Beneath the Surface (6 page)

“You’re such an ass!”

She sounded surprised—like she was just figuring that out or something.

“And you have an overinflated opinion of yourself,” he shot back as he settled the comforter back over the bed then grabbed the dirty sheets off the floor. “Give me your clothes. I’ll throw them in the washer.”

She wadded up her towel and chucked it at him. He caught the thing before it could smack him in the face, but not before he was nailed with a blast of her scent. Tucking the damp cloth beneath his arm, he cursed the throbbing in his cock, telling that shit to heel because this was not going to happen. Quinn Summers was hands off. It was bad enough he had to live with her. The last thing he wanted to do was make a bad situation worse by getting romantically involved with the woman. If he didn’t owe Nikko his life, he likely would have sent her uppity ass on down the road. He was serious when he told her he wasn’t a bodyguard. He killed for a living, and Quinn would do well to remember that. If she kept pushing his buttons, he’d do her assassin’s job for him.

No longer seeming self-conscious about her state of undress, Quinn spun around and marched back into the bathroom. She was standing in the doorway when she bent over and collected her clothes. The hemline of his shirt rode up, flashing him the bottom of her bare ass. No panties? Seriously?

Perhaps she wasn’t aware of the show she was giving him. Maybe she was pissed off and didn’t care. Or just maybe this was her way of saying “fuck you.” Either way, the lust firing through his veins was starting to make him sweat because, yeah, as much as he pretended not to, he wanted to fuck Quinn Summers in the worst way.

Guess he did shrew after all . . .

CHAPTER

6

Y
ou’d better be calling to tell me she’s dead.”

His grip on the cell tightened as he ground his teeth to keep from telling this bureaucratic son of a bitch to go fuck himself. If he thought this job was so easy, he could get off his fat ass and do it himself. But it was always seventy and florescent in their world. Just like a typical office bitch—sit behind a desk and wield a pen like a sword, expecting the same result. Real life just didn’t work that way.

Shit happens . . . What should have been a quick, easy job had just turned a fuckload more complicated. He was starting to feel like Lemony fucking Snicket in A Series of Unfortunate Events. If only that bitch would have been home instead of her roommate, this all would have been over by now. But no, that would be too goddamn easy, and nothing about this mission had gone as planned. He knew once she came home to her welcome present, she would run.

It wasn’t Quinn’s running that had been the problem, it was the where to that was the challenge, leading them both into a dangerous game of cat and mouse. If it hadn’t been for those wedding pictures he’d found, he might not have located her as quickly as he had. It’d been a fifty-fifty guess where she’d run—to her sister’s or into the arms of the man she’d been standing with in that photo, a man who’d been the focus of nearly twenty-four-hour media coverage of the Nisour Square trial. After a few days of reconnaissance at Violet Del Toro’s and no hint of her sister, he figured she’d avoided involving the woman in this and he’d moved on to option B. As of seven thirty tonight, it looked like that gamble had paid off.

“I’m going to need some more time.”

“We don’t have more time. If she goes public with that story and releases those photos, the media will crucify us.”

Yeah, well, if this fucker kept ordering him around like some degenerate piece of shit, he was going to find himself on the sharp end of his blade. He wasn’t going to fuck this up by acting hastily. He’d already underestimated the woman once. He wouldn’t do it again. This kill had to be clean, and that bitch had just seriously muddied the waters.

“She’s with Asher Tate.”

Silence.

Yeah, not so simple now, is it? Asshole . . . Anyone who owned a TV and watched CNN knew who that bastard was.

“Kill him.”

What? Was this guy fucking serious?

“Take them both out. Make it look like an accident.”

When this was over, he was going to make this cocksucker look like an accident. That was the problem with these goddamn people—bunch of self-serving assholes who had no loyalty to God or country. Then again, he was hardly one to judge. He’d sold his soul to the devil a long time ago. But still, killing a decorated war hero didn’t exactly sit well with him.

Well, he wouldn’t be by the time this was all over.

Quinn stood outside the apartment door and commanded herself to run. She knew what she’d find the moment she pushed it open, the horror that awaited her on the other side. The nightmare was a rerun set on a continuous loop. Despite her warning, her body moved as if commanded by another force beyond her will, beyond her control.
Run!
she commanded, but still her feet refused to listen. Her hand rose to the door and she walked into the apartment . . .

