6. Olivia
OLIVIA
“Continue with the plan.”The man from my past speaks to the gun-wielding sidekicks. “I’ll deal with her.”
Deal with her?
My frantic heart rate reaches a whole new level, the beats manic as I attempt to discreetly slide my cell into my trouser pocket.
“Are you going to kill me?” I whisper.
“Now why would I do that?”
His voice is the same as it was the night we met—all smooth seduction and subdued power. But there are added layers now. He’s different. Calculated and utterly confounding.
The men behind him holster their weapons and reposition themselves to pick up the motionless male, one grabbing the ankles, the other the shoulders.
“What are you going to do then?” I ask in a rush, my body trembling.
“I just want to talk.” He stalks closer, a predator approaching prey.
“Then talk. From there. Don’t take another step.” I retreat into the hall and thankfully, he complies. “Where are they taking him?”
My newfound nightmare glances over his shoulder to his companions. “It’s okay. Just ignore them.”
“Are you kidding?” My eyes widen, my breaths sawing in and out of strained lungs. “Is that man dead?”
“Ollie…” He slides his hands into his pockets. Dauntless. “Baby, calm down.”
Baby? Calm Down?
I don’t know what part of his statement is more grotesque—the horrifically familiar endearment or the outrageously sickening request.
I open my mouth to speak but out of nowhere he whistles, high-pitched and shrill.
“Take a walk, guys.” He keeps his gaze on mine while the men snap to attention like obedient dogs. “Leave and update my brother on our success, but don’t mention my current audience. I can handle the rest from here.”
“The rest of what?” I blurt.
He gives me a sympathetic look.
No, it’s patronizing. Like I lack the brain capacity to formulate simple math—two plus two equals you’re about to be murdered by the man you’ve religiously fantasized about for half a year.
He starts toward me again and I stumble back into the hall wall, the other men not paying me attention as they follow his command, dumping the body on the floor for a second time, then walking beneath the raised delivery door and disappearing into the night.
I glance to my left, down the dimly lit hall. Should I run?
“Don’t do it,” my nightmare murmurs. “We just need to talk.”
“Then stay where you are.” I divert my retreat toward the reception area when he doesn’t listen. “Whatever you’re doing here I promise I’ll forget it. I’ll pretend it never happened. I don’t even know what is happening. I’m clueless.” I backtrack toward the front of the building, him matching me step for step. “Please just stop. You’re scaring me.”
“I’m not trying to scare you. But you’re a smart woman. You already know this is a serious situation. I can’t let you out of my sight in case you call the cops.”
He’s definitely going to kill me.
I can already read the headlines—Murdered in her own funeral home. No need to transport the body.
A car door slams in the distance, the sound echoing through the building where it seems I’m destined to take my final breath.
An engine hums. Asphalt crunches.
I’ve been left alone with him, and at this point I’m unsure if that’s my preference.
“My father lives upstairs.” I say on instinct. “If I scream?—”
“You’re not going to scream,” he says with confidence. “And even if you did, I’m certain Carlo isn’t nearby to provide assistance.”
My stomach hollows.
How does he know my father’s name?
“His Audi isn’t parked under the awning,” he continues. “Neither is the pick-up van or your little blue Volkswagen. Thus the basis of this unfortunate interlude. We thought the place was empty.”
I shake my head, confused.
How does he know so much? The cars we drive? That my father isn’t home? And where the hell is my dad at this ungodly hour if not in bed upstairs?
“Did you do something to him?” I whisper.
“Ollie, come on. You’ve got the wrong impression.” He pulls his hands from his pockets to hold up his palms in placation. “I’m no threat to you or your dad.”
Yet he keeps stalking toward me. Prowling.
I reach the reception area and glance over my shoulder, searching for an escape.
I could sprint, but even if I reached the front door I wouldn’t get the deadbolt unlocked before he caught me.
I can’t hide. Not when I’m already in plain sight.
I could potentially call for help. Yet somehow I don’t think this man will pause his wolfish approach to allow me the time to retrieve my cell and dial a number.
“I can see your mind running a mile a minute.” He enters the brighter light of the entry, the gentle glow beaming down on his too handsome face, highlighting the tousled curls of his hair. “But everything is going to be okay. Is there somewhere we can sit and talk? Maybe the staff break room.”
Of course he knows about the staff break room.
Does he know what color underwear I’m wearing and my email password, too?
“Can’t we talk right here?” I take another retreating step, my ass colliding with Allison’s desk, her crystal flower vase teetering on impact.
