101 Nights Box Set: Volume Two Page 3

  She’s also about to lose it. Trembling and scared, she’s following me through the hallways but is wisely keeping her distance. She’s clutching her messenger bag. It appears to weigh more than it should if it contained only her laptop and purse.

  “Stay close,” I tell her. “They’ve likely placed someone else nearby to keep an eye out for the fuzz.”

  “Fuzz.” She gives another half-giggle, half-sob. “You’ll go to jail, too, for killing those men.”

  I could tell her the truth, that I disarmed four and only killed one. My job is to keep my best friend and employer – Elijah – safe, along with his family and staff. It can mean taking lives, when warranted, and as a last resort. Chances are, if I kill you, you deserved it. But I hate the invasion of privacy that follows, the lawyers, investigations, paperwork and court appearances. I’m a very private person who prides himself on restraint – until some wanker points a gun at a woman, like the guy in Alisha’s flat did.

  Weapons, and hurting defenseless women and children, are the pressure points that make me disregard the restraint I normally show. I saw things in Iraq, Afghanistan and Africa as a special forces soldier in Her Majesty’s service that permanently changed my view of killing and weapons. Both are necessary at times, except when it comes to those unable to fight back. In that case, neither is warranted. Ever.

  She doesn’t need to know that. For now, it benefits me for Alisha and pretty much every one else to think I’m some sort of sociopathic, murderous thug. The more she and others fear me, the less likely they are to cross me, which means those I protect are even safer.

  “You’re bleeding,” Alisha ventures.

  I glance down at my arm. A knife cut has soaked through my suit jacket. “Indeed,” I reply offhand, unconcerned.

  “Indeed,” she mocks in a deepened voice. “You Brits don’t feel pain?”

  She doesn’t look like the smart ass she is, either. It was kind of a surprise to find her so spirited and completely oblivious to whom she was dealing with. Most people who meet me have the sense to either keep quiet or speak carefully, even before I say anything. Over six and a half feet tall, I’m solid muscle and know about two dozen ways to kill a man with my bare hands. I take shit from no one.

  Except her. She’s an unexpected challenge, one I find intriguing for reasons I can’t quite pinpoint.

  Her snark is a good sign. If she’s brave enough to smart off, she’s not in shock.

  “We do. We simply don’t publicize it the way you Yanks do,” I reply.

  “Do you go around murdering people often?”

  “Depends on the day.”

  “Oh, shit! What time is it?”

  I look at her again. Her attention is on the messenger bag. A glance at my phone tells me I’ve got waiting messages from Elijah. “Four fifteen,” I reply. “You have an appointment this early?”

  She sighs. “Needed to do something by six. Not happening at this point.”

  I can’t begin to guess what she’s talking about. “Considering someone’s got a hit out on you, I doubt it trumps your safety.”

  “They might sorta be related.” Alisha clears her throat.

  “I am a willing listener, if you would like to tell me who you’ve invited to show up at my door.” I don’t know if she gets my sarcastic humor or not. Most Americans hear my accent without registering the tone of the words.

  “You can be such a dick.”

  Of course, she gets it. She’s bright.

  I smile. We emerge into the dark alley behind the apartment building. A car is waiting for us, and I wave at the driver, another member of my security crew. The lights flicker on as it rolls towards us.

  Alisha starts past me. Instinctively, I grip the back of her neck and pull her into my body. When we’re touching, I don’t need to see to know where she is and what she’s doing. My focus can be on our surroundings instead of tracking her.

  “Really?” she complains. “Thanks for the save, but I’m not going with you, George!”

  “Whether you live or die is, of course, your decision,” I reply. “You can get in the car or take a chance on your own.” I release her, willing to wager that she’ll be in the backseat of the car within two minutes.

  She steps away from me and hesitates, eyes on the vehicle. She’s tugging on one braid the way she does when she’s worried. I watch her, gaze floating down her hourglass shape. She’s soft in the right places, curvy where it counts, and trim without being skinny. The opposite of the kind of women EJ usually sets me up with.

  Not that I would even consider a relationship in my line of work. I ruled that out years ago after a particularly brutal break up. It’s been nothing but escorts, one night stands and prostitutes since then, and I like it that way. No strings attached.

  Which is why I don’t know why I’m staring at Alisha’s plump ass, considering how it would look as I slide my dick into her from behind. The warmth stirring inside me has no place right now, given our situation.

  I shift and take in our environment.

  Alisha moves another step away, and I balance on the balls of my feet, ready to run if she does.

  “Out of curiosity, what could you possibly need from me that you’d put yourself between me and five assassins?” she asks, turning to look up at me.

  With a shrug, I answer simply. “If you want to know, you’ll come with me.”

  “You made it sound like it wasn’t a choice upstairs.”

  It’s not. But when people think the choice is theirs, they’re a little easier to manage. I need her cooperative for what Elijah and I have in mind. “Your call.”

  “Is it something cool?” she asks.

  “Get in and find out.” I point to the car. “You might even live another day if you do.”

  “You are so smug.” She considers the car, her hand tapping the messenger bag. “I do like the idea of living another day.”

