Plain Jane and the Hitman Page 2

  "Of course you do," Bailey said without removing her attention from the book in her lap. "Like you said, you want blond, blue-eyed babies. Just like you."

  Daisy glared at her over the rim of her glass. “Do I hear censure in your voice?”

  “No.” People in glass houses etc., etc. She wasn’t one to judge, especially not her best friend.

  Bailey spared Daisy a glance and took in the perfection of her heart-shaped face, pouty, bee-stung lips, her long, blond hair pinned to the top of her head with curls cascading around the face. “You have a type and never deviate. Golden-haired Adonises. Others need not apply.”

  Daisy giggled. “You have a point. But you never know.” She gave a forlorn glance at all the barely clothed bodies frolicking in the Olympic-sized pool and sighed wistfully, “Out there, somewhere, is some dark-haired, suave, hunk of a man who will entice me away from my blond obsession. Until the time, he comes along to sweep me off my feet, I’m gonna have fun, and you should too.”

  Here we go. Bailey gave a nonchalant shrug and focused on her book.

  Daisy snatched the book out of Bailey’s hands and tossed it to the foot of the lounger. “We are not here to read. We are here to have fun with men our own age.” She stressed the last word.

  Bailey knew where this was going and had no way to stop the Daisy train. “I know that, but I’m just not interested.”

  Daisy rotated her body and faced Bailey. She crossed her legs, folded her arms under her ample breasts, and twirled her finger around a strand of hair. Diamond hoops twinkled in her ears. She shouldn’t be wearing them, but when money was no object because Daddy footed the bill… “Why? Because there are no geriatric men in sight?”

  Low blow. Bailey rolled her eyes.

  “Don’t try it, girlfriend.” Daisy continued. “Ninety-three is the combined age of your last two boyfriends.”

  Damn it, why did she have to bring that up, again.

  "You have a daddy complex, and I bet some fresh, young dick will cure you of it." Daisy waggled her sculpted eyebrows. "That is why we're here, right?”

  That was the initial plan, Bailey admitted to herself.

  Daisy harrumphed as if she'd read Bailey's mind. "We've been here three days, and you haven't even said hello to anyone with a penis and a set of balls."

  “And they haven’t said hello to me either.” Thank God. She liked her men with more substance than worrying about their next blowjob and a more than general idea of what to do with a clit.

  “Could be your resting bitch face. You’re scaring the men away.” Daisy side-eyed Bailey.

  Please. “If a man is that easily intimidated by a look, he’s not worth the effort.”

  “I want a man I can intimidate into buying me anything I want,” Daisy said with supreme confidence. Why Daisy would need anyone to buy her anything when her father was on the Forbes list of wealthiest men in the world was beyond Bailey.

  “Good grief, Bailey.” Daisy made a circle around Bailey’s entire head. “I actually think it hurts you to smile.”

  Bailey wasn’t surprised Daisy ignored her. It was her usual M.O. when Bailey said something logical. “I smile when I have a reason to. Only idiots prance around with a permanent smile attached to their face. No one is happy all the time.” And I’m not one to fake it.

  Daisy tossed back her drink and stood. “Fine. Don’t smile and don’t be happy. I did not come to a tropical paradise full of gorgeous men to be miserable and mopey. Enjoy the book. I’ll see you later.” She stretched her curvy body clad in a barely-there white bikini and headed for the bar. The hottest guy met her with a Corona. All Bailey could do was shake her head. Daisy hadn't bought her own drink since she turned sixteen.

  Bailey studied the group of men. All handsome. All muscular and tanned. Sexy as hell. And she wasn’t interested. They came to the exclusive resort in Jamaica for uncomplicated fun and sun. Translation: sex and a tan. It’s what the resort specialized in, “A private getaway for a private affair.”

  Daisy sold Bailey on this trip after they were both dumped within weeks of each other. In truth, Daisy dumped her boyfriend because she was bored. Bailey didn’t dump Richard. She just stopped trying. Trying to see him, talk to him, reach him on a level deeper than skin.

