101 Nights Box Set: Volume Two Page 6

  “I just figured out your comic book name,” she says in a tight voice. “Super Dick.”

  “Now is not the time to resort to this kind of childish behavior, Alisha.”

  Knowing how much Elijah is hurting, seeing Alisha in pain … it’s hard for me to witness and not become frustrated. I can’t fix this right now, but I must, because there’s no one else who can. If I can’t save the lives of Natalie and Layla, Elijah’s sister, then we lose them both.

  Her shoulders are shaking in silent tears.

  “I shouldn’t have said that, Alisha,” I say with a deep breath, aware of how much she’s been through. “I do need your assistance. I think you will agree we are more effective as a team in this circumstance.”

  She’s quiet, tugging at one braid.

  “You’re the only person who can find her. You know I’m pretty much the only person who can act when you do.” I take a few steps closer, once again letting my eyes float down her body. Kissing her confirmed what I suspected: her passion runs deep despite her eccentricity.

  “You swear you don’t know where she is and didn’t set her up somehow?” Alisha asks without facing me.

  “Giving you my word won’t help, if you don’t already trust me to tell you the truth,” I point out.

  “True. I don’t trust you, George.”

  “I don’t expect you to. I expect you to find your friend.”

  “Of course I will. I want something from you, though.”

  “Very well.” I wait.

  “Don’t hack Tony’s laptop or mine while I’m here. Don’t go digging anywhere for more information about my life.”

  “I make no promises. If I need to take action to ensure your safety, then I’ll do what I feel is necessary.”

  She throws her head back with a groan. “Can you just say okay and move on?”

  “You want a reason to trust me. I’m giving you one by not lying. But if you rather I do …” I reply, amused.

  “Just shut up!” She whirls and strides back to the desk. “We need coffee.”

  I relax, relieved. For a moment, I thought I’d lost her. “I’ll fetch us some.”

  The one question she doesn’t ask portrays one of the main differences between our personalities. I tend to plan ahead, while she’s more spontaneous. Right now, if I were her, I’d be negotiating for what happens to the Russian assassins and the secret bank accounts of hers I found once we find and rescue Natalie. I have the power to facilitate her death or protect her from it.

  She says nothing, oblivious to her own danger as she focuses on helping her friend. Her complete ignorance stirs a protective instinct deep inside me, one I don’t want to experience. I don’t want to be obligated to help her beyond what it takes to get what I need. I like clean breaks with no emotional ties.

  This is going to be messy. The silent acknowledgment is another weight on my shoulders, the knowledge that it’s not just the fates of Natalie and Layla in my hands, but Alisha’s, too.

  She’s absorbed in watching the video once more.

  Pensive, I leave and return with a tray fifteen minutes later. She’s paused the feed on a certain frame and is pacing between two of the large monitors on the walls. I pour her coffee and my tea then approach, handing her a saucer and cup.

  “Fancy,” she says with a glance at it.

  “There are pastries, if you’re interested,” I say. “What caught your eye?”

  “You mentioned Hassan, two thugs and Natalie,” she says. “Who is this?” She points to the corner. Hassan’s feet are visible, and Natalie is facing him, the thugs behind her.

  It takes me a minute before I realize there’s another shadow, beside but slightly behind Hassan. Someone else is in the garage.

  “Interesting,” I murmur, sipping my tea.

  “It’s something. Not enough to identify who it is.” Alisha’s worried gaze is on the shadow. “This Hassan guy. He’s dangerous?”

  “Very,” I reply. “I’ve mapped any number of escape routes out of New York to Nijala. At some point, they will have to be on a plane or boat.”

  She nods. “This is good coffee. Your butler make it?”

  “I made it.”

  “Didn’t think British royals made coffee.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Alisha.”

  “Well open up those sealed files of yours for the past fourteen years, and maybe we can be friends,” she says sarcastically, facing me.