  Whatever is in her bag, it’s linked to the trouble she’s in.

  “If I decide to leave, you won’t stop me.” Her gaze goes to me again. “Right?”

  “I can’t guarantee that,” I reply. “But I can guarantee you’ll want to hear what I have to offer. It’ll be irresistible.”

  We’ve been playing this game for weeks now, learning to predict one another, challenging each another in the cyber world, with the occasional in-person reminders for her to respect certain boundaries when it comes to Elijah. I feel like I know her well enough to understand her pressure points after the hours upon hours we’ve spent online, hacking and taunting each other.

  There’s no way she won’t come with me, if only to gloat about the fact I need her help to do something I cannot. When she hears about Natalie, I have no doubt she’ll stick around as long as it takes to find Elijah’s missing fiancée.

  Her deep brown eyes hold mine as she thinks. She’s intrigued; I can see it. She’s also shaken from the incident upstairs and knows her danger isn’t over. Finally, she sighs. “Why not? I’ve already fucked up once tonight.” Without another word, she climbs into the car.

  Peeling off my suit jacket, I get into the backseat beside her and automatically reach for the compartment in the armrest between us for a first aid kit.

  “You get stabbed a lot?” she asks, watching.

  Streetlights fill the car with brightness, enough for me to tell she’s still shaking. I don’t want her to meltdown and make an effort to respond when I’d normally ignore her.

  “On occasion,” I reply. The wound isn’t deep, and I roll up the sleeve to put on a quick pressure dressing. “It’s superficial, barely more than a scratch. I’m more concerned about ruining my suit.”

  “You kill five people and are worried about your suit?” She tries to laugh and ends with another hiccup, followed by what I think is a muffled sob.

  Finishing my dressing, I replace the first aid kit and work on ignoring the fact she’s melting down. She’s never been scared before, even when I first confronted her. I don’t k
now why it bothers me that she is now. Could be because I haven’t yet told her the woman who is like a sister to her has gone missing, and I can’t find her.

  Usually when that happens, someone turns up dead. I don’t want Alisha hurt, and I think it might have to do with more than the fact that she’s the type of person I used to protect from harm.

  I wordlessly hand Alisha a clean handkerchief.

  She takes it but doesn’t use it. “I never … understood these,” she says, her breathing uneven as she struggles not to cry. “You can only … blow your nose on them once. Unlike tissues.”

  “You use the same tissue more than once?” I ask, amused.

  “No. You throw it out and get another. But you can’t … you have to wash a cloth one. They’re pretty but such a waste.” She’s calming, her attention on the offensive handkerchief.

  Alisha is funny. I’m pretty sure her brutal honesty comes from a lack of social interaction. It’s fresh and charming. If her online activities are any indication, I’m not sure she leaves the house more than once a week, if that.

  “They are more for the sake of fashion, not functionality,” I agree.

  “GHSY,” she reads the initials embroidered into one corner. “George Henry Stuart-York. Lots of history there.”

  “There is in every name,” I reply shortly.

  “No one can tell you’re a bastard by your name.”

  I tense and glare at her, no longer finding her brazen tongue fresh.

  “I think that’s cool,” she adds. As if aware I’m staring at her, she looks up. “I didn’t tell anyone. They went to a lot of trouble to cover up the fact your mother was a German housemaid. Just because I found everything out doesn’t mean I shared it. You fell off the map at sixteen anyway.”

  Good. It’s strange and unnerving to acknowledge that the girl beside me probably knows every detail of my first sixteen years, more than anyone outside my estranged family knows. If she found out about my real mother, she uncovered a lot more about my family, details no one wants out in the open. She knows me or at least, the first half of my life. It makes me uncomfortable not to be the ghost I try to be.

  “You’re looking at me like you didn’t unearth every last secret of mine when you hacked me!” she snaps.

  “Secrets should not be spoken to those trying to hide them,” I chide.

  She shakes her head. “Whatever.”

  “You want me telling people where you keep your pornography stash?”

  She gasps.

  “With your birth certificate and passport? Now that is an entertaining story,” I add, relaxing.

  “At least I didn’t go through your apartment!” she says, flustered.

  “I have to ask: why there?”

  Alisha sighs and fumbles with the buckle on her messenger bag. Her features are crimson. “I don’t have a stash. I have like, three DVDs, because I was curious when I was eighteen or so,” she manages. “I put them where I thought no one could find them.”

  “There’s no shame in watching pornos. Or sex, for that matter,” I say.

  “I know that!”

  “Then why did you feel the need to secure them in a safe with a biometrically encoded lock?”

  She’s not angry. If anything, she appears deeply troubled. “I should’ve thrown those out,” she murmurs. “So misleading. Sex is nothing like that. Everyone in a porno looks happy. Sex is … unpleasant.”

  “First, if you learned about sex from a porno, your education is severely lacking. Second, sex is incredible with a partner who knows what to do in bed,” I respond.

  “I’m a computer nerd who had braces until she was nineteen. Not the greatest way to pick up guys.”

  “I’m a computer nerd, and I have no problems with women.”

  She eyes me then rolls her eyes. “You’re all this. A comic book hero come to life.” She waves at my body. “You’re not normal, George Henry Stuart-York.”

