Page 51 of Hate Mates

“Get close enough to kill Maclain without a witness,” Andrew says, matter of factly.

“Or take out witnesses if we can’t get him alone.”

“If you can’t get him alone in that dress… you really should find a new profession.”

Was that a compliment or sorts? Doubtful.

The dress is damn amazing, for sure. One shoulder, bare midriff, with a flowing skirt in a deep midnight color. Not too flashy, yet sexy enough to garner attention while still allowing me to move as needed. Nothing worse than trying to fight in a pencil skirt.

Hopefully, tonight won’t come to that. I much prefer a handgun or a knife to my fists.

“I’ll get him alone,” I assure Andrew. “That only further questions the need for your presence.”

“Someone has to be on hand when you inevitably fuck up.”

I’ve only ever fucked up once in my life—the night in Paris.

Andrew and I had been using the cover of newlyweds on honeymoon. When we finished our assignment earlier than planned, we kept up the ruse by eating dinner at a charming bistro, then walking the city all evening. Our flight wasn’t until the next morning. He led me around, hand in hand, while we found interesting spots to explore. It all felt so… real. A rarity in our lifestyles. We’re constantly in a state of pretending, a fantasy, a mirage.

Andrew’s touches lingered on my side, the small of my back, my nape. His words were spoken along the shell of my ear, sending warm shivers down my spine. By the time we were back at our hotel, we were both affected by the sexual chemistry.

When he walked me to my room, it felt natural to hold the door open for him to follow me through. There was no awkwardness when he pressed me up against the wall, his mouth meeting mine in an inferno of emotion. My hand buried in his dark, thick hair. His found its way down my thigh, raising my skirt so he could lift my leg to hitch over his hip.

The first press of Andrew’s pelvis had me gasping with need. He’s not a small man, in any way. Not in physical size, capability, personality… or ego.

“Then you agree that I’m the lead on this,” I say primly.

“Whatever gives you the confidence to get this bastard in a secluded room, sweetheart.”

“Beth. Or Miller. My name is not sweetheart.”

“Beth Miller is the most boring name I’ve ever heard,” he drawls, turning to look out the window as we make our way through the streets of Prague.

“That’s the point.” It’s hardly my real name. Nobody calls me Celine, except my parents. None of the agents use, or share, our birth names. We’re a group of murderers, not a book club.

I don’t know Andrew’s real name. It’s probably Dick.

“You certainly picked an alias that fits your personality.”

Yep, he’s definitely a Dick.

“Baby, you don’t know me,” I say as the car takes the turn down the tree lined drive.

This ‘party’ is an exclusive event at an estate on the outskirts of the city. It makes leaving a bit more difficult, but not undoable.

Andrew exits the limo when our driver, Francis, another agent who I’ve worked with numerous times before, opens the door for us.

Though, Andrew’s an incorrigible ass, he reaches a hand in to help me out. His eyes drag over my body appreciatively, and I pause to allow it. This is part of the game—put on a show, pretend we’re lovers who can’t wait to strip each other bare.

Pratt is extremely good at the act, and I feel the flame ignite in my core. It’s ridiculous, but it helps me with the pretense as well.

Finally taking a step away, Andrew pulls me back into him, tucking my long red hair behind my ear.

“These people are dangerous,” he whispers. “Ruthless and cruel. Be careful and follow my lead.”

I blink at him, confused by his soft tone, despite his words implying I’m incapable of performing this task without his instruction. “I’ve handled myself with worse.”

“Humor me.”

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