CHAPTER TWO

 

Thomas

 

I watched Olivia Barton drive her white SUV into her garage, the door rolling down behind her vehicle. For a few minutes I sat in my truck down the block, watching the lights come on inside her house as she moved from room to room.

I rested my foot on the ledge of the door and put my elbow on my raised knee, stroking my jaw as I waited.

The final light to come on was in the front room on the second floor—her bedroom most likely. I could picture her kicking off her heels, unbuttoning that blue shirt she'd been wearing—bright blue for Christ's sake. Like a summer fucking sky. I'd told her to wear blue—a dark color, in my mind—so I would know who she was in that dim bar and instead, the woman had shone like a beacon of blue light. Didn't matter. I was positive no one had followed me, and other than a few glances from horny men, no one had bothered her. It was clear she was slumming it and they'd steered clear.

I'd chosen the bar on purpose so I could get a fix on her. There was no real reason to suspect she wasn't who she said she was, but in my line of work, I knew enough to take stock of the situation from all angles before moving forward. I'd watched her for twenty minutes or so, wanting to size her up before sliding into the empty seat next to her. It'd only taken a minute or two, to know she was exactly who I thought she was—a wealthy, sheltered debutante who had never been in a place like that before—but I'd taken another fifteen just to enjoy the view.

I hadn't been able to see her face at that point, but I liked her feminine posture, her spine straight and her ass scooted back on the bar stool, liked the way she crossed her shapely legs, and the way she picked at the label on her beer bottle. She was the picture of elegance, and a woman clearly out of her element, attempting not to appear nervous. But she was nervous, vulnerable. She didn't act like she owned the place, that uppity attitude I'd seen so often in wealthy, privileged women. There was something . . . lonely about her, and it'd poked at me in some way I couldn't identify.

When I'd finally moved close enough to see her face, I'd liked that too. She didn't have the sort of looks that jumped out at you, more a subtle prettiness that had only grown on me as I'd watched her face move into different expressions. She wore every emotion on her face, each reaction in those big, blue eyes, and I wondered if she realized it. Probably not—who would choose to be such an open book that way? No wonder she'd been a sitting duck. Maybe until recently, the woman had never known the sting of betrayal, the pain of someone knowing your weak spots and using them against you.

I did. But I'd learned. Learned how to shut down so no one would ever do that to me again. You let people see what you intended them to see and nothing more.

I hadn't thought of that dog pen on the edge of my uncle's property for a long time, but for some unknown reason, my thoughts took me there now. The aggressive growls, the yelps of pain, the smell of blood—I wrenched my mind away. No point in going there. None at all.

My eyes lingered on that second-floor window. What the hell was I doing here anyway? More reconnaissance? I'd already ascertained Olivia Barton was on the up and up. So why the fuck was I sitting outside her house watching her lights blinking off, one by one just as they'd come on, the final one—her bedroom—going dark as well?

She was in bed and I couldn't help the picture that came to my mind, that chestnut brown hair spread over her pillow, her slim shape clearly outlined under the blankets. I wondered what she slept in—more silk probably—and I felt a twinge between my legs. I frowned, turning the key in the ignition as my truck purred to life. Yeah, I was attracted to my client and that was a damn inconvenience, not only because she'd hired me—to find the runaway fiancé who'd broken her heart no less—but because I was using her for my own ends.

I swore quietly under my breath as I pulled away from the curb. Hell, inconvenient physical attraction happened. It was just a chemical thing, some invisible hormonal cocktail that sometimes grabbed a man by the balls. I'd deal with it. Didn't help that it’d been a while since I'd taken a woman to bed. Women had been scarce in the remote desert where I'd been sent for almost a year. Since I'd returned to the States, quite frankly, no one had piqued my interest. Sure, I'd seen attractive women, but no one who caused that spark of electricity that made sex fun. Without it, without that driving force that compelled me to claim a specific woman for the night, I could just as well use my own hand and avoid an awkward goodbye the next morning.

