Hittin It: A Hitman Romance (Marked for Love Book 2) (8 page)

Back at the van, he quietly replaced the journal, resisting the urge to grab another. If she found out he’d been reading them, she’d have his head for dinner. He smiled slightly at the thought, and then forced himself to wipe the grin from his face as he stepped into the cabin. The fading sun had made the room almost unbearably warm, and he left the door open to help cool things off.

“There’s not much for dinner.”

The table was set nice, and she’d fried some hamburger patties and made box macaroni. The kind with the powdered cheese. Her peace offering. “It’s fine.”

“Go wash up.”

He didn’t just feel like hell, he looked like it, too. She didn’t have to say it. He stepped into the bathroom, promising himself a shower after dinner and wondering how he’d get through the long evening ahead.

Turns out, he didn’t have to worry. Sabrina apparently had no interest in speaking with him beyond what she couldn’t get away with. Even Scamp ignored him.

Will ate quickly to ensure his body had the fuel it needed. He wished Wynn would call him with information.  He hated sitting here, like a lame duck waiting for an invisible bullet to pierce his skull and take him down.

He did the dishes without being asked, his mind turning over the who, what, when, where, and how of it all.

Who wanted him dead?

What had he done to warrant a hit? Had he killed the wrong person? Botched a job? What had triggered it all? And how had they found the Monte Carlo? How was it all tied together?

When had he crossed the line from hunter to hunted? And how had he not known?

Where would he die? He’d never imagined it would be like this.

And most important of all,
why
?

Why had someone taken a hit out on him? Why did they want him dead?

If he really thought about it, dying by hired killer was fitting in some twisted way. Maybe even no better than he deserved. But he was the oldest, the strongest, the fastest Collier. He’d been blessed with the best instincts of all his brothers.

And, if he could help it, he wouldn’t die today, or tomorrow or anytime soon.

W
ondering what had Will so deep in thought, I reached over and flicked off the kitchen tap. On second thought, it was pretty obvious. He was thinking about
us
, here, trapped like fish in a barrel.

He looked down at me, his eyes hotter, more intense than I’d ever seen them, his sexy mouth grim. “We’re not going to die.”

Sorry, but I wasn’t convinced. And, as a rule, life-altering events didn’t come with a money-back guarantee. “Everyone dies.”

He nodded in acknowledgement and said, “Maybe so, but not us. Not anytime soon.”

“You don’t know that,” I insisted. “Or we wouldn’t be here.” Surely he wasn’t that naive.

“You are the most confounded fucking woman I’ve ever met in my life.”

I turned away and bit my lip, unsure of what left me more tickled: The use of
confounded
or the fact he’d said
fuck
. I was too tickled to even get mad over being insulted. “I am what I am, Will.”

“I know.” He said it in a way that made me stare. Almost smug. As if he knew me so well when, in fact, he didn’t know me at all. He wiped his hands on a dishtowel, and then proceeded to wipe down the counters. Maybe it made him feel better to clean. Maybe cleaning was second nature for him, like walking was for me. Plus I guess in his business, you had to be tidy.

Will folded the towel with deliberate, precise movements. He had beautiful hands, long fingers, trim tidy business-like hands. I guess hands were important in his line of work, too. Will had amazing hands—the kind that made me wish I was a palmist instead of a card reader just so I could touch them.

The night stretched out in front of us, with no television beyond a fuzzy rerun of something I couldn’t name, no radio, nothing. As repulsed as I was by how Will made a living, there was a part of me that wanted to know more. To understand him. Chalk it up to research, but maybe, if I understood him, I could figure out my attraction to him. “How many people have you killed?”

He smoothed the dishtowel out as the longest five seconds of my life ticked by. Finally, his head slowly swiveled so he could look at me through narrowed eyes. “
What?
”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and repeated myself through lips numb with fear. “How many people have you killed?”

His face was chilly-cold, scary-cold—his eyes the color of stainless steel. “A lot.”

I should shut up now.
I really should have but I couldn’t seem to stop despite his obvious anger. I struggled to keep still, keep breathing. “Up close?”

“I think there’s some cards in the nightstand drawer. Why don’t you go get them?”

