Chapter One #2
Someone was watching her again. She wasn’t sure who it was.
Yet. Jasmine pushed her hands into the pockets of her white jean shorts after she tucked some hair behind her ear.
Moving slowly, she paused to look at some postcards.
You could always find these items along a beach, even though it seemed they were dying in this modern age of doing it all on your phone.
Seemed the art of sending a card was going the way of the dodo.
Or her. Old and outliving her usefulness.
Personally, she loved them. The photos on them, the thought of just sending a little something to a person you cared about. She used to collect them.
A bemused snort fell from her lips and she shook her head. I used to do lots of things I haven’t done in years.
Because it was too dangerous for anyone she remotely gave a damn about to be in contact with her, given her past and current situation, plus her husband wasn’t exactly her number-one fan, she sent postcards.
Never words on them but a photo. A large collection of them so she could send different photos from anywhere.
And yes, while they could check the postmark, she wasn’t overly concerned for her own safety.
But for her twin and her family, she would deal with precautions.
She hardened her heart over the sister she’d just started knowing when she’d had to leave again.
Jasmine had skipped witness protection because it hadn’t been good enough for her the first time—she’d survived and she’d do so again.
Plus, those government types were more apt to stab her in the back then actually help her.
They’d done so before, why would she expect anything but the same the next time around?
“Can I help you with anything?”
She blinked and looked over to the small blonde in a teal bikini top and a deep peach floral sarong behind the counter. The color combination was stunning, in her opinion. And the blonde wore them well.
“Just trying to decide on the cards I want.”
“Okay. We do have a few others on the rack by the other side of the tent.”
Pulling two of her favorites, she put them on the counter as she moved to the other postcard stand and took another look. She didn’t have the visual advantage from here, but she would still be able to see if she’d picked up a tail.
She didn’t want to be here longer than necessary but a person could only spend so much time in a dingy room. If she was pinched, either by the locals who ran the area or the law, she had a card to play. Didn’t want to, but could if needed.
With three more cards in hand, she went back to the counter and paid for the five cards and stamps as well as a pen. Waving off the need for a bag, she walked out into the sun once more and beelined it straight for a vacant table.
Staring over the cards, she picked her favorite and wrote down an address. One she duplicated on three of the other four. She walked away and put one in a blue mailbox as she moved by, dropping the pen in as well.
Angling herself in the direction of the larger crowd, she moved seamlessly with them, blending in and becoming one of the faceless enjoying the day on the beach and the boardwalk.
Jasmine fought a yawn and made a wide turn to head back to her place, having exhausted her daylight hours.
She needed to hole up before the worst predators showed up.
Finding a shortcut, she took it and bypassed a woman and her man who were about to do something for probably twenty dollars in the alley.
Hopefully the woman had kneepads. Not that she would be there for long, he didn’t look like a man who would last.
Hands shoved in her deep pockets, she had one curled around her ASP collapsible baton just in case. She had moved by a dumpster and neared the end of the alley when she was grabbed from behind and slammed against the wall, a hand over her mouth.
Her panic lasted all of five seconds, then the anger rose within her. In a single fluid, well-practiced move, she withdrew, snapped open her ASP and struck with it.
Her attacker cursed and released her. She took another swing at his upper body and connected with his forearm as he blocked the strike.
“Fuck you for picking on a woman,” she exploded.
Jumping back, she turned her back and struck off.
“Jasmine!”
She’d not been called that in so long it took longer than it should have to process. Sad, considering it was nothing more than one word. Even on her stolen calls to her sister, her twin, she wasn’t called that. There were no names, just all-too-short conversations.
All of her well-honed survival instincts screamed for her to jet.
Bolt away from the hottie man she’d just whipped with her ASP, and yet that deep voice pulled at her, refusing to allow her feet to gain any momentum.
Snapping the ASP out once more, she turned back and watched him warily as he pushed to his feet.
There was something very familiar about him but she couldn’t place it. Her brain couldn’t connect what she saw with anything from her memory banks.
“You have thirty seconds to tell me who the fuck you are and why you’re trying to get my attention after attacking me.”
His ball cap, while askew, hadn’t been knocked free, so she was still unable to see his full features.
There was a sexy layer of scruff lining his face and while it was nice to see, it only hindered her further from identifying this person.
She wasn’t a fan of not being able to see all his features but kept her cool.