I gasp.
He slows his advance, but doesn’t stop. He continues until he’s right in front of me. Foot to foot. Savagely close.
Those dark eyes stare down at me with a wickedly sinister brutality I never noticed all those months ago.
And somehow he’s no less beautiful—all carved lines and perfect symmetry.
“Why are you here, Ollie? It’s two in the morning. You should be home in bed.” His tone is a delicious purr, perhaps attempting to remind me of our past. Of the heat. The lust.
“Why are you here?” I murmur back.
He scrutinizes me for long seconds—reads me—as if trying to determine if I’m capable of withstanding the truth. “I require the use of your facilities.”
My stomach drops.
Bottoms.
I swallow. Lick my excessively drying lips. “Our office hours are from nine to five. If you’d like to come back when we’re open, I’m sure?—”
He snickers. Goddamn laughs.
And I’ll be damned but my insides tingle at the carefree sound.
“This is more of an after-hours type of situation.” He smirks. “But I adore your wit. Just like I did the first night we met.”
My stomach picks itself up off the floor, climbs back into its rightful cavity, then proceeds to give birth to a mass of butterflies, their rapidly beating wings conducting a symphony of gastrointestinal stupidity.
You are not still attracted to him, you dumb bitch.
“Which facilities do you require the use of?” I swallow.
He’s previously admitted he comes from money, which makes it clear he’s not in need of a cheap deal on a funeral. That doesn’t leave a lot of desirable alternatives, but a girl can always hope.
“Is the man in the back room still alive? Does he require medical assistance?” It’s such an idiotic question. I’m grasping at straws. “If a sterile workspace is what you’re after I can take him to my preparation room. I have stitching supplies and surgical?—”
“He doesn’t require medical assistance.” Grim encroaches, his legs pressing into mine, his hands falling to the desk on either side of my hips.
I’m caged.
Trapped.
The pity returns to his features, making his eyes gentle and lips plush.
His handsomeness attempts to manipulate me into a false sense of security. I’m sure Ted Bundy relied on the same aesthetics to lure his victims to slaughter.
“I think you know what’s going on.” He reaches out, his arm raising in slow motion and gently swiping at a lock of loose hair that’s fallen from my braid.
My pulse thunders, the heavy thuds pounding in my ears.
I want to shove him away. To scream. To escape.
But I’m caught here, trapped between him and the desk. Between a life-threatening situation and the misplaced optimism that he can somehow explain everything into a neat little package that doesn’t end in my blood being splattered all over the floor.
“I h-have a wild imagination,” I stammer. “The possibilities I’ve come up with aren’t favorable.”
“Think the worst of me, Ollie, and you’ll be on the right track.”
I hold my breath, not wanting to think those things. Refusing to believe this is real.
“This isn’t the first time I’ve been here after hours,” he admits.
Bile scalds my throat.
He inclines his head as if sensing my revulsion. “It’s not the most ideal situation.”
My breathing kicks back in, full speed ahead. I fight not to hyperventilate. To remain conscious despite the terror threatening to undo me.
I spread my fingers out behind me, trying to find the heavy crystal vase. “You’re a criminal.”
“Yes,” he admits without pause.
“You want to use the retort.” To cremate a victim. To dispose of evidence. To manipulate someone’s life into nothing but tiny grains of bone where DNA is all but impossible to find.
“That was the plan.”
I swallow and lick my lips again, my parched throat in agony.
His eyes catch the movement, his focus lowering to my mouth.
What the hell is he thinking?
He looks like he wants to kiss me. As if we’re back at that bar with his hand teasing my thighs instead of in a funeral home with a criminal conviction hovering between us.
“I assumed you were a businessman.” My fingers brush the side of the vase, spiking my adrenaline.
“I am… of sorts.” His attention raises to my eyes. “But the stakes in my line of business are life and death. It’s what I signed up for.”
“I didn’t sign up for it.” I lean back, edging closer to the vase.
“I know and for that, I apologize. Nobody wanted you to get involved.”
Memories of this morning return to punish me. How the retort was still warm. How I fired Hugo despite him vowing he hadn’t touched the cremator.
“You were here last night.” I wrap a hand around the neck of the vase, my palm slippery from sweat.
He inclines his head. “I was.”
Two murders in two nights?
My limbs shake. “How long has this been going on?”
“That doesn’t matter right now.”
He’s right. It doesn’t. One murder is more than enough.
So with all my strength, I swing the vase and aim for his temple.