Young Love Murder (56 page)

He takes the book out of my hand. “There’s nothing wrong with these. They have good plots.”

“Uh-huh. Yeah, and Playboy magazine has good articles.” Stepping around him, I march towards the door. “I’m outta here. You’ve put me in the mood to walk through a bad neighborhood.”

He beats me to the door and skids to a stop in front of me, leaning his back against my only escape. Unless there’s a fire escape out the window. “Are you mad at me because I didn’t come running to your apartment as soon as you gave me the address? Because you had to come to me? Because you cared enough to come to me?”

“To be mad, Gabriel, I’d have to care. What I feel at this moment is absolute indifference.”

“Indifference, my ass. You love me, Annabelle. You want me to slip off these pants and push you back onto the bed to ravish you.” He didn’t mention underwear, does that mean he’s going commando?
You don’t care if he’s wearing a freaking thong, Annabelle!

As he invades my space, I laugh in his face. “You really need to stop reading those books.”

“You really need to
start
reading them,” he counters in an authoritative tone. Invading my space even more and causing me to take a step back, he says, “How about it, baby? Want me to read you a bedtime story?” Ducking his head down and to the side, bringing his gorgeous eyes level with mine, he gives me an innocently questioning look that somehow manages to be sexy.

“That has to be the lamest line I’ve ever heard,” I tell him in a disappointed tone. “And believe me, I’ve heard it all, in multiple languages.”

Straightening up, he makes a scoffing sound. “That was awesome and you know it.” He steps around me and sits on the edge of the bed, patting his thigh, like he wants me to sit on it. “But, your plans for seducing me are going to have to wait, Annabelle. We need to have a talk first. Come take a seat.”

On his lap? No thanks, that’s a slippery slope. I walk over to the settee positioned before the extravagantly curtained window and sit down. “So, talk.”

With an indulgent look, he gets straight to the point, “You shot me.”

Giving him a smart-alecky smirk in return, I glance at the small white bandage he still has over the wound. “So I did.”

“I’m pretty sure I know the answer, but have to ask, what made you change your mind about shooting me from that night to the next morning?”

Still grinning, I tell Gabriel, “Well, I wasn’t going to shoot you that night while you were acting like a freaking martyr. There was no element of surprise.” Thinking back to when he shot me, I still feel a spark of hurt and anger, but it’s not as bad as before. “It wasn’t like when you shot me unawares. I had to wait until you weren’t expecting it for us to be even.”

Instead of getting upset, he looks approving. “That’s what I thought. Now, you may proceed with the seducing.” He lies down on his back with a dramatic sigh. “I’m all yours.”

Before I can get out the sarcastic comment in my head, I hear a crashing noise from out in the sitting room of the suite. It’s the distinct sound of splintering wood and thudding when a door is being kicked in. Jumping out of my seat, I pull the gun out from the holster underneath my black leather jacket. I’m staring at the door of Gabriel’s room, pointing my gun at it, and see him pull on a shirt and shoes out of the corner of my eye. With my left hand, I pull a knife out of my jacket pocket.

When the first man holding a gun comes barreling through the door that I didn’t think to lock earlier, I throw the blade I’m palming at his throat. He stumbles back and out of sight. The second guy gets a bullet between his eyes. I hear both Max’s shout from the other room and the familiar popping sound of a silenced 9mm. 

Chapter 42

Gabriel

Watching my girl take out two guys in less than two minutes, I realize that my old sense of repulsion is gone. Anna’s just doing what needs to be done and saving my own ass in the process. And, surprisingly, I’m proud of her. But, I’m not about to have her protect me while I cower in a corner like a dude in distress. Nuh-uh. 

I scan the room looking for a weapon. Nada. Unless I start swinging around the hotel ironing board that’s hanging in the closet. With her eyes still on the doorway, Anna grabs me by the arm and pushes me up against the wall.

I take a sec to look down at the dead body lying in the doorway. Wow, the guy is huge. Weapons are definitely not optional when taking on a big motherfucker like that. There’s nothing but silence from the other room. Nudging her in the side, I whisper, “Give me a gun.”

“I only have one gun,” she whispers back. “And since I’m a better shot . . . .”

Dumb of me not to bring a gun with me to France, but hey, it’s not like I was planning on shooting anyone this trip. Besides, my girl’s a professional, kinda figured if I needed a gun, she’d have one to spare. Of course, the fact that she has a gun at all while coming to visit me makes me wonder if she planned on shooting me again. 

The sound of a deep voice shouting, “We just want to talk!” has me refocusing on the situation. 

 I’m about to give some inane answer when Anna steps away from her spot against the wall and over to the window. Glancing out the window and down at the street below, she curses and resumes her position against the wall. When we hear Max cry out in pain, I finally shout, “What do you want?”

“Gabriel, they want us dead,” Anna says through clenched teeth in a ‘duh’ tone.

“Maybe they really do just want to talk,” I say hopefully, desperate to somehow help my cousin. Oh, and that woman he brought up here earlier tonight. 

When an object whizzes past us in the air, Anna grabs me again and pushes me into the bathroom. Just as we’re falling into the hard tub, there’s a loud explosion followed by a blast of heat whooshing through the open bathroom door. Annabelle falls on top of me as we land so I cushion her fall. Shards of debris rain down on us, well mostly her.

Grunting, she pulls herself off me. “Told you so.” I quickly help push her onto her feet and climb up and out of the tub. Anna’s breathing hard, looking me in the eyes. “I’m going to have to shoot our way out of here.” We crouch against the bathroom wall, listening to the sound of heavy footsteps coming closer when Anna unexpectedly elbows me in the forehead,
hard
. “Stay in here, Gabriel.”