At least until two other men, large ones, turned the corner of the alley.
Fuck. Exactly what she’d been trying to avoid. She didn’t want to be on anyone’s radar. But she had made it her personal mission to know the names of the players around. Her safety depended on it.
“What happened, Lance? I see this bitch beat you. I think I may need a piece of that.”
Michel Jankovic. Fucking scum but she knew who he was. Again, survival had dictated she know. She flexed her fingers around the ASP against her back leg, aware they couldn’t see it. Taking on the son of Dusan Jankovic would be a death sentence but she wasn’t going to go down without a fight.
Not like I haven’t had that sentence over my head before.
Then there was the other man. The one she’d attacked. Michel had called him Lance.
Again a frustrating tingle of recognition teased her without mercy, but she still couldn’t place him. She’d known a few Lances in her time. Some good, some most definitely bad. Others just running the middle.
Whoever he was, he moved closer to her, keeping up with the forward progression of Michel and his bodyguard. That one would be the one who had to get put down first.
“Just a bit of a disagreement between me and my woman. She’s pissed I haven’t been by in a while.”
His woman? Did this fucker just lay claim to me? Why does that make parts of me that have been untouched for far too long sit up and take notice?
No accent to speak of in that delicious voice and damn it all, she was fucking intrigued. She didn’t move away, instead moving closer to him. She didn’t know who he was, but she was sure that he wouldn’t attack her until he got what he needed from her.
Fairly certain.
Hopeful.
“She doesn’t know her place then, if she doesn’t think a man can go after all the whores he wants.” Even though she couldn’t see him, Michel’s voice was unmistakeable.
The stranger shifted smoothly before her, blocking her view of either man. She narrowed her eyes at his back. Protection wasn’t anything she had counted on from a man for a long time. “I didn’t say she was a whore. I said she was my woman.”
“Same thing.”
He reached back and took hold of her arm. “Not to me. You’re always so curious as to why I turn down the women you toss in my direction. This is why. I have a woman. I have pussy at home, so I don’t need to go out and beg or pay for it.”
Surely she had to be hearing things because it sounded to her like this man, one she didn’t know, had just declared her his woman.
Guess my earlier thought was spot-on. And he still held her like he meant it.
She was pressed up against him and he’d wrapped his arm around her, settling it on her ass as if she’d not just beat him with her ASP and as if he had the right to touch her in such a manner.
Strange thing was, she was intrigued and didn’t argue with him. While she didn’t completely relax into him, she didn’t fight him on the personal touching or his outrageous claim either.
“We don’t like surprises,” Michel barked.
“Again, I don’t work for you. I work for your father. I’ll introduce them when I’m ready.”
Words that pushed alarm through her. Michel was bad enough, but if this guy was working for Dusan, she may be up shit’s creek. Naked.
Michel crossed beefy arms. “Be ready now. I’m bringing in my father.”
“Do what you must. I don’t care, but step away and let me apologize to my woman without you trying to get some fucking lessons on how a man talks to a woman as opposed to what you usually do, interacting with a child.”
Even more interesting by the second, things got.
The man watched the other two move away before he faced her again.
Jasmine blinked, her fingers comfortable around her baton, just waiting for some wrong move.
This time it wouldn’t be a disabling blow but a deadly one.
He shifted them a bit more but made sure he could keep an eye on the two men. She recognized the move.
“I need your help, Jasmine.”
“I told you, I don’t know you or who that person is you keep calling me. I think you had better tell your friends there you made a mistake.”
His chuckle was deep and, fuck it all, arousing. He could have just pushed his hand down her pants and flicked her clit given how her body responded. Working her over completely and reminding her how long it had been since anything beyond her own fingers had been between her legs.
Not good.
“I know I didn’t. Want to know how I know this? Because you propositioned me.”
“I’ve done that to more than one man. It doesn’t make you all unique or special.”
That chiseled jaw flexed and a low rumble escaped. “You do that a lot to detectives?” He thumbed back the bill of his cap and she stared into his eyes. While they were no longer the icy green she remembered but blue-green, they were still intense as all get out.
Holy fucking shit and goddamnit. He may look a bit different, but no way would she ever forget this man. And, from the looks of things, he’d not forgotten her either.
Be that good or bad, it was something that remained to be seen.
One of Atlanta’s own, Detective Lance Baldwin.