Found (Assassin's Revenge Book 1) Page 2

  And Lucien was now clutching at his groin in agony.

  “I have to go,” I mumbled. I whirled to my bedroom and pulled on a pair of track pants and a t-shirt. It was all too much. I needed out.

  “Fix this now, Ellie,” I heard him call out as I left the apartment. I heard the tone of finality in his voice. I knew that everything I’d worked for in the last four years was on the line. Without Lucien’s money and his contacts in the underworld, I couldn’t get to Dylan. My dream of killing my former ‘master’ was the only thing that had kept me alive the last six years.

  I burst into a run.

  Chapter 3

  Alexander / Marc:

  She was beautiful, the redhead who burst into the bar, slightly out of breath, but that wasn’t what I noticed right off the bat. What stood out about her was her confidence.

  The bar I was in was, at best, disreputable. But she walked in and stood just inside the doorway, head held high, looking around for a seat. Her demeanour was absolutely unafraid, and my interest was immediately piqued.

  Women who didn’t need me to take care of them were my kryptonite. The more confident they were and the more capable, the sweeter the victory when they surrendered their cares at the entrance to my bedroom. Or in my dungeon, if they were inclined to play that way.

  The room had grown steadily more crowded as the evening had passed and now, the only empty stool was the one next to me. Not by chance; I’d been saving it for Jean-Luc in case he came back. All evening, I’d been glaring at every single drunk that lurched past, looking for a place to sit. But as the woman came up to the vacant spot, I quite happily threw Jean-Luc under the bus.

  “Is this seat taken?” she asked in French.

  I shook my head. “American?” I asked her in English. “You are in a sketchy neighborhood for a tourist.”

  Some of my comment was based on observation. If she was a woman who lived in the neighborhood, she wouldn’t have come into this particular bar so fearlessly. Fights broke out here often. There wasn’t anything by way of food. It was just a place for old lonely men to while away some time before they went home to their wives. And she’d had the faintest trace of an accent, something only a native French speaker would be able to pick up. But the American part was just a lucky guess.

  Her green eyes shot fire at me. “I speak fluent French,” she replied icily. “I hate when people switch to English. It’s condescending and rude.”

  My lips twitched; my cock stirred in my trousers. Feisty women were so much fun. “My apologies,” I said. I didn’t even try to keep the amusement out of my voice. “Can I buy you a drink to make up for the condescension and the rudeness?”

  She grinned. “That has to be the poorest attempt at repentance I’ve seen in a while.” She gave me a once-over, taking in the custom-made suit, the expensive watch, all the trappings of wealth. “Pot calling the kettle black, Monsieur? Judging by how you are dressed, you are just as out of place as I am.”

  “I’m a thief,” I told her. “The clothes are stolen. And please, call me Marc.”

  She looked startled for a second at my candour, then she laughed. “A good try,” she replied, “but that’s a lie.”

  She was good. I was a fluent liar and I was always believed. “Is it?” I asked her, gesturing over to Hassan at the bar. “What’s your pleasure?”

  “Could I get a glass of white wine?” she asked in French.

  I interjected on her behalf before Hassan could pour her a glass. The house white in this particular bar tasted like vinegar. Instead, I asked for a bottle of a much better white, a 2013 Clos des Papes Blanc from the Châteauneuf-du-Pape region, a winery that my friend Paul ran. “Bossy much?” She arched her eyebrow at me.

  “You should thank me,” I told her as Hassan set the dusty bottle in front of us along with a couple of glasses. “The house wine is swill.” I’d deliberately said that in English. Jean-Luc would have killed me if I’d got thrown out of this bar and wrecked his cover story. “Trust me?” I asked.

  She gave me a half-smile. For the first time, I noticed uncertainty flash across her face, but then she nodded. “Thanks for the drink,” she said.

  I poured a generous measure for both of us, and handed her a glass. I raised my own and she clinked her glass against mine, her eyes on my face. She took a sip and her expression changed, pleasure filling her face. Her sweet sigh of appreciation had my cock twitching again.

  “You do bossy well. This is excellent.”

