by Jasmin Quinn
“We make them wait. For a couple of hours, until they’re good and bored and not paying attention. Then we cover your beautiful hair with a scarf and go to the garage where Anto’s parked a car for us. After that, we go for a drive until we know we’re alone. Then we go shopping.”
Isabelle’s eyes lit up. “I love shopping!”
Michael grinned. “Why did I know that?”
Silence settled on them for a moment. Isabelle looked down at her hands, touching her nails, feeling the tops of them, smoothing them with her fingers. Michael watched her. He wanted to ask her about this morning in the shower. He wanted to know. Not like him to be that curious.
Sensing his scrutiny, she looked up sharply. “Who are you really, Michael?”
Michael stalled, unprepared for the question. He tried seduction. “I’m a man who loves beautiful women.”
Isabelle bit her lower lip and returned her gaze to her hands. “Is that what I am to you? A beautiful woman? Highly fuckable but gives lousy blowjobs?”
Michael’s stiffened and a burning erupted in his stomach. “Why the fuck do you have to keep going there, Isabelle?”
“You went there first, Michael.”
“I am not that shallow.” He clenched his hands into fists but kept them hidden under the table, settled on his thighs. Despite his irritation, he didn’t want to make Isabelle afraid of him again.
“But I am?”
“What’s going on, Isabelle? Why the sudden attack?” Heat bubbled up in him, but not the good kind. He stood up, knocking his chair back, and took a few steps away from her. “You’re angry at me because you don’t like to give blowjobs? Whatever the fuck this is about, it’s about you, not me.”
Isabelle was as still as stone, one arm resting on the table, palm flat on the surface. The other tugged at her hair. “I asked you a simple question, Michael. You know about me, I want to know about you.”
Michael narrowed his eyes, the fire in his belly on simmer. “Why?”
“Why not? You know about me.”
“Fuck, Isabelle, I can’t help you if I don’t know you.”
“And I can’t trust you if I don’t know you,” she said this quietly, barely audible.
“To need to know about me implies you think we have a future after this is done.”
Isabelle sat up straighter and a flush of red suffused her face. Michael immediately regretted his words. Why was he pushing her away from him? She was the first woman he’d ever met that made him want more than a solitary life, that tested his loyalty to Jackman. Maybe that was exactly why.
“I’m sorry, Isabelle.” Another fucking apology. “That was harsh.” He moved back to the table, sat down and pulled her hands into his.
Isabelle took a deep breath. “Let’s pretend for a few minutes that we didn’t have sex this morning, that there is no attraction between us. Let’s have this conversation as if we’re business partners.” She pulled her hand from his grip and shifted her chair, putting some distance between them, her legs fully under the table, a barrier between them as she faced him, eyes blazing, mouth pursed. She placed her hands on the table top, palms down, like she was squaring off for a fight.
“Right.” Michael followed suit, so he was facing her, but he leaned his elbows on the table casually. He wasn’t going to be drawn into whatever she had in mind.
“So. Michael. If we’re business partners, tell me what’s in this for you? I know what’s in it for me. You’re smart, you’re deadly. You’ll protect me from my husband and help me do what he wants me to. You’ve just made it very clear that you’re not here because you… you’re interested in anything long term. And it’s not just a sex thing, because you can have any woman you want. I’m a lot of trouble for a piece of ass that gives shitty blowjobs.” She stopped abruptly, and Michael knew by the blush on her face that she wished she’d stopped one sentence sooner. Before she showed her vulnerability again.
The questions were smart, the woman was smart. What was in it for him? Maybe he was in love with this crazy woman. Maybe he did want an afterward. He sighed and leaned back in his chair, watching his fingers as they tapped lightly on the table top. “I don’t really know, Isabelle.”
“Maybe we should part ways now,” Isabelle snapped. Clearly his answer was inadequate. She stood up and threw the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “This isn’t about you, there is no us, and whatever Jack wants me to do, I can do alone.”
