by Jasmin Quinn
Then she did something remarkable. She raised one of her brand new red shoes and with a savage yell, sank its heel deep into the Russian’s left eye. He screamed in agony as his hands scrabbled at his face trying to dislodge the shoe. He reeled back from her, losing his balance, and slamming into a finely crafted side table. An expensive looking vase toppled to the floor and bounced on the thick white carpet.
“My Imperial Ming!” Isabelle hurled herself toward the vase, but Boris, distracted by his own crisis, thudded to the floor, slamming his body on top of it.
“Oh, my fucking god!” Isabelle clutched her hands to her head in horror as she watched her precious Ming shatter. Boris seemed not to care what he’d just done as he noisily thrashed around, blood spurting from his eye.
“What the fuck!” were the last words the other Russian would ever utter as Michael shot him in the chest and then for good measure, in the head. As the little Russian fell, Boris’ movements subsided until he was merely twitching. Blood pooled around his head and soaked into Isabelle’s lush white carpet.
“Is he dead?” Isabelle’s voice was wispy and hollow. Michael glanced at her - her pale face, her dilated pupils. Her hands were shaking as she clutched at her remaining shoe, holding it close to her chest like a life vest.
Michael stepped over to the Russian and examined him. Then he pointed his gun and put a bullet into Boris’s head.
“He is now.” He crouched down beside the body and started rifling through the Russian’s pockets before looking up at Isabelle. “Do you want your shoe back?”
Isabelle narrowed her eyes and shook her head.
Michael grinned and turned his attention back to the Russian, taking his wallet, his gun, a knife from a holster on his ankle and a set of keys. Then he repeated the exercise with the other body. As he stood up he assessed Isabelle, who was standing rigidly, the bruise on her face bright against her white pallor.
“Who the fuck are you?” He heard the hint of fear in her whisper, the first since she’d walked into the living room. It annoyed him, but perversely also bolstered his ego, knowing that she was more terrified of him than the Russians.
“You don’t have to be afraid of me.” He tried to soothe her.
“You just killed two men. Why would I not be afraid of you?”
Michael considered the bodies. “Not to be a stickler for details, but actually, I only killed one. You killed the other.”
“No, I don’t think I killed him,” Isabelle protested, her voice still strained.
“A knife, a carrot, a four-inch heel all have the same effect when they are embedded in someone’s brain. It kills them,” Michael half-shrugged and tucked his hands into his pant pockets. “And maybe I should be asking the same question – who the fuck are you?” He watched her face closely because he was having a hard time believing she was just his beautiful next-door neighbour. Who had that kind of fearless composure when faced with such a deadly situation unless they were well-trained in espionage? But Isabelle appeared to be an open book. Her eyes didn’t shutter, her expression was candid – if she was hiding anything then she was better than Michael at bullshit. And in Michael’s experience, no one was better than him.
Isabelle squared her shoulders at him, a little colour returning to her face. “Let’s look at the facts, Mr. Michael Black, if that’s even your real name. We walk into my living room and find two Russian assholes pointing a gun at us and mauling my treasures.” She glanced at her Ming Vase and grimaced. “But they should have been in your living room not mine, so they’re also idiots. They were obviously looking for you, not me. But they think I’m part of whatever you’re involved in by my dubious association with you. Then one of them tries to beat me up and I defend myself, with my shoe. But you… you pull out a gun, with a silencer on it I might add, and shoot the other Russian in cold blood. And then shoot my Russian in the head.”
“I wanted to be sure he was dead and not still suffering from your rather brutal method of dispatch,” Michael said dryly.
Isabelle dropped her shoe and balled up her fists, holding them under her chin and tapping them against each other in agitation. “My choice of weapon was clearly chosen by circumstance. Your weapon, on the other hand, was a gun with a silencer on it, a concealed gun for god’s sake. I don’t exactly know my gun laws since I’ve never owned a gun, but I think that very few people in Canada are permitted to carry a concealed weapon with a silencer on their persons.”