“Answer the question first.”

“Go get the cards,” he countered.

“Answer the question.”

“A few times. When I had to. Now—” He gave me a pointed look, one eyebrow arched. It said, if I knew what was good for me, I’d shut the fuck up...like ten seconds ago.

I shut up and went to get the cards, tossing the rubber-banded pack on the table. “How do you usually kill people?”

“It depends.” He straddled a chair, ripped off the rubber band and started to expertly shuffle the cards. “You play poker?”

“No.” I moved closer, wanting to ask him more even though I sensed he wanted me to shut the hell up. “Why?” I asked, taking a seat.

“Why what?” He started dealing, one stack for each of us.

“Why do you kill people?” I scooped up my cards, organizing them by suit and color, even though I had no idea what we were playing. “Why do you read tarot cards?”

“It’s my job.”

“Exactly.”

I watched him organize his own cards, once again drawn in by his hands. They were lovely, sensual and capable of so much more than his chosen occupation. I wondered what it might be like to let him touch me, then pushed the thought out of my head, refusing to remember the comforting weight of his arm draped across my shoulders last night, or even, yesterday’s kiss.

“The game is Go Fish.”

I frowned over at him in surprise. “Go
Fish
?”

“You said you didn’t know how to play Poker. So the game is Go Fish. You do know how to play?”

Of course. Everyone knew Go Fish. I’d played with my mom lots of times and told him so.

“So you and your mom played. Good. Do you have any nines?”

“Go fish.” He pulled a couple cards from the stack in the middle of the table, and then set down a pair of nines.

“Where’s your mom now?”

I studied him over my cards, but his face was impassive. “Dead. Do you have any tens?”

“It’s still my turn.” He eyed me briefly; his expression gave nothing away. “How did she die?”

“Someone shot her.” I stacked my cards in my hand, ready to take another walk if he didn’t stop. “Planning on going anytime soon?” I didn’t want to talk about my mother. She was none of his business. Maybe turnabout was fair play, but that didn’t mean I had to like it any more than he did. “What about
your
mom?”

He glanced at me really quick, then back down at his cards. “She’s alive.”

My knee started to jiggle underneath the table. “How does she feel—”

“Do you have any twos?”

I handed over a two and finished my sentence, “About what you do for a living?”

“I never asked her. Never had to because it’s a family business.” He fiddled with his cards a bit, rearranging them. I found that hard to believe. Not that Will struck me as a mama’s boy, but how could his mother not have expressed an opinion over his chosen occupation?

“So your dad...”

“Do you have any sixes?” he asked, ignoring my question.

“No.”

“Go fish.” Will looked up at me, something about his expression making me think this was a life and death game, something more serious.

I frowned back at him. “Huh?”

“You’re supposed to say ‘Go Fish.’”

“Okay," I drawled, "Go fish.” The absurdity of playing Go Fish with a hitman wasn’t lost on me.

He drew a card, sighing when he apparently didn't get what he wanted.

“You’re funny.”

He grunted.

“You kill people for a living but you follow the rules for Go Fish to the letter. That’s funny, ya know?
Real
ironic.”

“Why are you so hung up on what I do for a living?” Cheeks flushed, he slammed his cards down on the table and pushed his chair onto its back legs.

I set my own cards in a neat stack and let my shoulder slump from fatigue. “I’ve just never met anyone like you.”

“It’s my job,” he ground out roughly. “It’s not who I am.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“What do you do for fun...besides play Go Fish?” I waved a hand at the cards.

“I fish.”

Unable to help myself, I laughed while Will lurched to his feet and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. I felt bad, sort of...a little.

Okay, not much, but I had to admit that it was funny. In a twisted sort of way. I just hadn’t meant to hurt his feelings.

Sighing, I gathered the cards together and put them back in the nightstand. Scamp scratched at the door, and I let him out, watching as he nudged Will’s elbow. He lifted his arm, letting the dog crawl onto his lap. I could feel myself frowning, and a hot, jealous ache sunk its claws into my chest.