Michael’s temper flared. Was she forcing his hand? She was right, there was absolutely nothing keeping them together. Michael was free to walk away from her – no repercussions to him unless Jack decided to avenge his idiot Russian minions. But that was hardly a reason for he and Isabelle to stay connected. “Is this a game, Isabelle? A test to see if there’s more to my heart than a black piece of coal? Because if it is you need to know I don’t play fucking games.”
Isabelle stopped in her tracks, her back stiff, her chin rigid as she spun around to face him. “What makes you think I play fucking games, Michael?” She was shaking, her voice loud enough to be audible from the hall.
“Stop your fucking yelling,” Michael shouted as he stood up to face her.
“Why? You don’t want the neighbours to hear? You’re so bloody good at subterfuge, aren’t you? But if it’s not part of your spy games, then you don’t play.”
Michael clenched and unclenched his fists. “I don’t play fucking games, Isabelle,” he repeated.
“Neither do I.” The tone of her voice was steel, but she dropped the volume.
“Then why are we having this fucking conversation?”
Isabelle shook her head in disbelief. “You’re a fool Michael. Why do you think? Do you think I’m some whore that just throws myself at all the men I meet? Do you think I have any interest in stepping back into a world that has done nothing but abuse me?” Her voice faltered and her face reddened. She was laying bare her soul and Michael flinched as she threw her words at him. What the hell was that feeling he was having now? Was it shame?
“Isabelle—” he started but she interrupted him as she stalked up to him, stopping a foot from him, hands on hips, peering into his face.
“Who do you think I am, Michael? Some stupid southern girl willing to take everything you dish out? You’re wrong if you think that.” She faltered, groped for words. “I’m afraid of Jack.” Desperation tinged her words, lined her face, dulled her eyes. “I trust you despite not knowing a fucking thing about you other than you’re a killer without a conscience. How insane is that?”
“Isabelle –” Michael tried again, this time reaching for her, but she wrestled away from him.
“I’m capable of taking care of myself. I could do this alone, except that I know I can’t...” Her words faded as she wrapped her arms around her stomach. “I can’t be alone in the same room with him. I can’t be there without you.” Tears slipped from her eyes. “I don’t know what to do.”
Michael didn’t know what do either. His understanding of women was extensive and tears, while not foreign, generally didn’t move him. Except for Isabelle’s tears. “I want to help you, Isabelle. Can that just be enough for now?”
Isabelle wiped the tears from her eyes. “Will I be indebted to you, if you help me, Michael?”
He didn’t know whether to be pissed that she thought so little of him or saddened because she couldn’t step beyond her past. “No. You’ll owe me nothing at the end of this.”
She nodded, then turned from him, walking into the bathroom and closing the door firmly behind her. Michael’s shoulders sagged. Was he relieved, frustrated? Or both? Relieved that she was still here. What if she’d really tried to leave? Would he have forced her to stay? And if he did that, what did it say about him? She was a scared little girl hiding behind designer clothes and a brash personality. She didn’t want his world, but she wanted him. She was having trouble reconciling that. And so was he.
He ran a hand through his hair as he slumped onto one of th
e office chairs. If he was going to be of any help to Isabelle, he had to stop letting her distract him. He needed to school her, once and for all. He had to shutter his attraction for her, lock it up until this was over.
His thoughts drifted to the previous week, to the lovesick cop who lost his mind over losing Nika. Finn would’ve torn apart anyone who got between him and the little Disappearist. He would have taken a bullet for her and almost did. Michael’s bullet. Michael’s stomach churned. He’d mocked Finn for his weakness. Now he felt like a fucking hypocrite.
Chapter Twelve
Isabelle gripped the bathroom sink to steady herself as she looked at her reflection in the mirror, at her ruined makeup, her tear-stained eyes. When had she started wearing makeup and doing her nails? Her perfect hair, her toned body, her designer clothes? After college, but before Jack, which is why she caught his eye she supposed. She ran a finger down her well-defined jawline and frowned. She had to quit frowning so much.