My motel was only a ten-minute drive from the upscale residential neighborhood in Las Vegas where Olivia Barton lived, but what a difference ten minutes made. Rowdy groups of teens loitered on the street corners, and women strolled too slowly to actually be heading anywhere. The motel was rundown and seedy-looking, the parking lot littered with flyers advertising discount sex.

The door next to mine opened just as I was entering my room, and a girl who looked to be about sixteen with painted lips and deadened eyes stumbled out as a man belched behind her. Our eyes met and she smiled seductively, if a little wobbly. "Need some company, mister?"

"No, ma'am, but thanks anyway." She blinked, her head tilting as I shut my door behind me, removing my cap and tossing it on the bed. I went through the room, checking the windows, the latches, looking at the way my things were placed, making sure nothing had been moved and no one had been in my room while I'd been gone.

I turned up the air conditioning as I stripped off my clothes, leaving them in a pile on the bathroom floor. The cool water felt like heaven, and I groaned in appreciation as I stepped under the spray. I was going to enjoy every cool shower I could until we left for Colombia. Lord only knew when I'd get another. The country had been ravaged by a massive 8.2 magnitude earthquake almost two months before, causing mass casualties and practically leveling some small towns. The tsunami straight after attacked the coastal towns, causing more destruction. Infrastructure was down everywhere, food and fuel were scarce, and communication was spotty at best. Whereas the wars between guerilla soldiers and military forces had resolved in recent years, in the wake of the destruction, conflict had arisen again, drawing out rebel groups. The natural disaster had made criminal elements of all types more brazen, from organized political factions and big-time drug traffickers to petty criminals alike.

Many parts had only just begun to re-build. It was going to be a long process, especially for the poor, rural areas where entire roads had been destroyed and there was no way to send assistance.

I was used to traveling through harsh terrain, but Olivia Barton was not, and I cringed to think about what the next week or so would be like as I led her through forests, past the Amazon, over low mountainous regions and finally to the Caribbean coast. Colombia had a little bit of everything, none of which Olivia Barton had ever experienced without the benefit of a resort close by and a tropical drink waiting on a poolside veranda.

I rinsed the shampoo from my hair, shaking my head as the soapy water sluiced over my shoulders and down my back. This was going to be hell—a hell of an entirely different sort than I was used to.

Still . . . it would be worth a hellish week, if the end result was what I hoped it would be.

As for Olivia Barton, trekking through a crime-infested country in ruination to locate the loser who'd lied to and abandoned her was her own foolish choice. I'd make sure she was as safe as I could, though. I was good at my job, and I had every confidence I'd get us both to Palomino unharmed.

I'd used others before for the greater good. I hadn’t enjoyed it but knew it was a necessary evil. So why the idea of using Olivia Barton sent a spear of regret through me, I wasn't sure. The attraction, I supposed. It was a damn shame I hadn't met her under different circumstances. Across a crowded bar, eyes meeting and flaring, that moment everything in my body told me: that one, I want her. God I loved that fucking moment. Loved the single-minded pursuit. I was a hunter, by trade and by nature—I couldn't change it any more than I could change the color of my eyes, the eyes I knew unsettled some women right off the bat. But if things had been different, I'd pursue Olivia Barton until she was stripped bare and writhing under me, legs locked around my hips, eyes glazed with lust. I'd see everything in that wide, blue gaze, know if she liked it slow and deep or hard and fast. I'd watch that expressive face as she came and—

Shut it down, man. Fuck. This was not the direction my mind needed to be heading right now. I had a shit ton of work to do before I left the country and fantasizing about my client was not one of them. Jesus Christ. I was hard now, so I turned the water to icy cold, hissing out a breath as the frigid water met my skin, my cock, the shock taking my arousal down a notch. As my blood cooled, a frisson of unease went through me, the feeling that this job was going to be more dangerous than I anticipated in some unknown way. And I always trusted my gut. Which meant I needed to be on my A-game.

I turned off the water, stepped out of the shower, and toweled off before heading to the bedroom for my phone. I had calls to make, I had a trip to arrange, and I needed to get myself under strict control.