  “As soon as you tell me what’s on Tony’s server you’ve been trying to hack.”

  She rolls her eyes.

  “More pornos?” I bait.

  She flushes. The troubled look is back, the one that makes me want to hack Tony’s fortress of a server even more. Whatever it is, it’s bad – and I’m too intrigued by her secrets.

  Rattling draws my gaze to the saucer and cup in her hands. She’s trembling again. I’m not sure if it’s the mention of Tony or the fact she’s had a rough night with no sleep. The circles beneath her eyes are deep and dark, and her features are haggard.

  I take her coffee and set hers and mine on the tray. “You need to rest.”

  “No. I need to find my friend.”

  “Alisha, you had a long night. Get a few hours of sleep, and start afresh.”

  “So I go to sleep and you hack my computer. Is that how this works?” she demands.

  “Tell me you wouldn’t do the same, if I took a little nap while you were still awake.”

  “Of course I’d hack you,” she says without hesitation.

  “Then either neither of us gets any sleep, or we sleep together.”

  “So not slick,” she snaps.

  “You have a better idea?” I ask.

  “We can’t have a truce?”

  “You wouldn’t respect it if we did. I’m not going to be locked into being honorable when I know too well you don’t understand such boundaries.”

  Her jaw drops. “As pretty as that sounded, I’m pretty sure you just called me a two bit liar, didn’t you?”

  I chuckle. “We both need sleep if we’re going to tackle this. My bed is a king. Large enough for us to have our own side,” I reply. “Or we can sleep on the floor here.”

  She scowls at the floor and looks towards the bedroom, clearly torn. “Don’t try anything funny.”

  I’m not sure what kind of trauma she’s been through that she thinks the worst of me as a man, though the bruises tell me it’s been long term and intense.

  “I will not, unless I’m invited to,” I agree.

  She eyes me.

  “You kissed me first,” I remind her. “That qualifies.”

  Without another word, she leaves.

  I gaze at the monitors for a moment, sensing she picked up what I missed earlier. There was a fourth person in the garage, someone working with Hassan. It would be more significant, if I could prove what my gut has been telling me, that it’s someone in our inner circle. Why did that person never pass by the camera, and why is there no record anywhere that might tip me off?

  Because they knew I’d be looking. Hassan had nothing to lose and didn’t care, but his partner did.

  I, too, am tired. I’ve been wired since Natalie went missing. Fighting off five men – and doing my best to stay sharp enough to outthink Alisha – drains a person.

  “George,” Alisha calls. “You’re not hacking are you?”

  Turning off the monitors, I leave.

  She’s already in my bed, under the covers, huddled up on one side.

  Desire bolts through me to see her there, but I suppress it. I cross to the blackout blinds and close them to keep the sunrise from waking us. The room is sealed in darkness, aside from the soft glow of a nightlight in the bathroom.

  Stripping to my boxers, I slide beneath the covers on the other side of the bed and fold my arms beneath my head, staring into the darkness. In truth, I’m not so sure this is a great idea. Not that Alisha has the nerve to stab someone, but I can see her doing so
me damage, if she thinks me at all responsible for Natalie being taken.

  Being this close to her is driving my hormones crazy, too. The only part of my body that isn’t tired is my dick. I focus on something other than the knowledge that her perfect, feminine body is within reach and the fact I could use the physical stress relief fucking provides.

  “We can’t sleep for long,” she says, troubled.

  “The shades go up in four hours.”

  “If the assassins find me, you’ll know before we’re murdered in our sleep, right?”

  I smile. “You’re closest to the door. You can let me know if they come for us.”

  She shifts. “Seriously, George.”

  “You got a peek at my security system earlier. You know better than to assume I don’t have a backup, and a secondary backup.”

  Alisha sighs in frustration.

  “You’re safe, Alisha,” I assure her.

  “I don’t feel safe.”

  “But you are.”

  “Natalie’s not.”

  “We’ll find her. We both need to be at the top of our games.”