A shrill cry tore through the air. “Emily!” Quinn’s scream echoed through the room as she bolted upright, her heart slamming inside her chest. Disorientation clouded her mind, panic choking her. “It’s just a dream, it’s just a dream,” she chanted between gasping breaths, trapped in that mental haze between sleep and reality, unable to fully wrestle her consciousness from the grip of her nightmare. But it wasn’t just a dream at all . . . dreams were fictitious imaginations. This was real—a horrible memory. And perhaps that was why she could never fully escape it. Every time she closed her eyes, she relived Emily’s death—over and over.

Quinn squinted against the bright light flooding the room and rubbed her eyes, discovering excess moisture on her cheeks. As things slowly came into focus, she gradually began to reorient. She was no longer on the train. Asher . . . She was at Asher’s house.
You’re safe . . .
Taking slow, deep breaths, she tried to calm her rioting heart.
But for how long?
The responding question haunted her.

I’ll be seeing you soon . . .
The promise of Emily’s killer played through her mind, ratcheting her fear and kicking her fight-or-flight response into action. But where else could she go? She had no one else to turn to. How pathetic was that?

Quinn closed her eyes and took another breath. If she’d learned nothing else in her yoga classes, it was how to breathe. Slowly, the panic began to release its grip on her throat. Although it begrudged her to admit it, she really did feel safe here with Asher. She wasn’t sure if it was the isolation and solitude of the mountains, or if it was him, but for the first time in days, she finally felt a small measure of reprieve from the constant fear that had been riding her since that horrible night in Haiti.

She supposed that suffering the infuriating man’s presence was a small price to pay for security. He wasn’t pleasant to be around. Then again, she was no picnic herself these days. They’d started off on the wrong foot months ago, and it appeared they’d continue down that path until someone made the effort to build a bridge and take the high road. Considering she was on his turf, asking him for help, she supposed that person should probably be her.

While she was here, she’d do her best to be cordial. With any luck, the SD card would arrive at Violet’s soon. She regretted getting her sister involved even this much, and never would have done it if she’d had any idea this would happen. Never once had the possibility of a US connection entered her mind.

She had originally planned to visit Violet after coming home, and pick up the package there. But now, she couldn’t take the risk of traveling and leading anyone to her sister—not after what happened to Emily. The apartment had been ransacked. To do that kind of damage would have taken time—time one wouldn’t want to spend around a crime scene unless they were looking for something. The attorney general she’d spoken with knew about the SD card, but he didn’t know it wasn’t with her. Quinn cursed herself now for being so trusting. What a fool . . .

The shrill cry rang out again, briefly startling her. Only this time she recognized the sound. Horses . . . Asher had horses? She hadn’t noticed them when she’d arrived yesterday. Funny, he hadn’t exactly struck her as an animal lover. The whinny sounded like it was coming from the backyard. Curiosity had her tossing aside the covers and crawling across the bed to investigate. She padded toward the window and stopped at the sight of Asher standing in the yard below her.

Sweat glistened on his bare, muscular shoulders as the sun beat upon his tanned flesh. He wore a pair of jeans that hugged his hips, the handle of a gun poking out of the waistband. A large black horse was attached to a lunge line held loosely in his hand. Asher’s muscles rolled and flexed as he transferred the rope from one hand to the other, with the horse trotting in a circle around him.

Once it passed in front of him again, he shifted his weight and bent his knees. The horse abruptly stopped, pivoted on its back hooves, and reversed direction. Amazing . . . It was like watching the two of them acting out a choreographed dance. They were completely in sync with each other.

Unbidden, the memory of dancing with Asher came to mind—being in his arms, guided and controlled by the lead of his powerful body. He’d moved with such fluid grace, just like now . . . only this time he had a much different partner.

She wasn’t sure how long she stood there watching him lunge that horse. He must have sensed her watching him after a while, because his head lifted and he looked up at her. Asher’s brow arched, a shit-eating grin tipping the corner of his mouth. What was he smiling at? It took her a moment to figure it out. When he pointed up at her, she realized just exactly what it was that he found so damn amusing.

Oh good Lord, he could see up her shirt!

Quinn gasped and stumbled a few steps back from the window. Grabbing the hem of the T-shirt, she pulled it between her legs. She could see him laughing as he turned around, shaking his head, and resumed working the horse. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, though she wasn’t sure why. What did she have to worry about? He’d made it abundantly clear last night that he wasn’t interested in her.