  Oh, she had no idea. The things I’d do to her if she wanted me to boss her around. I’d set her down on my bed, her arms and legs tied to the four posts in the corner, then I’d taste every inch of that body until she was writhing, delirious with lust, begging for me to grant her release. My cock loved that thought.

  I didn’t typically approach women at bars. When I did, I was direct. I didn’t beat around the bush; the few times I was looking for something, it was sex. Never anything deeper because I had plans and responsibilities and I wasn’t allowed anything more meaningful than casual sex.

  But the flash of wariness in her eyes stood out in stark contrast with the relaxed confidence with which she walked into the bar. She intrigued me and I found myself wanting to savour every moment with her.

  I didn’t even know her name. I asked. “Rachel,” she responded.

  “Why’d you think I was lying earlier, Rachel?”

  She winked. “I can tell. Try me. Say something and I’ll tell you if it’s truth or a lie.”

  I tilted my head to one side and surveyed her. She had a cheeky little grin on her face and it suited her. The wariness didn’t belong; this cocky confidence was such a turn-on and I wanted to play her game. “Alright,” I said, trying to think of a statement to put to the test. “I once spent a summer in Australia shearing sheep.”

  “Lie,” she said instantly.

  I raised an eyebrow. “I was a learning shearer,” I told her. “By the time the summer was done, I could shear seventy sheep a day. I was ridiculously proud of myself until the man in charge of the team came up to me. He was this big weathered guy, lines etched in his face from hours of being out in the sun, and he said to me…” I did my best imitation of an Australian accent. “Son, are you shearing the sheep or are ya fecking them?”

  She laughed out aloud at that, a merry peal of sound. “Still a lie,” she said. “Though it’s well done. Try me again.”

  I shook my head. “Your turn,” I told her.

  She paused for a second. I could see the tentativeness in her eyes, then she smiled her half-smile again. “I’m allergic to shellfish. For my sixteenth birthday, my mom took me to dinner at a seafood restaurant that was a converted old boat. I had shrimp for the first time that night, and wow, I totally reacted. My lips, tongue, throat, everything swelled up like crazy.”

  I wanted to see her lips swollen with my kisses. “True,” I said. “But boring. Tell me something else.”

  “Boring?” She made a mock-outraged face. “How is shellfish any more boring than sheep?”

  “Sheep in Australia,” I pointed out. “Besides, I did a great Australian accent.”

  Her wine glass looked ready for a refill; I topped it up. She looked at it with a slight frown. “I’m not much of a drinker,” she confessed.

  “I don’t bite,” I replied.

  “Lie,” she quipped.

  “You caught me,” I said. My eyes dropped to the small amount of cleavage exposed by her vee-necked t-shirt. “I only bite on request.”

  It was there again – that mixture of fear and interest. It was a strange feeling for me. I was rich and good-looking. I rarely had to work for female attention. With any other woman, by this point there’d be touching. Discreet and subtle but definitely there. Or if they were more open, they’d be throwing themselves at me.

  Rachel? Here’s what I knew. She was interested enough to stay and talk but at any moment, she might bolt. But I didn’t want her to run. Strange as it was, I was havin
g a great time just talking to her, listening to the sound of her laughter.

  Chapter 4

  Ellie / Rachel:

  I’d run and when I’d tired of running, I’d gone into a bar.

  It wasn’t a bar that strangers walked into. It was obvious from the way the conversation stopped when I’d entered. But I’d long outgrown being self-conscious about those kinds of things. Nowadays, my preoccupations were bigger.

  I shouldn’t have kneed Lucien in the groin. I’d grabbed some money, my phone and a key to the apartment and I’d run away. Had he been out of line? I didn’t think so, but I could never tell for sure. There was nothing rational about my fear; it was instinctive and paralyzing. Lucien was right. This was a problem I needed to take care of.

  The place was packed. It wasn’t a large space and every seat was taken except for one by a corner of the bar, so I made my way there. When the man next to me turned and asked if I was American and smiled at my grumpy response, my breath caught for a moment because he had the nicest, friendliest smile. When he grinned, two dimples appeared in his cheeks softening the hard lines on his face.

