Page 6 of The Killer's Payment

If he takes me home as I am now, someone far, far worse will be waiting to collect what he paid for.

The thought of it has all the courage I’d mustered seeping out of me, trickling down onto the polished floor like the tears threatening to spill down my cheeks. I force myself not to cry, but my lower lip trembles regardless, and I look down in the hope he won’t notice.

His knuckle brushes under my chin and lifts my head up. I blink. And again. Desperate not to look at him.

He studies my face before tilting his head to the side. “What’s wrong, little one?”

When he speaks, there’s no malice or taunt in his tone, and my eyes flick to his because I’m sure he must be joking. But I don’t think he is. Still, I’m too scared of my voice breaking and the veneer cracking even more to find the courage to answer him.

So I just stare up at him like a mouse caught between the paws of a cat, utterly aware that I’m acting completely at odds with the way I promised myself I would. The way I told myself I had to. The way I’ve acted since the second I stepped through the door.

He drops my chin but doesn’t back off. Instead, he leans in closer. Bends down until I can feel the warmth of his breath at my ear. “Not quite as confident as you thought you were, are you?”

When I don’t nod or say anything, he backs off, straightens up, and adjusts the collar of his shirt before turning around and walking away. He doesn’t look back when he tells me it’s past my bedtime and I should follow him.

I do.

The whole time promising myself I’ll do better tomorrow.

Three

James

Her name is Sutton.

That was the entire extent of our conversation last night. Not that I’m complaining, since whatever I did apparently turned her into a timid little bird. Yet as much as whatever she was before seemed to have been bred for the sole purpose of getting under my skin, I have to admit that it was preferable to what I ended up with.

She almost has me feeling sorry for her.

But not enough for me to bother with making her coffee.

“Where do you keep the cups?”

Or showing her where to find the prerequisite utensils.

I turn the page of my newspaper while she stomps around the kitchen. The sound of the coffee maker switching on tells me she didn’t really need my help anyway.

“Black for me,” I state, without looking up. “No sugar.”

“Of course,sir. Can I get you anything else while I’m at it,sir?” she asks dryly.

I put down my paper and kick my feet up on the counter, setting eyes on her for the first time all morning. My gaze lingers on that damned nightdress again, made even more opaque by the fact that she barely dried herself post-shower before putting it back on. She’s standing by the coffee maker with her back to me, damp hair pulled over one shoulder and a hand resting on her hip.

No little bird this morning, then.

“That depends on what you’re offering,” I tell her.

She lets a breath out of her nose. Could be an exasperated sigh. Could be a humorless laugh. Fuck if I know. “You made it crystal clear last night that you have zero interest in what I’m offering.”

“So…” I chuckle. “Just so we’re both on the same page here… last night, youwereoffering me your pussy on a silver platter? Do I have that right?”

She spins around and stares at me with a look any normal man would feel right in the gut. “No. No, you don’thave that right. And the offer to get you anything else was sarcasm—nothing more. Make your own damn coffee.”

She pushes off the counter in a way that can only be described as the height of theatrics, but I’m out of my chair and interceding before she makes it five steps toward the door. With one hand on the island and the other on the counter, she’d have to tackle me to get past.

And nobody could be that stupid.

The fact that she stops dead in her tracks confirms she isn’t.

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