For the first time ever, I found myself wondering about my dog’s ability to judge people. He’d always been really good at it. Even better than me. Then again, we never usually spent a lot of time with other people. Even those times we lived on-site at a Ren-Faire for weeks at a time, I tended to keep to myself. As much as I moved around, it was just easier.

“Are you single?” I finally asked as curiosity got the better of me.

He turned and smiled up at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yes.”

“Why are you smiling?”

“You’re very different from my ex.”

I snorted. “You mean because I live in my van?”

“No.” He shook his head for emphasis.

I didn’t want to ask, I didn’t what to know what type of women Will liked, but I couldn’t help myself.

“Her name is Tilly and she was...she didn’t know.” He gave me a pointed look and I nodded.

“So you had to lie a lot?”

“She was also pretty high maintenance...and complicated.”

“You’re pretty complicated, too.”

He shrugged and turned away, signaling an end to our Q and A and making me regret my last comment. I wasn’t ready to apologize, not with Scamp’s abdication so painfully fresh. I stepped back inside and stretched out on the bed, watching what was left of the sun travel across the ceiling until the cabin was almost completely dark. I dozed, slipping into that dark place that gave me murky, restless dreams, until something pierced my sleep. I lay there blinking against the dim assault of the kitchen light, heart pounding as the sound of gunfire prickled my ears and finally registered in my brain.

The cabin was empty. I lunged upright and dashed outside. More gunfire filled the velvety dark night as Will grabbed me, yanking me behind the porch.

“I need to see where it’s coming from.”
It
needed no explanation, and
stay here
didn’t have to be said.

I would have stayed put, too, if Scamp hadn’t followed Will.

“Scamp,” I hissed into the gloom, struggling to adjust my eyes. All I could do was track the jingle of his collar. “Scamp,” I called, louder, repeatedly, but he was gone. I slipped off the porch and cut through the trees after him. After nearly twisting my ankle as I stepped into a slightly washed out area, I grabbed onto a tree and caught my breath. Fear that someone might shoot Scamp in their quest to kill Will kept my feet moving.

When I broke through the trees, I skidded to a halt, using Will’s back as a wall to stop myself.

I sagged against him, almost giddy with relief as a group of men took turns aiming at a row of beer cans—not all of them empty—and laughingly fired an assortment of firearms. “Well I guess that answers that,” I muttered.

“What are you doing here?” Will didn’t bother turning around, just tossed the words over his shoulder.

“I was worried about you.” We both knew that was a lie, but he didn’t bother correcting me. He didn’t need anyone worrying about him.

The yard was lit by a bonfire, and filled with men and women, most of them dressed casually. From the lake, came the distinct sound of a woman’s screams, splashes and laughter. How we missed their arrival, I didn't know.

“Go back.” Will turned and none-too-gently shoved me toward the trees when a woman’s voice stopped us.

“Y’all friends of Lisa and Kevin’s?”

Will shoved me toward the trees again. “No.”

“Stayin’ ‘round here?”

“Yeah—”

“We heard the shots,” I added, maneuvering around Will to check her out. She was young, fit and tanned with a perky smile on her expressive face. Her hair was caught up in a ponytail; she wore cutoffs, flip-flops and a bikini top, and she sure didn’t look old enough to be holding that beer in her hand. But hey, I hung out with a professional hitman. Who was I to say?

“That was just some of the guys having fun.”

Will nodded, though I wasn’t sure he was totally convinced, and draped a protective arm around my waist.  “We need to get going.”

“Y’all on your honeymoon or something?” She gave us a conspiratorial smile. Her left hand was bare, but I’d bet beers to bullets she was well-versed in what happened on a honeymoon.

“Yes.” He dragged me backward a few steps on feet numb from shock.

Married? No way in hell would a person with half a brain believe
we
were married. He was...he was...and I was...I looked up at him, trying to read his expression in the dimly lit yard. He refused to look at me.

“But we’re really sick of each other’s company. You know how it is.” I bit my lip to keep from laughing. Beside me, he grew quiet and, if possible, stiffer. What the hell did he expect?

If there was one thing I’d learned from my days on the road...if we stayed, socialized and drank a beer, they’d forget about us by morning. If we ran off, they’d probably be talking about us for days. “We could use a break.”