  Yeah, they were great in bed, but after the exchange of bodily fluids, they had nothing else to say except everything they’d already said. Six months of the same repetition. Richard was cute enough, worked middle management at a marketing firm, and liked kids and small pets. He was older, settled, safe. A future with him promised a four-bedroom home in the suburbs, two kids, one purebred dog, and cat. Sex once a week, pot roast every Sunday, membership at the local country club which they probably couldn't afford, and a minivan.

  She thought it was enough. It wasn’t. Not for her.

  On the one hand, it was good to know what she didn’t want. On the other hand, what did she want? She couldn't keep a nine to five. No patience, short-tempered and with a bank account in the love seven figures thanks to a biological mother she never knew, not joining the workforce hadn't left her on the street.

  She had a Bachelor of Liberal Arts she never used. Started and stopped her master’s degree three times. Bought a massage and yoga franchise and sold it after eighteen months because she was bored. Nothing interested her. Rather, nothing fit her. She was a square peg in a round world. She had yet to find her niche and had no idea what that niche could be.

  A floundering boat was how she silently described herself, and she had no idea how to right whatever was wrong.

  Studying the group of men fawning over her best friend, Bailey knew that wasn’t what she wanted either. She gathered her book, floppy hat, and returned to her bungalow. Knowing Daisy wouldn’t miss her for hours, Bailey showered and dressed in a pair of long shorts, a loose shirt, and her comfortable Teva sandals.

  She took in her appearance and mumbled, “You are so sexy.” A laugh bubbled up as she slapped a baseball cap on her head. Her jet-black pixie hair curled at the edges of the cap. Dressed like this she was a ringer for a teenage boy, which was easy with her thin frame and minuscule boobs. Losing thirty pounds over a man was stupid. Though, it wasn’t so much Richard that sent her into the breakup spiral. It was the lack of anything tangible in her life.

  At twenty-five, she’d expected to have a career and a husband who adored her as much as she adored him, the possibility of a child, maybe even the four-bedroom house in the suburbs. With Richard, the thought of all that domesticity made her nauseous. But with the right man…

  He’d have to be adventurous. She wasn’t talking about skydiving, but there were a few places in the world she hadn’t visited, and she wanted to do so with a partner. He had to be funny. A sense of humor was paramount. He had to be able to laugh at himself. Not take life so seriously. Sex wasn’t that important, as long as he was adequate in bed, he’d do.

  With her camera hanging around her neck and her fanny pack on her hips, Bailey exited her bungalow. She skirted the pool area, bar, and spa. A quick hike to the front of the resort, she got a ride on the hospitality shuttle to the open market in the middle of the town the resort bordered on.

  Her phone rang as they bounced along the roads. It was Theresa. She turned the phone off and zipped it inside her fanny pack.

  “The resort recommends all guests do not stray from the market,” the driver said in a thick accent. “Watch your belongings carefully and do not give to beggars. It only encourages them.”

  “Thanks for the pep talk.” This wasn’t her first foray off the beaten path. She stepped from the shuttle and uncapped the lens of her camera and started clicking.

  The market was more like a bazaar filled with every colorful item imaginable and every exotic scent she’d ever inhaled. But it was the people that fascinated her. The pleasure on their faces when she asked for permission to take their photos. The joy at viewing the result. She loved taking pictures of the children. Something about capturing the
ir youth, a moment when happiness is all they felt, inspired her.

  She bought a beef patty with coco bread from a vendor along with a ginger beer to quench her thirst as she wandered the stalls purchasing decorative earrings, a seashell necklace, and bracelet. A dance troupe sashayed by in their colorful, yet scanty outfits. She captured the fluidity of their bodies, their gaiety and the ecstasy in their movements. They danced around her, made her join in, though she couldn’t keep up and made a complete fool of herself.

  And she loved it, this small piece of faux freedom where nothing mattered except the sun on her skin, the wind in her hair, and the good food in her tummy.