  I hadn’t paid attention to men for a long time, but I noticed him. He was gorgeous.

  Use him, the pragmatic part of me urged. Sleep with him if he seems interested. Make a pleasant, pleasurable memory as a counterpoint to the painful ones.

  And though my instinctive response was to always shy away in fear, I made myself sit down and turn towards him with a smile.

  ***

  I hadn’t expected to enjoy myself. Everything about this experience was new and strange to me.

  I’d been kidnapped when I was eighteen. In Cleveland my friends had been the sort to sneak beer behind the back of their parents, but my mother had been an alcoholic. As the person that had had to live with the consequences of that, I wasn’t interested in drinking. So I’d never acquired a fake ID and I’d never done this. I’d never sat next to a good-looking man at a bar and flirted.

  Once I was free of Dylan, I’d focused on training. When men looked at me with lust in their eyes, I’d been afraid, not aroused. I’d seen what the lust of men could do. My body bore the scars.

  But there was no denying that I was having a good time. The wine was beautifully chilled and tart on my tongue. The man besides me was interesting. His gaze had dropped for the merest instant to the swell of my breasts under the t-shirt, then his eyes had returned to my face. I only bite on request, he had said.

  That was an invitation. Loud and clear. He didn’t push; he just put that particular card on the table and there it stayed, in front of me. And I was tempted… so tempted. For the first time in my life I was more aroused than afraid. But the fear was still there.

  Maybe my consternation was visible, because he leaned back in his barstool. “It’s your turn again,” he urged. And maybe it was because I was grateful and relieved and somewhat surprised that he hadn’t pushed that I wanted to tell him something that was both true and real.

  “When I was a teenager, I only had my friends over for sleepovers twice. My mother drank and she was unpredictable and mostly, I preferred to hide my home life from my friends. But two times I had my friends over, Lisa and Amber.”

  “What happened that second time to prevent a third?”

  His question was too perceptive. I took a sip of my wine. “She fell down the stairs,” I replied. “I was seventeen.” I’d bundled her into my car and driven her to the emergency room and she’d had stitches for the cut in her forehead. Seeing Ivan’s blood all over my hands today had brought back that long-suppressed memory.

  His hand touched my shoulder for a second, offering silent comfort. Nothing more, not unless I wanted it. “Sorry,” I apologized, forcing a smile on my face. “That was a mood-kill, wasn’t it?”

  “Please don’t be sorry,” he replied. “Relationships with parents are complicated things, and they have an impact much longer than you think they should.”

  Something told me it wasn’t my relationship with my mother that he was talking about. I wanted to ask him about it but I didn’t. Marc couldn’t become real to me. There was only enough room in my life for my revenge. My need to kill Dylan was all that mattered.

  But I wanted one night of pleasure.

  “Let’s change the game,” I suggested, forcing a smile on my face. “Truth or dare. You have heard of it in France, haven’t you?”

  “I have,” he agreed, his eyes sparkling. I wanted to reach out and lick those dancing dimples on his cheeks. “Shall we toss to see which one of us gets to go first?” He pulled a coin from his trousers and as he reached into his pocket, my eyes fell to his groin. His cock stretched across the fabric, its hard outline clearly visible. I looked back up at his face, swallowing. “If you are interested, we can play all kinds of games, Rachel,” he said, his voice smooth and sensual, his eyes filled with heated desire. “And all kinds of dares we can explore.”

  Not yet. “Toss the coin,” I told him. “Maybe I’ll just stick to the truth.”

  He shook his head with a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Ah, bright star, I think you keep as many secrets as you reveal. Will you tell me the truth?”

  He’d read me well. A little too well. I shivered slightly. He was just a stranger in a bar, this was true. But I still had my mission to think of. It would not do to get too real here.

  The coin flashed in the air before it landed on the wooden counter. “Call it,” he said with a smile, concealing it with his palm. I looked at his big hand and imagined it cupping my breast instead. He’d bend his head down and take a nipple in his mouth. He’d caress and nibble and stroke…

  It would be just like the movies I’d seen and the books I’d read. It would be magical.

