Hard Limits(13)

"No buts, dear. You broke in. At least do us the courtesy of spending the evening with us. You and your date. There will be no jumping and escaping through the window for him. And mind the sheets. How many times do I have to tell you no boots on the bed?"

"We already ate. We aren't hungry," Paige hurried to explain.

"Since when is coming to have dinner about being hungry? Cocktails in two hours. The Shanes are here, and I've called the caterers. Come by the house to get decent clothes for you and your … gentleman."

And without waiting for a reply, the couple turned and left.





Chapter Five


Nico tried on the suit Paige had brought him. How the fuck he had ended up in this situation, he didn't know. Ah, yes. Hitman. Dracula's bride. On the plus side, no one in his right mind would search for him in suburbia, casually having drinks and dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Erlington while whoever had put the contract on him was still alive and kicking.

"Whose clothes am I wearing?"

"You know how some people keep an extra toothbrush on hand for visitors?" Paige said from the bathroom. "My mother keeps suits and ties. Just in case her concept of informal wear doesn't match her guests'. Well, not her guests' per se, but mine. She's in the business of bullying my friends into wearing appropriate outfits."

"So she keeps spare clothes on hand for reluctant guests?"

"Yep," Paige answered. "Appearances are very important, especially for newly well-to-do folks. Besides, you didn't think I was the only OCD weirdo in the family, did you? Are you sure you want to do this? You can still run for your life. I can tell them you did jump out the window."

"No, thanks. Just out of curiosity though …  How many have jumped out the window?" 

The bathroom door opened. She chuckled in that sexy, husky tone that had got them in this bind. "I don't keep track. Why? It bothers you that you're not the only one? Because I can assure you with one hundred percent certainty you are my first drug kingpin."

Nico turned to her and totally forgot what he was going to say. Who the fuck was that in front of him? Pencil skirt, light-pink sweater. Pearl earrings and necklace. Hair up in a classic Katharine Hepburn bun. Light makeup. Demure ballet flats. No piercings, smoky eyeshadow, or military boots, and the spiked choke collar had been replaced by a classy silk scarf tied around her neck. Gone was the hardcore Goth chick, and in her place a private-school, goody-two-shoes had emerged.

"Holy shit" was all that came from him.

"No kidding," she muttered, taking a step forward and smoothing the lapels of his jacket. "You look good, Escobar."

"So do you, Goth girl." He brushed his fingers over her mouth, where the piercings used to be. Her skin was so damn silken and her lips so soft, he couldn't resist leaning in and kissing her-which didn't make a lick of sense, but there it was. Suburbia was getting to him.

"Easiest way of getting my mom off my back, believe me." She caressed the gash over his eyebrow and frowned. "You should be resting. How's your side?"

"It's fine. I'm not up for any Cirque du Soleil tricks, but walking and sitting and keeping up a conversation I can manage." And he had to admit now he was rather intrigued. It was refreshing to feel normal and spend time with people who wouldn't stutter in his presence or fear he'd kill them if they spilled the soup. "Shall we?"

He opened the door, waited for her to walk out, and closed it after them.

Paige stood still, biting her lip, watching the doorknob, so he pulled at it three times to prove it was closed. "Okay?"

"Not quite." She smiled apologetically and pulled at it herself. "Otherwise I would have had to come back to make sure it was closed."

He had no doubt she would have. Not that he had any experience with OCD. A person in his line of work couldn't afford habits, much less predictable behavior.

The main house was very close, a three-story Victorian in what looked like a well-to-do neighborhood. Good cars. Sober, tasteful decor. The place was upscale, but not even close to what Nico was used to. After all, there was nothing like narco bling: diamond-decorated swimming pools, private zoos of exotic, almost extinct animals, and megalomaniac palaces plastered with kitsch and gold. He'd never thought having too much money was possible, but the cartel had changed his mind.

Once on the porch, she rang the bell, and turning to face him, unwound the scarf from her neck, revealing an angry red scar that went from one side of her throat to the other.

She stared at Nico, defiantly, her back straight. For some reason, it felt like a stand-off, so he stood his ground, never moving his gaze from hers. Her throat had been butchered. A knife was more lethal if used higher up-he'd seen it done far too many times. It was called "a second smile," a clean cut directly under the chin. Killing the victim in seconds. Her assailant had had other preferences in mind.