1. Beth
ONE
Beth
“ S on of a dick,” I hiss as Andrew drops into the backseat of the limousine beside me.
“Nice to see you, too, sweetheart,” he says with a snide smile. His large form takes up too much space, his thigh settling to rest against my own. It’s a nice thigh, attached to an even nicer body, attached to a morally corrupt asshole.
“Call me sweetheart one more time and my mark for the night will change to you.”
“I’m sure The Agency would promote you for taking out their top assassin, Beth.” He rolls his eyes and slumps further into the seat.
“I’m their top assassin.”
Andrew turns to me, the smooth fabric of his expensive suit sliding against the bare skin of my exposed leg, thanks to the high slit of my dress. He studies my face as if he’s seeing it for the first time. The reality is, we’ve worked together for years. We even fucked in one rare moment of euphoria on an assignment in Paris.
I blame the French wine for my lack of judgment.
That was all before we completely fucked each other over, of course.
“You’re good, sweetheart. Damn good,” he says, slowly and suspiciously, as if he isn’t speaking of my chosen profession. “But not the best.”
Andrew’s breath is warm on my cheek, but it feels like a soothing cool breeze on a sweltering day. Do I hate him or myself more for the way he makes me feel? Who knows. My head knows he’s a selfish, heartless prick. And that’s all that matters.
I couldn’t do this job if I wasn’t an expert at compartmentalizing and making hard decisions. Regardless of how well Andrew Pratt fucked me into oblivion that one scandalous night, he’s not worth the repeat. Especially when nine minutes out of every ten I spend with him, I’m plotting ways to disembowel him.
“Keep telling yourself that, and maybe one day it will come true.”
“They keep pairing me with you for a reason,” he bites back. “They’re desperate for me to teach you how to handle a job all by your big girl self.”
Asshole.
Truthfully, most of my jobs are solo. But every so often, like tonight, you need a co-pilot. Unfortunately, The Agency likes the way we never fail to accomplish the task, so they keep teaming us up. This is the first time in about a year, though. It’s been a peaceful reprieve from the dark, charismatic thief.
Tonight’s mark is a powerful man who has escaped consequences for his depraved actions for decades. A known rapist and sex trafficker, protected by money and connections. He must have pissed off the wrong person though, because it costs no small fortune to hire The Agency. Let alone their best trained killers.
My boss has worked for months to get us an invite to one of Lyle Maclain’s exclusive parties. I didn’t know who I’d be going in with until the car door opened, but that isn’t unusual. We roll with the punches in this gig.
Some jobs are messier than others, but the result matters most. The target dead.
I’m good at clean and quiet. Unseen and unheard. Blending in is my specialty, one I’ve perfected in the fourteen years I’ve been at this. The Agency found me when I was barely nineteen and studying intelligence at a rather non-descript university in the Midwest. I’ve come to understand that they have eyes everywhere though. Always looking for a certain skillset. Evidently, I possessed what they wanted.
It’s paid off lucratively for us both. Another couple of years and I could quit altogether. If I wanted to. I don’t. Not yet, anyhow.
I like the kill.
Maybe I even love it at times. There’s an undeniable pleasure when taking out someone you know is simply too evil to keep existing. I see it as protection, really. It’s altruism in the most brutal way.
I’m a do-gooder. Mostly.
I smile at the ridiculous thought and catch Andrew staring at my mouth with consternation.
“It’s called amusement. You should try it sometime.”
“No, thank you,” he says sternly, and I almost laugh before I remember that I hate this man.
“Should we discuss a plan?”
“Get close enough to kill Maclain without a witness,” Andrew says, matter of factly.
“Or take out witnesses if we can’t get him alone.”
“If you can’t get him alone in that dress… you really should find a new profession.”
Was that a compliment or sorts? Doubtful.
The dress is damn amazing, for sure. One shoulder, bare midriff, with a flowing skirt in a deep midnight color. Not too flashy, yet sexy enough to garner attention while still allowing me to move as needed. Nothing worse than trying to fight in a pencil skirt.
Hopefully, tonight won’t come to that. I much prefer a handgun or a knife to my fists.