“He doesn’t do shrew, remember?” she snarked to herself as she turned away from the window and left to go find the laundry room and retrieve her clothes. She didn’t have far to look. When she opened the bedroom door there they were, folded in a neat little pile on the floor with her white lace bra and panties sitting right there on top. Perhaps she should have found the gesture thoughtful, but the idea of Asher taking the liberty of touching her unmentionables annoyed her.

She snatched her clothes up off the floor and carried them over to the bed. After checking first to make sure she was out of sight, she pulled off his T-shirt, tossed it onto the bed, and began to get dressed. Yeah, it was definitely the laundry that made him smell so good, because now her clothes smelled like the guy. It felt good to be dressed again, though. It’d feel even better when she could brush her teeth and comb her hair. A cup of coffee probably wouldn’t hurt either.

Quinn headed into the bathroom and struck out on the comb, so she ended up braiding her hair until she could get to a store and buy some much-needed toiletries. She hadn’t brushed her teeth with her finger since she was a kid and it worked no better this time. Heading downstairs, she was greeted by the aroma of coffee. Score—one out of three was better than nothing.

As she walked through the living room, she spotted a folded sheet and blanket draped over the couch and felt a brief twinge of guilt for displacing Asher. It didn’t last long when she reminded herself she was still mad at him. Well, in all honesty, she should be angry at herself. It wasn’t his fault she’d flashed him. His amusement had just been the salt in the wound.

Quinn entered the kitchen and headed straight for the coffeepot. She poured herself a cup and settled into a chair. Looking around the room, she was struck by how surreal this was. She was sitting here in Asher Tate’s home . . . Four months ago, if someone had told her the man she was walking down the aisle with would be saving her life, she never would have believed it. Not that he seemed any more thrilled by the prospect than she was. Best-case scenario, they could manage not to kill each other long enough for her to get the evidence she needed to go public with her story. In the meantime, she would do her best to stay out of his way.

She’d no sooner had the thought than the door behind her opened and closed. She couldn’t help the ripple of tension shuddering through her as the energy in the air instantly charged with Asher’s presence. The scents of leather, horse, and clean male sweat greeted her and she forced the swallow of coffee down her suddenly tight throat.

She’d never been around a man who affected her so strongly before. It seemed where he was concerned, every emotion was heightened—albeit, that feeling was predominantly anger—but either way, he’d managed to hijack her emotions and she didn’t like it one bit.

“You’re up,” he said in way of greeting.

“Uh-huh . . .” She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead and took another sip of her coffee.

“And dressed . . .”

She didn’t miss the teasing lilt in his voice. “Glad I could provide some entertainment for you,” she snapped. “I hope you got a good look, cuz that’s the only one you’ll ever get.” Hadn’t she just told herself she was going to try to be nice? It wasn’t her fault, though. He was baiting her.

Asher laughed, a deep, masculine rumble she felt in places she’d just promised this man he’d never go. The cupboard door opened and closed behind her. He walked over to the coffeepot and poured himself a cup. Taking a sip, he watched her with smirking amusement. “Whatever you say . . .”

His unimpressed tone told her he didn’t count her declaration a loss.

“It’s coming on noon. You hungry?” he asked, jumping subjects as he headed for the fridge.

It was? She glanced at the clock on the wall for confirmation. Damn, she hadn’t realized it was so late. She never slept in so long. “I guess.”

Opening the door, he pulled out some sliced cheese and a butter container and set them on the counter before squatting down to pull a pan from the cupboard near the stove.

“Do you always wear a gun?”

“Yes. After fourteen years of carrying one, it’s kinda like putting on underwear, you know?” He stood with the pan in hand and shot her a wicked grin over his shoulder as he set the pan on the stove. “Or maybe not . . .”

“Okaaay . . . enough of the underwear jokes, huh?”

He chuckled. “Fair enough. I’ll take you into town this afternoon so you can get some more clothes and whatever else it is that women need.” He stepped over to the sink and washed his hands. “Hand me that bread over there, will ya?”

Quinn got up and lifted the slider door. “Jeez, you’ve got a gun in here too?” Grabbing the loaf, she carried it over to him as he finished drying his hands.