  Something tugged on her waist, and her fanny pack slid free. She spun, expecting it to be near her feet. Instead, it was running away, carried by a kid as fast as a cheetah. She took off after him, darting around people, pushing some out of her way and screaming an apology as she struggled to keep the kid in sight. A woman blocked her, and the kid vanished down an alley off the main square.

  This was a bad idea, but she followed. Her passport and wallet were in her fanny pack. She had to get it back. The alley was filled with a network of shanties made of leftover aluminum and wood and anything else the occupants got a hold of. That’s how it was on most of the island. Luxury and poverty residing feet apart. Present, yet tucked out of sight away from the tourists. The boy ran into one of those shanties. Ordinarily, she wasn’t one to barge into someone’s house unannounced, but the kid had her shit.

  At full speed, she barreled toward the open doorway, and nearly bounced off the chest of a man. She backed up and noticed the man wasn’t alone. Others came out of the shanties to watch.

  She raised her hands in mock surrender. “I don’t want any trouble. I only want what belongs to me.”

  “This what you want?” he said in a thick accent as he signaled to someone inside the shanty. The boy came out carrying her fanny pack in one hand and a smug grin on his face.

  “It’s mine.” She held out her hand.

  The man unzipped the pouch and peered inside. “Valuable stuff inside. I see a passport. No cash, though. You want it back?”

  Nah, you can keep my passport and credit cards. I don’t need them. “Yes. I want them back,” she said calmly as more spectators gathered to watch. Or to join? She wasn’t sure.

  “What you give me for it?” He haggled like a professional thief.

  “How can I give you something when you have everything?” She gritted out the words through her teeth.

  His grin was a black hole of missing teeth. He gave her that “I’m hungry and you’re a piece of meat” look that made her want a bath. “I know what you can give me.”

  Not happening. Bailey stepped back. The man stepped forward, reaching for her. It would be the last thing he ever reached for.

  “Step away from the woman.” A voice cracked like a whip and echoed in the alley.

  She didn’t move. She kept her focus trained on the asshole holding her fanny pack. Whoever the voice belonged to, she’d thank him for the distraction later.

  Footsteps sounded behind her. Steady, the precise pace brought another man to her right. He swept in front of her without pause. Crisp white short-sleeved shirt stretched over a well-defined broad back. White male, black crew cut fade. Tall, the way she liked them.

  She reared back, flustered at his proximity and nerve. One doesn’t step into an altercation that’s none of one’s business.

  “Who are you?” her would-be thief asked.

  And she concurred. Who was he? She moved to the left for a better view and wasn’t disappointed. His profile was as fine as the man. For a fraction of a second, his gaze cut to her—blue, ice blue. A chill ran down her spine, not just from his artic gaze. Everything about the man was hard, cold, and hostile, deadly to anything with a pulse. Yet, contained on a low simmer, under a thin veneer of slightly tanned skin. I think I've found Daisy's, perfect non-blond man.

  His gaze returned to the would-be thief. And just like that, the Caribbean sun heated her blood. “The pack, it’s not worth losing an arm,” her newfound protector said. She liked his voice, the sexy, low timbre hummed along her skin.

  “I ain’t afraid of you.”

  Liar. She could hear the fear in his voice, even with more people filling the alley. Whoa! Her protector had moved so fast, she’d missed the fight but not the result. The thief was sprawled on the ground. Un-fucking-conscious. Talk about a glass jaw. Her hero bent down and plucked her fanny pack free. He still didn't turn to face her. Instead, he stepped in front of her again and pulled a gun from beneath his shirt.

  “We got a problem here?” he faced the crowd, meeting their hostile eyes. One by one, they turned away and cleared a path out of the alley.

  He took her arm, his fingers rough and warm, and strong on her skin. He didn’t give her a choice, not that she would’ve chosen differently, as he guided her out of the alley. Back on the main thoroughfare, she pulled free and spun.

  She’d seen him before. Last night, at the pool party. He sat at a table tucked into a corner in the back, observing everyone while he sipped on a clear drink. Could’ve been vodka but she suspected club soda. She didn’t know why the thought occurred when it and he were none of her business. He’d seemed out of place with his brooding dark looks, intense stare, and general don’t fuck with me vibe. He carried himself like he knew how to deliver pain, or pleasure, depending on the circumstances.