  She settles and is quiet.

  I close my eyes, the sexual pull between us strong enough that I doubt I’ll sleep. I’m not even sure what it is about her that I find so compelling.

  She shifts in the bed before asking, “George, why did you kiss me earlier?”

  “You kissed me first.”

  “That was totally different, and you know it!”

  “A kiss is a kiss,” I say casually.

  “So you kiss every prostitute you hire the same way?”

  “I do.”

  “You really do hire prostitutes?” she asks, surprised.

  “Indeed.”

  “I’ve never met anyone who admits to it. There are a bunch of streetwalkers in front of Tenley at night. That’s so … ugh. Gross.”

  “I don’t hire streetwalkers, Alisha. I can afford something a little better,” I remind her.

  “But why would you need to? You’re built like a god, George.” There’s a pause, then, “Not that I noticed, cared or am interested. It’s a simple observation.”

  I laugh quietly, her honesty having its relaxing effect on me once more. “I like sex. Prostitutes like money. It’s a simple, fair exchange with no expectations of there being anything more.”

  “Like a relationship.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Good point. Maybe that’s a good thing. It’s a rather intimate exchange, though.”

  “You have to have the temperament for it. Not everyone does.”

  “And you take the risk that the guy you’re with is a psycho who likes to hurt you,” she adds. “I guess if you’re hiring someone, you tell them what you want and what not to do, right?”

  “That is part of the appeal.” The note in her voice stirs a different kind of warm emotion: anger. While it’s none of my business, I have the sense the only man she’s ever slept with hurt her frequently. She doesn’t seem like the kind to put up with it, which is why it makes more sense that Tony has something on her to manipulate her into bearing through it. Even so, I don’t like the image in my head of her at some wanker’s mercy.

  “Now I feel sad for prostitutes,” she murmurs. “They have to deal with deviants like Tony.”

  “I imagine the circumstances vary. It’s a job to them. Something tells me your circumstances are different, that you -”

  “Fucked up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because I strike you as being a fuck up?” There’s an edge to her voice. From the research that went into creating a file on her, I know she’s got family – but no contact with them. It’s a familiar pattern, one I recognize from my past as well as Elijah’s.

  “Because you strike me as being brilliant but naïve,” I reply calmly, assessing she’s gearing up for another fight.

  “Naïve? I don’t think so.”

  “You are naturally a good person with good intentions and a bad habit that led you into the criminal world,” I tell her. “You have no idea how bad things can get. You’re like a pre-Spiderman Peter Parker.”

  “Hmmm.” She’s quiet for a moment. “I always thought myself more like Black Widow.”

  “I’d fancy myself as Black Widow before I’d characterize you like that,” I say firmly. “You’re a couch criminal.”

  “A couch criminal?” she repeats angrily. “Is that a crack about my thighs?”

  “First, the fact you’re more offended by being restricted to a sofa than being called a criminal is quite brilliant. Second, the only thing I noticed about your thighs is that I’d like them around my head,” I reply, quelling the urge to laugh.

  She’s quiet before muttering a response. “Whatever. What comic book character do you fancy yourself to be?”

  “A survivor. Like Batman.”

  “I can see that. Tortured, moody, wealthy man with no family. Another reason not to have relationships, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about Super Dick? As your comic book name.”

  “I don’t really fancy that,” I reply.

  She’s quiet for a moment, and I wait curiously to hear what she’ll say next but unwilling to ask. This woman fascinates me.

  “I don’t think I could hire a prostitute,” she sighs, disappointed. “Isn’t it ironic? Men who look like you hire sex, and women like me settle for Tonys because all the Batmans are paying hookers. I don’t have the money for a prostitute anyway.”

  She even funnier when wallowing in her own misery. I’m grinning. “I offered.”

  “I’ve seen what you can do to people. Tony wasn’t capable of a tenth of your strength, and I barely survived him,” she says quietly.