The force of her blow causes my head to whip back and hit the wall. Before I have the chance to recover, she’s throwing herself out of the bathroom and against the floor in the bedroom. I gather my wits in time to peek around the wall and see her fire off two shots.   

She disappears from my sight when she leaves the bedroom and I’m barely able to contain myself from rushing out there after her. I should have taken the gun from her and insisted on being the one to save the day, no matter how better prepared Anna is to be the hero. It’s not like I haven’t studied several martial arts and practiced at a shooting range. The room is empty, except for the dead body that’s fallen against the bed, half on the floor and half off. 

Now, that electrical fire starting in the exposed wall, near where the grenade must have hit, doesn’t look too good. I can’t imagine what my hotel bill is going to look like. Oh wait, Max booked the room with his credit card. Guess the hotel bill isn’t my problem then. 

Not able to take it any longer, and ignoring Anna’s command, I slowly creep out of the bathroom. Running into her at the bedroom door, we meet at the dead body lying there. She grins triumphantly. “That liar! He was the last one left.” Pulling out her clip, she quickly looks at it then pops it back into her gun. 

“Max?” I ask, almost afraid to know.

“Right here,” he wearily replies, coming up behind her. Then his brown eyes go wide. “Whoa, fire.”

Anna looks in the direction of the heat behind me, quirking her eyebrows at the sight. “Huh?” She smiles again. “Oh, well that’s convenient. I didn’t even have to start it myself.” 

I step back into the room, around the dead body, jumping over the still growing pool of blood, to grab my wallet, passport, phone and the book I was reading earlier. Shoving them into my large pajama pant pockets, the fire is moving fast and as I’m leaving the room the bed goes up in flames. When I get back to the living room area, Anna looks down at the book sticking out of my pocket, grabs it and throws it back into the room to burn with the rest of my belongings. 

She laughs and, ignoring my mock look of outrage, walks over to where Max is dragging the body of the woman out of his room. Damn, that sucks. Poor woman. He’s now fully dressed with a grim expression on his face. She halts him with a hand on his back. “Don’t, Max.”

“She’ll burn,” he answers with a grunt while eyeing the guy who bled out from his throat wound. 

“And that’s a good thing,” she says with a grimace. “I’m assuming the room is in one of your names. The fire will take care of the bullet-ridden bodies and other evidence. Sorry about your date, Max.”

He carefully places the woman’s body on the floor, looking like he’s about to cry. Max has always had a soft spot where females are concerned. He’ll blame himself for this. But, knowing him, he’ll turn to another girl for comfort. Like an addict.

“I think we should leave before more of them show up,” I say to grab their attention and distract Max from his guilt. 

Anna’s already walking to the door and without turning around, she says, “You know, you two may not be able to return to France after this.” As she opens the door, she spins around, tucking her gun into her jacket pocket, but keeping her hand in there with it. “Unless you use an alias, of course.”

Max and I follow her out the suite door, shutting it behind us. At the end of the hallway, Anna flips a fire alarm with her knuckles, then heads straight to the door that says, ‘Escaliers’.

People from floors above us start showing up in the stairway, taking the same route out of the building. Without deliberating, as soon as we get out on the street, I grab a taxi and open up the back door, ushering Max and Anna inside. “Tell him your address, Anna.”

She speaks a few words in French and, at the end there, I recognize the address she emailed me. Sitting on the other side of Anna, Max takes in a deep breath, letting it out on a shocked, “Holy Shit.”

“Yep,” Anna agrees while fishing her phone out of her pocket. Pushing a button or two, she then brings it up to her ear. She brings it back down seconds later, mumbling the word, “Crap.” Then she hits a couple more buttons and puts it back to her ear. Pulling it away once again, she mutters, “Typical.” Finally, she tries the same routine again, this time with success. “Brent. Where are you?”

A short silence is followed by, “I’ve met with a problem. Simon and Jackson aren’t answering their phones.” From there she switches to what I believe may be Chinese. Max meets my eyes over her head, and I give him an ‘I dunno’ look. 

Isn’t it always annoying when big dudes with guns and grenades try to kill you and then your girlfriend keeps you in the dark by speaking Chinese? I take the time to finally bend down and tie my still-unlaced boots.

Anna gets off the phone looking agitated. 

“So?” I prompt her, picking a wood shard out of her hair. 

“Wait till we get to my place,” she distractedly answers. 

“We can speak Spanish if you’re worried about the driver understanding English,” I suggest, wanting to know what the hell is going on. 

She just ignores me and starts texting like crazy on her phone. Irritated by her silence, I turn my head to stare out the window and watch the passing buildings. It takes what seems like for-freaking-ever to get there. I’m surprised that Anna and Jackson’s apartment here is so far from the tourist area of Paris. I had imagined her having a view of the Arc de Triomphe. Instead, the area seems to be more residential, like for middle-class families. 

I slip the driver a bunch of euros, not bothering to count them, and step out my side of the cab feeling grungy and retarded in my pajama bottoms, white tank top and boots. Anna gets out behind me and Max steps around the car to join us. Being a huge city, the night is lit up with streetlamps. He looks worse than me, wearing basketball shorts, a ‘Paris’ souvenir shirt that was meant for his mom and loafer-style dress shoes. He notices my perusal, looking disgruntled, so I let out a long, “
Nice
.” My smart-aleck comment just riles him up more, as evidenced by the dark look he shoots me.