  “Heads.” My voice came out with a higher pitch than normal. My body vibrated with an unfamiliar awareness. Goose bumps rose on my skin.

  He moved his hand, revealing the shiny Euro and shook his head. “Tails. My turn. Truth or dare?”

  There was a gleam in his eyes. I wasn’t ready yet for a dare, but I couldn’t risk revealing the truth either. I closed my eyes briefly and confronted my options. I could always take liberties with the truth if I had to. But I didn’t want to lie to him. That seemed wrong. “Truth.”

  We’d turned to face each other as we’d talked, cocooned away in the corner of the bar. The bartender glanced over a few times, but aware of the dynamic at play, had wisely left us alone. The other patrons looked towards us once in a while but they had their own cares and grumbles to preoccupy them.

  We were surrounded by people but we were very alone.

  His hand, that big strong hand, reached out and took hold of my wrist. Firm but not hard. If I wanted, I could have pulled away.

  I didn’t pull away.

  His finger traced a star on my palm. Bright star, he’d called me earlier. “Are you afraid of me, Rachel?”

  I gulped. “I don’t know,” I whispered. “Should I be?”

  He shook his head in rebuke, a trace of a smile on his lips. “Ah, ma chère, you asked me if I knew how to play this American game of yours. Yet it seems that I must remind you of the rules. Answer, or take a dare in forfeit.”

  His sternness should have caused fear. When Dylan was angry or stern, I’d get punished. Painfully. But Marc had a smile playing around his lips and his eyes weren’t cold. And I could take care of myself. I had grown up. I straightened my shoulders and met his gaze squarely. “I’m not afraid of you,” I said.

  He hadn’t let go of my hand. I was keenly aware of his touch, of the way his thumb massaged my skin. The embers of a flame that had been smouldering ever since I took a seat at the bar next to him sparked. The thick wall of fear that enclosed my heart cracked a little and longing emerged from that crack like a wisp of smoke.

  “It’s my turn,” I forced myself to say. “Truth or dare?”

  He winked at me. “Dare.”

  Something happened in that moment. Something str
ange and joyous. Something entirely unexpected.

  I wanted to be playful.

  “A dare, Marc?” I was astonished at the laughter in my voice. This wasn’t the woman who had lashed out in instinctive panic, leaving Lucien doubled up in pain on the kitchen floor. I liked this version so much better. Pure merriment ran through me. “I dare you to drink a glass of their house wine. I believe you called it swill.”

  He laughed aloud. I sensed that I had truly surprised him with my dare and I loved that. “Oh, I’ve called it worse,” he said wryly. He raised his hand to grab the bartender’s attention and the man came over, eyebrows raised.

  “It appears,” Marc said in French, “that I would like a glass of white wine.”

  The bartender looked astonished and a little gleeful. “At once Marc,” he replied, also in French. Then he switched to English. “But I didn’t think you cared for my selection. Didn’t you once say that you’d rather drink from the gutters?”

  I was looking at Marc when the bartender said that. Because I was trained to do so, I noticed the expressions flit across his face. First, absolute implacable hardness. Then he relaxed and smiled ruefully. “An important lesson,” he looked at Hassan and spoke in English, “about underestimating your bartender.”

  Hassan grinned. “One glass of wine coming right up.”

  Something about that exchange wasn’t quite right. I wondered why Marc would even care if the bartender spoke English. Though every Parisian would like to pretend otherwise, plenty of people spoke English here. But there had definitely been tension.

  “What do you really do?” I asked him. “You aren’t a thief.”

  His eyes lingered on the bartender, now at the far corner of the bar. Then his gaze returned to me. “It isn’t your turn to ask questions, Rachel,” he smiled. He took the glass of white wine that was set down in front of him and took a big sip. I smirked at the look of disgust that crossed his face. “This is terrible,” he complained.

  “Can I try?” I asked him and his eyes darkened. I took a sip, the stem of the wine glass still warm from his touch. He was right. It was undrinkable.