She opened her purse and pulled out her cosmetic bag, setting out the make-up she needed to repair her face. She worked quickly and efficiently, removing the old, replacing it with new, until she was Isabelle Sterling again. When she was finished, she smiled at her reflection then turned her head to see her profile. She looked regal and beautiful. Perfect.
She didn’t need a shrink to tell her that she was compensating for her shitty life before money, back when she had nothing but her body and her looks to get what she needed. Even now, it worked for her. She wasn’t worried about standing out in a crowd. Wasn’t worried that people remembered her. Because they also forgot her when a crime occurred in their neighbourhood. Dismissed her because she didn’t fit the image of a thief. Even when it no longer served a purpose, she knew she would never let go of the glamour, seductiveness, brashness. She liked all that it had to offer. The shopping, the silkiness of fine lingerie on her skin, the primping and pampering, the attention. It nourished the little part of her that was still bleeding inside. And it fed the emptiness in her heart, protected it from being shredded.
Except that it wasn’t doing the job it was supposed to. That bastard sitting out in the other room, promising her safety without reciprocation, unaware of the damage he was doing to her emotions. Why couldn’t he be like all the other pricks in her life? Why couldn’t he just take what he wanted from her, use her, treat her like shit, then either abandon her or force her to run from him? But fuck – the man was a killer. And a con. And a mystery, not sharing a fucking thing about him. Guarded with her, not like the others, who treated her as disposable.
But was he for real? Did he want something from her? Or was he doing this because she was screwing with his emotions. Had she touched a nerve in this hard, unflappable man?
A rap at the door startled her. “Isabelle, time to go.”
Shit, he was still here, waiting for her. Also, a man of his word.
✽ ✽ ✽
The trip to the underground parking garage was quiet – in part because they were not alone in the elevator and in part because there was an awkwardness between them. Her fault. She’d caused it when she started bitching because he wouldn’t trade confidences with her. She should have kept her mouth shut. Why had she even raised it? It was bullshit that she didn’t trust his motives. Even if he denied his feelings towards her, even if he couldn’t or wouldn’t admit them to himself. She sighed quietly as she studied his profile through half-lidded eyes. They couldn’t appear this cool towards each other when they met with Jack tonight. She had to find a way to reconcile with him.
He walked her towards a black four-door SUV Audi. As she seated herself in the passenger seat, she knew how she would break the impasse. As soon as Michael was seated, with the door shut behind him, she turned to him, gesturing to the car. “What the fuck is this? Since when do we travel in ma and pop mode?”
He grinned. “Sorry it’s not up to your usual standards, Isabelle, but we need to lower our profile just little bit.” He handed her a scarf. “Wrap your hair up in it while we drive out of here.”
Isabelle narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips as she took the scarf from Michael. “I could. The question is will I?”
“Please, Izzy.”
“Do not ever call me Izzy, Michael.”
“Then do as I say, Izzzz… abelle.”
Isabelle hid a small smile as she turned her attention to the scarf. The tension was good and truly broken. They just needed to be themselves, or their facades, or whatever. No cooing, no sappy endearments, no mercy. Then they could easily fake it when they met with Jack.
One of the best things about Vancouver was how easy a person could disappear. The city was teeming and even as they drove from Vancouver to Surrey, they melted into the crowds, the traffic on the road, the people in the shopping mall. Even if someone remembered them, who would they tell it to? They shopped first. Michael was as engaged in the process as Isabelle. He followed her from shop to shop, held her bags, stayed as she tried on clothes, nodded his approval. Always nodded his approval. Isabelle knew she had excellent taste, so what was not to love? Especially since they used his credit card. Not Hamilton anymore, now he was Jonathan Eastaugh.
She tested him. Wondered if he was doing the male thing, not daring to disapprove, by trying on checked trousers that were extremely form fitting but made her look like she belonged in the 1960s on a golf course. Michael saw straight through her. “They’re ugly, Isabelle. They have no business being next to your flawless ass.” They laughed, genuinely enjoying each other’s company, the awkwardness replaced by their banter and an intimacy that had not been there yesterday. Isabelle wondered how long it would hold.