“I think you’re focusing on the wrong issue, Isabelle. Yes, I have a gun. No, I don’t have a permit. But you, you have two dead men in your living room. The circumstances under which they died will be difficult to explain to the police – especially that one.” Michael nodded to the Russian who died by high-heeled shoe. “And I am very good at disappearing, so by the time they arrive I’ll be long gone.”
A flush swept across Isabelle’s face as her eyes registered anger, then hurt. “I was not suggesting we call the police, and really Michael, I didn’t think you were the kind of guy that would just abandon a helpless woman to clean up your mess.”
“You are not a helpless woman, Isabelle and also, you don’t really know me that well,” Michael retorted and then because he was annoyed at how Isabelle kept him at arm’s length these past few months, “You’ve never taken the time to get to know me.”
Isabelle glared. “Don’t make this all about you. I’m a busy woman, I have a demanding job and I don’t have time for boyfriends.”
Michael snorted. “I don’t even know what the fuck you do besides shop. And just so we’re clear, I don’t do long-term relationships either. But a good fuck every now and then would have been neighbourly, don’t you think?” Michael crossed his arms over his chest, trying to maintain his composure. Fucking woman! She seemed to see right through him.
“There is no such thing as a one-night-stand with the boy next door. The only way you can fuck ‘em and leave ‘em is if they’re complete strangers.” Isabelle waved her hands as she paced away from him. “Why are we talking about this anyway? We have two dead bodies in my living room and I’m well aware that we can’t go to the police. So, what do you propose, Einstein? We haul the bodies out of here and dump them somewhere?”
Michael knew that he was not going to mollify Isabelle with his next words. “I propose we leave. There are a lot more Russians where they came from. They obviously know who I work for and where I live. There’s no point in me staying here waiting for the next wave to show up. And when they do show up, they won’t be happy that their comrades are dead. They’ll kill us both.”
Isabelle narrowed her eyes. “Are you suggesting that we just leave these dead bodies in my condo? Are you kidding me? They’re going to decompose, they’ll start to smell, they’ll get maggoty…” She gagged on the last word and shuddered.
“Isabelle, I need you to focus.” Michael stepped toward her, but her glare kept him from touching her. “I’ll get someone to come in and clean this up providing the cops don’t show up first. Who knows if the people below your condo heard anything and called 9-1-1. We’re sitting ducks up here on this floor if the police arrive. There are two ways in and out – the elevator and the stairs and they’ll have both covered.”
“No,” Isabelle protested, her eyes flicking over her collectibles. “I can’t just walk away from everything. I’ve worked too damn hard for all of this. There’s got to be another way.”
Michael eyed her as she paced, her hands waving in agitation, her voice an octave higher than her usual cool, polished tone. He should just leave her, she’d be a liability anyway. Now that the Russians knew about him, they would try to hunt him down, get as much information from him as they could, and then kill him. He couldn’t call Jackman, not here, not yet. He couldn’t risk exposing the organization; didn’t have a handler because Vancouver was his home when he wasn’t on a job; and the only job he had besides keeping an eye on Anto Kharzin, who was deep undercover with the Russian mafia, was some personal
business for Jackman. He was going to have to lay low for a while and it would be a whole lot easier to disappear without the gorgeous porcelain-skin beauty tagging along.
“There is no other way, Isabelle,” Michael finally said. Despite what made logical sense, he knew there was no way he was going to leave Isabelle at the mercy of the Russians. Or vice versa, he thought grimly, as his eyes darted to the red shoe sticking out of Boris’s eye.
Isabelle pursed her lips as her eyes swept her living room. “If I leave here, I might never be able to come back. All my things…” She pointed at an oil painting of a nude. “That’s an original Gerhard Richter.”
“Isabelle, I need you to trust me.”
Isabelle searched Michael’s face, “I obviously don’t know anything about you. How can I possibly trust you?”
A flare of irritation seared through Michael. “Take a leap of faith. The bad guys are dead, you’re not. If I was a bad guy, the body count would be one higher and I’d already be gone.”