  “You assume I’m the same kind of man he is.”

  “Aren’t you? You killed five people without remorse. He has the sense to apologize after beating me, but you don’t even care about ending people’s lives.”

  I clench my teeth so tightly, my jaw muscles snap. In such a black and white portrayal, I’m worse than Tony. Except that I know that not to be true. I know the difference between what Tony does and what I do. Like most people who are blissfully unaware of how dark our world can be, Alisha can’t understand the restraint I show that men like Tony do not. It’s called honor, and it makes all the difference in the world.

  “I guess that answers that.” She sounds disappointed again.

  “I didn’t kill all five,” I hiss. “Just the one who almost shot you.”

  Quiet.

  “The other four were disarmed and knocked out.”

  “So you broke their bones or something?” she asks.

  “Whatever it took.”

  “But you’re not sorry. About them or anyone else you killed.”

  “Absolutely not.” Mostly. There’s only one death that weighs on my conscience, the murder of the woman I loved. Even if I didn’t pull the trigger, being who and what I am killed her. When Tracy died in my arms, I vowed never to lower the walls around my emotions to another woman. Ever.

  “Doesn’t that seem … wrong?” Alisha asks.

  Her question is another good reminder of why I need to keep distance between us. She’s smart and funny, chin-deep in the grey world – and still looking down on me for how I choose to live my life.

  Irritated, I sit and swing my legs off the side of the bed. It’s one thing for her not to be grateful. I don’t mind that; it’s my job, after all, to keep people safe. It’s quite another to feel the pang of hurt I do at the thought of her judging me the way my family always has. I shouldn’t – won’t – care what she thinks, no matter what I think of her. “Someone like you will never understand or approve of what I do.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “I need some air.” I stride to the balcony and out into the pre-dawn chill. The sky is lightening in the distance.

  Leaning against the stone railing, I’m not entirely certain why I’m angry. I shouldn’t be surprised to hea
r that tone of voice from even her. The other reason I’m alone: there’s no one on this planet that can understand the grey sea I swim in on a daily basis. No one who will listen to what I’ve done and look at me the same way after.

  Well, there was Tracey, who didn’t care. She died for accepting me as I am. It’s not an experience I will ever repeat. Loving me is a death sentence, and no one deserves it.

  Alisha got to me. I’m not sure how, and I don’t recall when exactly I lowered my guard to her. Dealing with her has been an unusual challenge. Somewhere along the past few weeks, I must’ve thought I’d found someone as stuck in the grey as I am, who might also understand what I do about the unique life paths we chose. It’s the only explanation for why I feel angry right now. No one can or should understand what and who I am. Even if someone could, I don’t want her to, don’t want to experience an emotional connection to anyone else who could get hurt.

  “George.” She’s standing close behind me. “I wasn’t judging you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Wouldn’t matter if you did.”

  “I’m trying to understand,” Alisha starts. “Seeing you snap someone’s neck …” She hesitates before continuing. “You have to admit, it’s kind of freaky when you see it for the first time. I mean, it has to take a toll on you doing those things, right?”

  It’s my turn to listen while I silently debate how to handle her. I face her, once more enchanted by her dark eyes and expressive features.

  “Did you really only kill the guy who was going to shoot me?” she whispers, wide. She searches my face.

  “Yeah.”

  “Because you have a thing about guns.”

  “Because I have a thing about killing people who don’t deserve it, guns or no,” I say.

  Her features are troubled, and I can see she’s trying to process everything. “So you really did do it to protect me and not because you were on some psycho killing spree.”

  “Correct.”

  “No one’s ever done that before for me. You may run around hiring prostitutes and rescuing damsels in distress, but I’m on new territory,” she half-jokes. “I’m sorry if I made you feel bad. My family used to …” Her features grow pink, making her eyes sparkle. “Anyway, I vow from here on out not to judge you, just to be suspicious of everything you say and do.”