Page 27 of Savage Beauty

A long centipede scurries across the tile and disappears down the drain.

Bathroom’s clear.

I reenter the bedroom and bend to double-check the one-foot space beneath the bed frame. Clear. The closet doors are sliding mirrors.

In the moonlight, my reflection catches my attention. I look like a regular guy with a handgun checking his house after hearing a sound.

Using the end of my SIG, I rifle through the hanging clothes in her closet after scanning the floorboards for feet. The shelves above the hanging clothes hold a series of cardboard boxes. Neat lines of shoes fill every inch of floor space. Heels, flip-flops, two pairs of running shoes. All arranged in order from dark to light color, as are her hanging clothes.

Sloane Watson leads an organized life. Or someone came in and cleaned after she left.

I quietly step into the den and signal to Sloane with a thumbs up, telling her it’s okay, and then I place my index finger over my lips to remind her we are to be quiet. I don’t have a sweeper with me. Before we entered, I warned her that the place could be bugged and someone could be listening. Even if it’s delayed, meaning someone checks the recording periodically, anything we say, we should assume someone might hear. In our case, if we can come in and leave no evidence that we’ve been here, the better.

She barely glances around the den as she brushes past me and pulls a chair from her desk over to the closet. She’s a tall woman, so my curiosity rises when she stands on the chair and reaches up to the highest shelf.

A sliding glass door opens onto a balcony. The view out the window is of palm trees, shrubbery, and a street. Vertical blinds hang over the sliding glass doors, but they’re set to open. I twist them closed.

She’s wearing a black cotton tank top, black Lycra leggings, and a pair of light blue running shoes we picked up in the Los Angeles airport. The leggings leave nothing to the imagination. She’s got long, lean legs and a firm, tight ass. Her shoulder muscles flex as they strain with the weight of the box she’s pulled off the top shelf.

I tap her from behind, setting my leg against the chair for balance to prevent the chair from tipping over. The weight of the box lies heavy on my arms.

Wordlessly, I place the box on the mattress. She returns the chair to the desk and lifts the box. Her slender arms strain with the weight. She jerks her head, indicating she’s ready to leave.

I return the vertical blinds to their half-opened position on the off chance someone has been monitoring the place. She’s already near the front door, but I scan the room one last time. I would’ve expected her to grab clothes, cosmetics from the bathroom, something. Natalie sure as hell would’ve been repossessing her cosmetics. Given my sister often places cosmetics on her gift list, I know what those little bottles and tubes cost.

But not this girl. All she wants is whatever is in that one box she kept on the top shelf.

“Clothes?” I mouth.

Her eyes widen, and she places the box in my arms. She kneels on the ground and drags out a suitcase and a black duffel from beneath the bed. She opens the suitcase and throws clothes inside. Given the state of her apartment, I would’ve expected more care with packing, but perhaps nerves are feeding her desire to get out quickly.

It’s the drawer in the nightstand beside her bed that gets my attention. Lube. Vibrators. Three—no, four get tossed in. I don’t bother to look away because she’s showing no signs of embarrassment.Well, then.

With her suitcase packed and closed, we exit the apartment.

I reposition my handgun in my waistband in case we come across someone in the parking lot, place a finger against my lips, open the door, scan the area, and push it wider for her to pass through. As she steps past me, she lifts the box, insisting on carrying it plus the handle of her wheeled suitcase. I hoist her duffel.

She doesn’t wait for me as I lock the door.

“Wait for me,” I hiss.

She sets the box down on the dirt in the flower bed and shakes her hands like the box hurt her fingers.

Headlights approach, and I leap to her side.

Reggae music wafts through the night air, growing louder as a Jeep slows to a stop in a nearby spot. Thanks to the headlights, I can’t see the vehicle’s occupants.

My hand rests on the butt of my gun holstered at my waist. With one eye on the vehicle, I scan the area, and determine it’s best if I shove Sloane behind me if they aren’t friendlies.

The headlights flick off, and laughter replaces the reggae. It’s a group of people partying, returning from bars.

A woman with long blonde hair looks our way. I push Sloane up against the building wall, using my back as a shield. If someone comes by asking about Sloane, like our own guys have done over the past month, I don’t want anyone recognizing her.

Her eyes are wide. Scared. Lips close to her ear, I whisper, “Play along.”

“Hey, you okay?” A feminine voice calls out.

I dip my head, aiming to cover Sloane’s lips. Warmth covers my shoulders, and fingers dip into the nape of my neck. Thank god, she’s playing along.

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