Isabelle shivered. “Your logic is terrifying. But it makes a warped kind of sense.” She bit her lower lip as she gazed at Michael. That simple gesture sent a bolt of lust racing through him. She was still terrified of him, he thought as he studied her, watching as she tucked a coil of hair behind her ear, then drew her fingers to her neck, then to her chest, where she rested the curl of her hand just above the swell of her breasts. The air between them felt charged. Her subtle fear of him made his heart race. He struggled against his instinct to take her, make her crazy with want for him, make her beg him to fuck her. Michael sucked in a breath at the image of her under him.
She broke his reverie. “Should I pack a bag?”
Michael blinked and then nodded, relieved and annoyed at the same time. But something had changed between them. A subtle shifting of power. She was relinquishing control to him. He couldn’t wait for the opportunity to exercise it with her. “I’ll stay with you while you do, then to my place. Let’s get moving.”
He followed Isabelle into her bedroom. It was the first time he’d crossed this threshold. He tucked his hands in his trouser pockets as he looked around. It was large and richly decorated – beautiful and highly feminine, a reflection of Isabelle. Original paintings and signed prints of nudes and flowers graced her walls, vintage perfume bottles on the top of a flawless antique vanity table, a lush burgundy duvet draped neatly across her queen-sized bed, small vintage lamps on the Queen Anne night tables that straddled the bed. An intoxicating woodsy scent underscored by the scent of roses.
Isabelle watched him as he surveyed the room. “What do you think?” She walked into her large walk-in closet without waiting for his answer.
“I like the way it smells.”
Isabelle poked her head out of the closet. “Jesus, you really are a predator, aren’t you?”
He bared his teeth as he grinned. “You have no idea.”
He leaned against the door frame for another minute or two, taking in Isabelle’s bedroom and all the promise it held before forcing his thoughts to the current situation, considering what they needed to do next. Pack up, call his cleaners, stock up on weapons, change his ID, swap his phone for a burner cell, and then leave. Head to West Georgia Street to the Rosewood, book a room, rip Isabelle’s clothes off and show her what she’s been missing out on. Then order some room service.
He left Isabelle to finish packing and re-entered the living room, sparing an indifferent glance at the dead Russians as he made his way over to the liquor cabinet. Some expensive reds and whites, top-of-the-line liquors, bourbon, whiskey, scotch, rum, vodka. Anything a heart desired. He wondered why she was so well-stocked – he’d never once heard her entertaining. He picked up the bottle of scotch and poured a generous measure into one the fine crystal tumblers on the bar top. He took a drink as he surveyed the scene in front of him. The bodies, lying on the floor, blood soaking into the plush white carpet. That would be tricky to get out. The large window, drapes opened, night fully settled in. But Vancouver was never dark, and a palette of colour leaked through the sheets of snow, smudged by its wetness.
“Did you pour me drink?” Isabelle strolled into the room in a pair of 4-inch black pumps. She’d changed her clothes from a small black skirt that hugged her gorgeous curvy hips and showed off her beautiful strong, long legs to a small grey one that had exactly the same effect. He wondered if her stockings were held up by a garter, wondered what her panties looked like, what colour they were, whether they were lacy or crotchless. A tingle of heat stroked his cock as he looked at her breasts, partly exposed by a silky sapphire blue blouse that matched earrings that graced her beautifully-shaped ears. Her swan-like neck was wreathed in a single strand of pearls, long enough for her to wrap around her throat a couple of times with the leftover pearls tumbling down between her breasts. She’d swept her auburn waves into a tight bun, which pulled her face back, emphasizing its angularity and gave her high cheekbones more prominence. Her makeup was perfect again, her mouth painted a kissable glossy red, her dark eyelashes long and sweeping, standing out against her flawless skin. Her moss green eyes gazed at him, her heels giving her the extra inches to look almost directly into his eyes without having to crane her neck.
He swallowed the urge to pull her into his arms and ravish her painted mouth, to wrap his fingers through her pearls and use them as a bridle while he fucked her from behind. He cleared his throat, tried to sound normal, wasn’t sure if he succeeded. “I did not. I thought one of us should be clear-headed.”