  “Clearly you’ve never had a skilled partner. I’d be happy to teach you properly.” Why the fuck did I just say that? Not that I wouldn’t sleep with her if she wanted, just that we’re far too different, even for a one night stand. Even if she’s attractive, brilliant and funny. Or maybe it’s a bad idea because she is attractive, brilliant and funny.

  “I need a shower,” she says softly.

  Not quite the response I expected. “We’re headed to my place. You can take one there.”

  She falls quiet, pensive. I can sense she’s got more than the attack tonight on her mind, though I’m not sure what.

  It’s probably better I don’t know what’s making her sad. There’s a familiar sexual tension between us, and I already respect her hacking skills. Respect and attraction … it’s a recipe for disaster, especially when my goal with relationships is not to have one ever again.

  People get hurt, and sometimes, I can’t prevent it. I can’t take that chance with anyone else. It’s the main reason I avoid relationships to start with. Too much can go wrong.

  “Since you eschew handkerchiefs,” I say and hold out my hand.

  “Is it expensive?” she asks, studying it.

  “Relatively, compared to a box of tissues.”

  “Then I’ll keep it.” She stuffs it in her bag. “Consider it a hostage.”

  The idea of keeping it as a hostage is ridiculous … and very, very Alisha.

  “You will treat him well?” I ask, unable to quell the urge to tease her. It’s easy to let down my guard and relax around her, even though that’s something I try never to do around anyone but Elijah.

  “Depends on how you treat me,” she fires back. “I’m not afraid to break out the scissors to get what I want.”

  “I’ve seen your skill with your jacket. No man would want that fate for his handkerchief.” I look out the window to keep from smiling. Verbally sparring with her is as intriguing as trying to hack her.

  She makes a sound I mistake for crying, until I glance at her. She’s laughing, or trying to, between her tears.

  “I like that you play with me,” she says after a moment. “I mean, verbally. Not in a um, porno way.” She clears her throat.

  “I understood,” I reply.

  “Do you read comic books?”

  “I wouldn’t be a true computer nerd if I didn’t,” I reply.

  “What would your comic book hero name be, if you chose one?”

  I consider for a moment, but nothing comes to mind. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Okay. I need real tissues.”

  The driver hands her back some before pulling into the underground garage of the condo building where I live on the floor beneath Elijah. Completely cut off from inheriting my father’s wealth, I am basically a ward of Elijah’s, the man who has been like a brother to me since we met at Eton College in England. I have access to his accounts, my own credit cards that he pays off, and have even managed to save quite a bit of money from the large salary he pays me. He is overly generous with those he cares about while shutting out everyone else in the world.

  We’re a lot alike in that regard. It’s survivor’s instinct, I believe, one we both share.

  We’re dropped off at the private elevator leading up to Elijah’s ten thousand square foot flat. I live on the lower of the two floors, which consists of several guest rooms, a smaller kitchen than the main floor, living spaces for the main staff members and a gym.

  I wait for Alisha, not about to let her out of my sight when I’m not convinced she won’t still run. She’s calmer, her nose red from crying. I resist the sudden urge to touch her that make my fingers curl in anticipation and lean around her to press my thumb to the keypad beside the elevator. The lights turn green, and the elevator doors open.

  “This is your boss’s new place, isn’t it?” she asks suspiciously.

  “It is.”

  “So you’re taking me to him?” She faces me and crosses her arms, refusing to move into the elevator.

  “No. I’m taking you to my floor. I
remember too well how the last meeting went between you two.”

  She stares at me in disbelief.

  Aware we’re much safer in the condo than here, I take her arms and steer her back into the elevator. She doesn’t resist despite her suspicion.

  “So he sends you out to force me to help him,” she guesses.

  “You got into the car willingly,” I remind her and release her.

  “I’m not stupid, George. I know you weren’t going to let me walk away.”

  “You had a chance to run.”

  “You happened to be the lesser of two evils at the moment.”

  “Smart, as always.”

  She eyes me like she thinks I’m making fun of her. I’m not. I know she’s brilliant, even if she did drop out of high school like most of the teens that live in the slums of Tenley block. I know her past, too, about the drugs and hacking, the sealed files from when she went to juvenile detention and how she doesn’t speak to her family.

  “How can you be so calm?” The hushed note of distress is in her voice again. “Do you deal with assassins every day?”

  I debate how to respond as the elevator takes us to the floor second from the top of one of the most elite penthouses in the Upper Eastside of New York City.

  “Not much surprises me,” I reply. “You’ve seen the criminal world from the safety of your office. I’ve gotten a much closer look over the years.”

  She’s listening. “That’s kind of sad, George.”

  Raising an eyebrow, I study her.

  “It doesn’t bother you at all to know and see what you have?” she asks.

  “Not at all. There is a lesson to be derived from every experience, good or bad.”

  Her smile is hesitant. “I guess. You definitely surprise me. I’m glad you’re not upset about the assassins. They did kind of try to kill you, too.”

  “All part of the job.”

  “Thank you. If it matters or not.” She relaxes visibly with a deep sigh.