It lasted past the lingerie shop, where he handed her a black fully-boned lace and satin corset with a corded lace-up back. “You’ll make it look incredible,” he murmured, drawing his fingers down the fabric. Michael the lover. And she was caught off guard for some unfathomable reason, but she played along. Needed to keep this truce, needed to keep this air of lightness between them. She added a satiny red chemise, lacy panties, garters, bras, and silky stockings. Last stop was shoes and she bought the most expensive red Louboutins she could find. They fit her feet like a glove, cost the price of a small mortgage and most importantly, made her unbelievably happy.
“Do you need anything – uh – flatter for the job?” Michael asked as he watched her sashay in front of the mirror in the shoe shop.
Isabelle frowned. She was having so much fun she forgot their reason for being here in the first place. “Yes.” She strolled through several shoe shops before finding two black pairs of slip on sneakers. Then back to the women’s shops where she bought black leggings and a long-sleeved black shirt, a black knitted toque and a black oversized hoodie.
“What about you, Michael?” she asked as he paid for the purchases and gathered the bags.
“Me next,” he said. Shopping for him was as fun as shopping for her. Two new suits, one black and one charcoal, new shirts, new ties. Socks, underwear, shoes. Toiletries. Everything they bought went in brand new suitcases.
As Isabelle ripped off the tags, she said, “We should just grab airplane tickets and go to Italy or Paris.”
Michael grinned at her, his eyes warm. “Maybe after,” he said. And then the mood splintered, and they finished their packing in silence.
Chapter Thirteen
They checked into the Airport Hilton in Richmond, not as beautiful as the Rosewood, but far away from it and the suite was good enough. “Will you need anything specific for your little caper?” Michael asked as they hung their clothes and readied themselves for their meeting with Jack Creed.
“I don’t know. Once we know what Jack wants from me, I’ll know what I need.”
Michael wore a black suit, black shirt and patterned, green silk tie. It was the only colour in his ensemble and it reflected his power and grace. He was cleanly shaven, a slight scent of woodsy cologne. Isabelle had to hold her hands behind her back to stop herself from ripping his
clothes from his perfect body. He was the right amount of everything – sexy, masculine, predator, lover. She felt a fever for him, so deep in her belly she thought she might combust. And he was gazing at her with half-lidded eyes, a smokiness that betrayed his thoughts. “You’re stunning, Isabelle.”
Isabelle smiled, her small black Prada clutch held gracefully in her hands. She too was wearing black, an elegant form-hugging cocktail dress that stopped just above her knees. Its thin straps settled neatly on her shapely shoulders and dropped low in the front to show glimpses of her cleavage and low in the back to show off her well-toned musculature. Under the skirt she wore a solid black smooth garter and satiny seamless panties. Her hair was pulled away from her face in a loose chignon, and of course, she was wearing her new red 4-inch Louboutin’s. She wound her pearl necklace around her neck three times, letting a single leftover strand settle into the hollow of her breasts. Pearl earrings, her sapphire on her ring finger. Perfect nails, perfect make up.
“So are you, Michael,” she whispered.
They stood several feet apart, nothing more to say. Then Michael shook himself and looked at his watch. “Time to go.” He offered his arm to her and she took it.
They took a cab, but not back to the Rosewood. Instead Michael instructed the driver to a generic nightclub.
“Why are we going there?”
“I changed the location this afternoon. I want to be on neutral territory.”
“Did telling me slip your mind?” Isabelle glowered at Michael.
“I’m telling you now, Isabelle.” The terseness in Michael’s voice brooked no argument. But this was Isabelle he was talking to, who never hesitated to brook.
“Back in charge, are you?”
He dropped his hand to her knee and squeezed it, his fingers leaving an impression on her skin. “Yes,” he said bluntly. Then he took her hand, caressing the palm of it with his thumb. “We’ve had this conversation before. You know Jack, but I know the drill. Please let me lead this conversation.”
