Page 32 of Lady and the Hitman
He inhaled softly through the mic.
“You’re not wearing anything under that, are you?”
“No,” I whispered, unsure if he could hear me.
“I know,” he said.
My skin prickled.
“I’ve been watching since Charleston. Since before you even knew my face. When you were pacing your townhouse. When you changed your sheets. When youstood in front of the mirror, already wet and pretending you weren’t waiting.”
I was trembling now.
“Do you feel it?” he asked. “The ache?”
“Yes,” I breathed.
“Good. Don’t run from it.”
Someone brushed past behind me, oblivious.
“You could come, couldn’t you? Just from the sound of my voice.”
I bit my lip hard.
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re not.”
“Then don’t move.”
I stood still, aching, the wind sliding against me like a hand. Exposed. Anonymous. Starving.
He let me stay there, at the edge of everything, for what felt like hours. The world buzzed behind me. But I wasn’t in it.
I was in his.
And I didn’t want out.
Then—
“Turn around. Walk into the crowd.”
My body obeyed before my mind could catch up.
“Where am I going?” I asked.
“Time to be seen,” he said.
I stepped back into the current of the crowd. The lights were brighter now, more artificial, casting glossy reflections on polished windows and sweating skin. Music thumped low from somewhere—a reggaeton beat, distant but insistent, syncing perfectly with my pulse.
“See that shop up ahead?” His voice curled through the earpiece. “Window display with a red dress?”
I scanned the storefronts.
“Yes.”
“Go in.”