  No one fucked with him. Including most of the women. Oh, some brave souls sauntered up to him in their bikinis and clear heels. Their breasts high, their pelvises forward, strutting like they were on a runway. With a flick of his fingers, he sent them on their way.

  Now, he stared at her with the icy blue eyes. Did that color have a name? “I didn’t need your help.”

  He cocked his head to the side, and she noticed he had a touch of salt mixed in with his coal black hair at his temple. His brow lowered to two angry slashes over those eyes, he stated matter-of-factly, “You did. Accept it and move on.” His lips formed a grim slash that she suspected were full if he ever smiled. She couldn’t tell if his jaw was squared or sharp due to a full beard and mustache, but she wanted to know.

  Hand to the small of her back, he guided her through the throng. She had no idea where he led her and didn’t fight it. Out of the crowd was good enough for now. People cleared out of their way when they saw him coming. She didn’t like his familiarity, his hand on her body, heating her skin through the thin barrier of her shirt, or her body’s reaction to that heat. She certainly didn’t approve of the way he took over. For the moment, she kept that opinion to herself.

  He guided her out of the bazaar to a small compact car parked on a side road and opened the passenger door. “Get in,” he ordered, assuming she’d obey as he rounded the front of the car. Such a gentleman. Not that she cared.

  “I was taught to never take a ride from a stranger.”

  He leaned on the hood, arms splayed, knuckles pressed onto the metal, those cold eyes of his latched onto her. “Good lesson. Doesn’t apply today. Get in the car.”

  “Why?”

  An eyebrow shot up, and his head cocked to the side.

  She got the sense no one questioned him. That this was a first for him. “You want to stay and deal with that guy when he wakes up since you didn't need my help?"

  “Don’t threaten me.”

  His brow arched with disdain. “You consider that a threat? Babe, when I threaten you, you’ll know it.”

  Babe? Hackles rose on the back of her neck. The last thing she needed was to be alone in a car with this man. The hotel shuttle coasted by them and stopped at the end of the street, a block away.

  “Thanks for the offer of the ride and getting my stuff back.” She slammed his car door closed and headed for the shuttle. Don’t know why, but she expected footsteps coming up behind her. There weren’t any. She made it to the open-air shuttle and parked her ass on the bench, along with the other ho
tel guests who visited the bazaar.

  Five minutes later, the shuttle pulled away, and she bounced along with the rest of the people, aware of the car trailing them.

  Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around.

  She locked her muscles down and refused to give in. Something was wrong. This guy wasn’t a Good Samaritan. He didn’t rescue her out of the kindness of his heart. He had an agenda. What she didn’t know, but whatever it was, he would be disappointed.

  His name! She hadn’t gotten his name. Also, he hadn’t asked for hers, yet he ordered her around as if he had the right to do so.

  She hopped out of the shuttle as it coasted to a stop in the circular drive of the hotel and noted the compact continuing down the road to the rear of the hotel.

  Her gut churned. He may not know her name, but how difficult would it be to find out when they were staying at the same hotel? Especially for him, a handsome asshole used to getting his way.

  Chapter Three

  Dinner was a fantastic affair Bailey shared with Daisy, her new fuckbuddy, and fuckbuddy's bestie who stared expectantly at Bailey. Did he think she would strip down and spread her legs for him in the restaurant? Apparently so. Other than her name, he hadn't asked her a single question. Instead, he talked to the guy at the next table about the beach volleyball game they'd played earlier, then his workout routine. He was very proud of his over-stacked, greased muscles and his musky body spray.

  Big mistake letting Daisy rope her into this. At least the grilled sea bass and vegetables were delicious, though her appetite had fled soon after the men had joined them.

  Daisy laughed at something her fuckbuddy whispered in her ear. He was cute with his lean body and sun-bleached long hair. He draped his arm around her chair and angled his body toward her, the epitome of attentiveness to his companion. As opposed to Bailey’s date.