“I’ll get him alone,” I assure Andrew. “That only further questions the need for your presence.”
“Someone has to be on hand when you inevitably fuck up.”
I’ve only ever fucked up once in my life—the night in Paris.
Andrew and I had been using the cover of newlyweds on honeymoon. When we finished our assignment earlier than planned, we kept up the ruse by eating dinner at a charming bistro, then walking the city all evening. Our flight wasn’t until the next morning. He led me around, hand in hand, while we found interesting spots to explore. It all felt so… real. A rarity in our lifestyles. We’re constantly in a state of pretending, a fantasy, a mirage.
Andrew’s touches lingered on my side, the small of my back, my nape. His words were spoken along the shell of my ear, sending warm shivers down my spine. By the time we were back at our hotel, we were both affected by the sexual chemistry.
When he walked me to my room, it felt natural to hold the door open for him to follow me through. There was no awkwardness when he pressed me up against the wall, his mouth meeting mine in an inferno of emotion. My hand buried in his dark, thick hair. His found its way down my thigh, raising my skirt so he could lift my leg to hitch over his hip.
The first press of Andrew’s pelvis had me gasping with need. He’s not a small man, in any way. Not in physical size, capability, personality… or ego.
“Then you agree that I’m the lead on this,” I say primly.
“Whatever gives you the confidence to get this bastard in a secluded room, sweetheart.”
“Beth. Or Miller. My name is not sweetheart.”
“Beth Miller is the most boring name I’ve ever heard,” he drawls, turning to look out the window as we make our way through the streets of Prague.
“That’s the point.” It’s hardly my real name. Nobody calls me Celine, except my parents. None of the agents use, or share, our birth names. We’re a group of murderers, not a book club.
I don’t know Andrew’s real name. It’s probably Dick.
“You certainly picked an alias that fits your personality.”
Yep, he’s definitely a Dick.
“Baby, you don’t know me,” I say as the car takes the turn down the tree lined drive.
This ‘party’ is an exclusive event at an estate on the outskirts of the city. It makes leaving a bit more difficult, but not undoable.
Andrew exits the limo when our driver, Francis, another agent who I’ve worked with numerous times before, opens the door for us.
Though, Andrew’s an incorrigible ass, he reaches a hand in to help me out. His eyes drag over my body appreciatively, and I pause to allow it. This is part of the game—put on a show, pretend we’re lovers who can’t wait to strip each other bare.
Pratt is extremely good at the act, and I feel the flame ignite in my core. It’s ridiculous, but it helps me with the pretense as well.
Finally taking a step away, Andrew pulls me back into him, tucking my long red hair behind my ear.
“These people are dangerous,” he whispers. “Ruthless and cruel. Be careful and follow my lead.”
I blink at him, confused by his soft tone, despite his words implying I’m incapable of performing this task without his instruction. “I’ve handled myself with worse.”
“Humor me.”
“Impossible, I’m certain.” I flash him my best flirty smile, even if I’m seething inside at his assumptions. It’s part of the job , I remind myself again. It’s the mantra I’ll be chanting in my head until the kill is done, and I can sever ties from this insufferable man. Well, until the next time our boss decides to thrust us together again.
“Shut up, sweetheart,” he whispers, then feathers kisses along my jaw. When he reaches the corner of my mouth, we’re interrupted by another voice.
“Mr. Mayhew, welcome,” a short man with a balding head and protruding belly says as he approaches.
“Thank you,” Andrew says, stepping in front of me slightly to offer his hand to the stranger. “Jensen, I presume?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Maclain has been expecting you.”
“Of course,” Andrew says with a casual nod. “My wife delayed us some, but who can complain?” He holds my hand above my head, spinning me in a circle in front of Jensen.
I’m a trophy tonight. The plaything for men’s appreciation and pleasure.
It’s disgusting but necessary when infiltrating such circles. Fuel for my ire is how I see it, making my bloodlust for this kill even more than I had before stepping into this mansion.
“Yes, sir,” Jensen repeats dismissively, obviously not impressed by either of us, holding an arm out to usher us into the mansion.
Time to get this party started.