“Not me.” She reached past him pulling a tumbler towards her and picking up the bottle of scotch. Her nearness brushed at his senses, challenged his fragile control. She smelled like her bedroom, her hair just inches from his nose. He could just kiss her, he thought. Just a kiss. But could he stop at just a kiss? Probably not. And it would be wrong to fuck her right now, with the dead Russians laying there. Or would it? No. Nope, it would be wrong.
Isabelle knocked her drink back, downing it all at once and then poured another. “You shouldn’t drink alone, cowboy.” The scotch gave her voice a huskiness that sent his testosterone into overdrive. She pointed the bottle towards his glass and almost imperceptibly raised an eyebrow. He brought his tumbler under the lip of the bottle and she poured him another shot. As she replaced the bottle on the bar, she clinked his glass with his.
“To the Russians.” He raised his glass and glanced away from her. It helped not to look at her.
“Salud,” she said in Spanish. To your health.
Michael considered the Russians. “Too late for that.” He tossed the last of his scotch and turned to Isabelle, inhaling her deeply, trying to keep his lust in check. She was so fucking gorgeous. She smelled so fucking incredible. Then a small thought helped to dampen his desire. He hoped she wasn’t playing him, hoped she didn’t belong to some law enforcement agency trying to get close to him. Hoped he didn’t have to kill her. If she were the law, it might explain her denial of him. He couldn’t really fathom what other reason she would resist him. He hadn’t yet met a woman who could.
She pointed her glass at the Russian who had died by red shoe. “He’s on top of my new coat. Providing he hasn’t wrecked it, I wouldn’t mind wearing it.”
“Are you asking me to get it for you?”
Isabelle nodded. “If you don’t mind.”
Michael sighed and put down his glass. “I do mind a little bit, Isabelle. I don’t like getting my hands dirty any more than you do.” He stepped toward the body and carefully pulled Isabelle’s shopping bags out from under the body.
“You mean literally, right?”
“Of course.” Michael picked up the largest bag. It had several blood splotches on it. “This one?”
“Yes. Open it please and look inside.” She’s fucking bossy, Michael thought. Hope she’s not so bossy in bed. But he did as she asked, pulling the bag open and peering at a bright white coat with fur cuffs and collar.
“Not real fur, I hope.” He pulled
it out of the bag and inspected it for blood.
“No, it’s a Max Mara wool-blend flared trench.” She said in reverence and held her hands out for it like she was reaching for her baby.
“Ah,” Michael replied as if that cleared up everything. He passed her the coat and she ripped the tags off and drew it on. Michael eyed her. Indeed, it was a flared trench. He cleared his throat trying to bite down on the desire stabbing through him.
“What do you think?” Isabelle sashayed from left to right, long slender fingers splayed at her hips, the red polish on her fingernails bright against the white of the coat.
What did he think? Jesus, what a fucking loaded question. He could barely think with this breathtaking, elegant goddess standing in front of him. But he swallowed the provocative words that were hammering at his lips and instead said, in true Michael Black form, “Isabelle, you could wear a burlap sack and still be breathtaking.”
Isabelle threw him a small wry grin. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
Her comment threw Michael off-balance, it was so sharply honed. “I do actually,” he admitted. “But strangely enough, I’m being quite sincere with you.”
Isabelle flashed a pearly smile. “Thank you for that Michael. I’m not sure I believe you but thank you anyway.”
“Ready then?”
“I just need to get a pair of gloves. Your place next?”
Michael nodded. He walked past the bodies to the window, taking one last look at the white-spattered night before closing the drapes tightly.
Chapter Two
Isabelle followed Michael to his penthouse suite. As she stepped inside, a surge of anticipation slid up her spine. She’d never actually crossed Michael’s forbidden threshold before. He’d been in her apartment many times. Always hers though. He never invited her into his; the few times she needed to knock on his door, he stepped into the hall, closing his door behind him. This was her chance to see his mysterious den of iniquity, though she wished it wasn’t under such grim circumstances. As Michael turned towards his bedroom, she strolled through his kitchen and living room, looking around curiously.
