Clearly a runner, her legs were sleek and muscled. Strong, as he knew from last night, when she’d clasp them around his waist as he pumped into her. “I’d suggest letting it burn and collecting the insurance money.”
Her lips twitched. “The eggs aren’t insured. But at the rate I’m going, that might be an idea.”
“The house.”
She made a rude noise. “She’s going to be beautiful when I’m done with her.”
Cruz braced his hands on the chair back to observe her. “Her?”
“A venerable old lady with good bone structure. She just needs makeup and a new hairdo.”
“A gut job.”
“Shhh. Don’t let her hear you. I’ve promised to make her beautiful again.”
Cruz shook his head, charmed in spite of himself. The dichotomy between who she was and what she looked like was throwing him off. He knew better.
He’d learned a lot about the misdirection of evil people in his line of work. It was the main reason he took what he did seriously. He wasn’t playing God. But frequently the face these people showed the world was pretty, when their actions were evil. He got to stop those who lied, cheated, manipulated, killed, and stayed out of the reach of the law.
The most evil of men and women were like fucking chameleons, changing their colors to do their worst to innocent and unsuspecting victims in the world without anyone being the wiser. He wasn’t an idiot. Cruz knew men did unspeakable things to one another and believed themselves to be in the right.
Which was why he did his due diligence and researched and checked all the facts before he did a hit. His jaw clenched as he remembered the most sanctimonious of the evildoers he’d taken out: A fucking pastor who walked through his stadium-size church like a damn saint while he collected dead redheads across five states. Young, sweet, troubled women who came to the prick seeking his counsel, his help. Only to end up fucked over and sliced into a garbage bag he tossed in the woods like yesterday’s trash.
He’d had the face and demeanor of a saint and killed fourteen young women in five states over a span of three years. Authorities had never been able to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that he’d done the killings. Paid by one of the victim’s families, Cruz had proven to himself, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that Pastor Smiley was guilty as sin.
The man had drowned while out fishing alone in a remote location of Alaska. A confession note had been found tucked in his fishing tackle box admitting to the eleven he was being investigated for and three others whom no one knew he had anything to do with.
Cruz had given those victims’ families closure.
“I’m going to start this process again. Brave enough to join me for breakfast? Nothing complicated.” Mia glanced over her shoulder to give him a half smile—which, for some fucking annoying reason, pierced Cruz’s chest like a sharp arrow. Fucking evil chameleons didn’t ever shoot arrows into his chest.
“I’m determined to master the humble egg,” she told him cheerfully, cracking one on the side of a new frying pan. “You, if you choose this assignment, can be my taste tester.” She dropped the egg into the dry pan and cracked another. “Eggs any way you want them—as long as you want them scrambled and are willing to risk however they turn out. Harder than I thought to cook a good egg. Bacon’s done.”
Bacon was burned. “Scrambled works.” He opened a couple of drawers, made a mental note to get some screws and wood glue, and took out forks. After opening three cabinets, he found gold-rimmed white china plates. He raised a brow as he put everything on the glass-topped table under the window. “Your version of paper?” He shut the window as raindrops dotted the glass table.
“Absolutely,” her lips twitched, and her eyes twinkled. The arrow in his chest vibrated. “I’m practically camping.” The doorbell rang as she was beating the living shit out of the eggs. “That must be Marcel.”
Cruz rubbed his sternum as he observed her killing any hope of fluffy eggs by stirring the hell out of them on high heat. “Boyfriend?”
“Gardener-slash-handyman.”
Considering the jungle out there, the gardener was either incompetent or had yet to start the job. Cruz motioned to the whisk in her hand. “Go ahead. I’ll get it.”
Before she could respond, Cruz headed down the hall to the front door, Oso at his heels, nails clicking on the wood floor. Place was as dark as a cave. Needed lights. The dark-red flocked wallpaper didn’t help. He flung open the back door.
The guy was almost his height, shave off a couple of inches. Wiry. Late forties, with long unwashed, colorless hair, and, despite the driving rain, he stunk of old sweat and booze.