Page 49 of The Truths that Deceive

“A hunter likes to know what makes the prey tick.”

“You’re a shitbag.” I glare.

“I’ve been called worse.”

He stands and walks silently over to me, the air around me quivering with his presence. It pulls at my nerve endings.

Smith looks down at me. His overall effect should be somehow diminished now that he’s out of the suit that probably cost a fortune—probably Tom Ford or some designer I’ve never heard of—but he isn’t.

The cargo pants and boots and shirt are a dime a dozen; any good surplus store has them.

But on him, he looks like an elite hunter. The pagan god who’ll hunt you down, play with you, and then sacrifice you to himself on an altar of stone.

No matter what he wears, he’s deadly.

And he turns me on in every way a man shouldn’t.

“Go to fucking sleep.”

I swallow. “Actually, I think I will.”

And I know I’m going to run.

Lying in the lumpy,hard, narrow bed is torture. But I’m biding my time.

Before, he knocked me out and I didn’t even notice the discomfort. Now… sober, drug-free, and plotting his destruction—or at least my way out—it’s pure misery.

But the mission’s quiet. Just the hoots and growls and rustles from the nightlife of the jungle.

Smith’s gone to bed, and I bet he took the backpack with him. And somewhere in the last hour, I’ve decided it’s worth the risk of trying to get it. After all, I’m betting my passport, the fake one, is inside.

I get up, carrying my shoes and putting them outside so I can make a quick escape. The moonlight cuts a river of silver on the windows of the vehicle, like it’s calling to me to run. But I force myself to go back inside and get the backpack.

If he finds me with it, I’ll say I wanted to look at the photos… He can’t deny a girl that.

Then again, it’s Smith, and what little I’ve learned from him is yes, he can do that and would. He’s into payment for actions, and this is a doozy if I’m caught and don’t get away with the excuse I come up with.

The old, simple place is quiet, the floor made of worn cement or stone. It makes me wonder why. And what lies beneath it.

In countries like this, hidden tunnel systems aren’t unheard of. Drugs, people, all kinds of things are kept in the earth. Secrets. Things to be smuggled. Places to hide.

But I’m not here for that, and in the dark, I don’t see any entrances to anything below. Maybe there’s a cellar. Or maybe it’s just whatever material was chosen.

I take a breath to settle my nerves, my scattered thoughts. The fear that hammers in my veins.

What if he’s lying in one of those narrow, lumpy beds, waiting?

Worse, waiting outside? Or in a room?

I push open the door to another room past the living area, something that might have once been used for prayer or meals.Light floods in from the moonlit night beyond, and there’s Smith.

Sprawled on the bed.

Boots still on. He’s still dressed, and I throb at the sight of him.

A man should look small, vulnerable when passed out.

Smith doesn’t.

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