet that’s what had happened. As soon as she spied it in Malcolm’s safe, she needed to have it. Needed to possess it. Needed to wear it against her skin and feel its soothing warmth. In a very real way, it had spoken to her soul.
Yeah, that was going to go over well with Malcolm. Hopefully he wouldn’t confront her abou
t the amulet, but if he did, she’d have to improvise and hope he didn’t shoot her on the spot. Above all else, Malcolm demanded loyalty—the same blessing and curse that kept her tethered to a man who should’ve protected her, not sold her out.
Nikala swung right at the stairs leading to the train station and cast a glance over her shoulder. Yep, there they were—Cian MacFuckingNair and the odd fellow. It was hard to tell, but she thought he might be following Cian, and not her. Or, most likely, they worked together. Malcolm had probably sent both men. When the odd fellow had failed, he sent backup—a cleaner. She grimaced at how much that would’ve cost him.
Fine. If that’s the way they wanted to play, she would beat them at their own game.
7
Cian kept the swinging blonde ponytail in his vision as best he could as he ducked and weaved around the tourists along Princes Street. He knew where she was headed but had to make certain he boarded the same train. If she was meeting Malcolm, he needed to know where the man was and London was a big city.
He pivoted to avoid a pram and jogged around a cluster of teens waiting for their bus. The scyver kept pace with him, staying a respectable thirty feet behind. Cian had hoped he’d lost the man in the coffee shop, and when he’d left SIRE’s building, the damned man was nowhere to be seen. However, his false hope was dashed as soon as Nikala emerged from the front doors and skipped down the steps.
Cian spotted the scyver sniffing around the street and when the pretty woman headed toward Waverley Station, the scyver gave her a long once-over that made Cian’s insides turn. It was like watching a serial killer choose his next victim. Nikala had no idea she’d been marked, and it was his fault. When they shook hands, he must’ve transferred some of his magic to her.
Fatal Assassin (Fatal Fae Book 2) Page 5
