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  Despite his aversion to people, when it came to women Jace turned on the charm with a flip of the switch. He knew exactly how to get women to open their mouths and their legs. But he wasn’t selfish, not by a longshot. He left them more than satisfied while he collected information. Getting his rocks off was a bonus. For example, Chantal’s ex-girlfriend, Brittany—or was it Whitney?—was more than happy to give up Max’s photo, along with her panties. As far as Brittany/Whitney was concerned, the chance encounter with Jace was the sign she needed to “turn the page” as she referred to their tryst in the restaurant’s bathroom. Jace called it sucking his cock. Semantics.

  He checked the time and scanned the restaurant’s balcony while a waiter set a silver ice bucket and two champagne flutes on the table. Jace popped the locks of his case and lifted the lid, exposing his AK-47. He fisted the weapon and attached the silencer and scope before snapping the magazine into place. Jace flipped the latch on the window and opened it a few inches.

  Without the buffer of glass, the frenzy of the street invaded the room. He lowered one knee to the floor, brought the rifle to his shoulder and peered through the scope. Moist air of New Orleans blanketed his cheeks as a combination of sweat and beer from the street below accosted his nose. His gaze tracked on the restaurant’s entrance as Max and the familiar strut of his dinner companion stepped into his field of vision. Max held the door as she stepped inside. Jace narrowed his eyes as he watched Max ogle her sumptuous ass wrapped in a tight skirt, before throwing a glance over his shoulder. Brittany/Whitney mentioned Max’s suspicious streak. She had rolled her eyes as she recounted the number of times Max had said he’d had the feeling he was being followed and watched. His suspicions were not only spot on, they would also play a part in his demise because reserving the entire balcony not only ensured Max’s privacy, it also made Jace’s job easier by reducing the number of possible witnesses.

  After a few minutes the two emerged on the patio with drinks in hand. Jace assessed Max as he stepped to the edge of the balcony. He had a clear shot, a perfect one, but he couldn’t risk Max’s six-foot frame tumbling over the railing and landing in the crowd below. Creating a scene on the busiest street in New Orleans during Mardi Gras wasn’t Jace’s style. Plus, it would risk harming innocent bystanders. He was a hitman, not an asshole.

  Max’s date moved to his side and her wig of glossy black hair shown in the sunlight as it skimmed her bare forearms. Jace’s magnified view swept over her body, lingering on the swell of her full breasts and the curve of her hips. “Looking hot as usual, Black Widow,” Jace muttered. The slow heat rising in Jace’s belly turned to fire when Max’s hand snaked around her waist and pulled her against his body. Jace swallowed hard as she brushed her lips against Max’s and trailed her fingers around his ear. Max grabbed her wrist and moved her palm from his head to his crotch. Jace’s finger curled around the trigger as the urge to shoot the man’s fingers off one by one coursed through his mind. She pulled away and tugged him from the railing leading him to the table. Guiding him to the seat facing the street, she pulled the chair out, but Max’s palm covered hers as he made a gestured wave across the seat with his other hand. She hesitated before lowering herself into the chair and lifting her glass. “Shit,” Jace said with his sights on Max watching him as he commandeered the other chair and touched his glass to hers. Jace shifted and assessed his angle. From his vantage point he still had a clean shot at Max’s temple. It wasn’t ideal, Jace preferred to look his targets in the eye before pulling the trigger, but he’d get the job done.

  A drum boomed in the background, followed by a collection of horns, signaling the parade was on schedule and would pass in the next few minutes. As Jace expected, excitement buzzed from the crowd as a juggler in a flashing suit bounced up the street on stilts. Moving his attention back to the scene playing out on the balcony, he watched as she pointed to the street and pulled Max’s arm, coaxing him closer to her chair. Max shuffled his chair closer, but seemed more interested in the view down her low-cut blouse.

  The observation was confirmed when she leaned toward him and trailed her fingers along his collar to his neck. Max knocked her hand away as their lips touched, sending another sucker punch directly to Jace’s gut. If that wasn’t enough, Max shifted his body as her other hand moved toward his lap. Jace’s below the waist view was blocked by the table, but it didn’t take much imagination to figure out why Max leaned back in his chair. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Jace muttered, as Max cupped her face and pulled away from the kiss. Jace noticed the beads of sweat along Max’s forehead and temple as he tipped his head toward his lap and she nodded. “Jesus Christ,” Jace groaned and hooked his finger around the trigger, ready to blow the guy’s brains out if she dropped to her knees. Yeah, it would’ve been messy, but he preferred to deal with her wrath than watch her suck some asshole’s dick. His mood lightened when she lifted her index finger in a “just a sec” motion and swung her handbag over her shoulder. Leaning forward to give Max another boob shot, she slanted her lips over his before disappearing into the restaurant.

  “The kiss of death,” Jace whispered as he sharpened his focus on his target. Max’s new position put him back in range for a between the eyes shot. “Don’t move.” Jace steadied on Max’s forehead. Jace’s attention tipped to the restaurant’s street-level door as the parade came into view. His gaze toggled back to the balcony. Max glanced at his watch and then to the balcony door. Max and Jace had something in common, they were both waiting. Max for a blowjob, and Jace to finish the job he was paid to do. Unfortunately for Max, only one of them would be successful.

  Jace’s focus moved to the entrance again, willing the door to swing open. “Come on,” he muttered and held his breath before the familiar form dressed in shorts and a tank top left the restaurant and headed in the direction of the parade. The transformation from the Black Widow to his partner, Ursula Lyons, took a couple of minutes, but for Jace, they were the moments when his heart pounded the hardest. Her curly tresses bouncing around her shoulders as she disappeared into the crowd was his signal to fire at will.

  Jace’s attention returned to the balcony, resetting his aim on Max as his finger tightened on the trigger. As though Max sensed the target on his head, he scanned the building façade, his stare steadying on the open window. Jace recognized the flicker of understanding as he opened fire and a single bullet zoomed silently above the parade and lodged itself between Max’s eyes.

  Jace slid the window closed, returned the chair to its place under the dressing table and packed the rifle into the case before heading down the two flights of stairs. He stopped at the front door and peered out the window at the backs of heads because all eyes were exactly where he wanted them: directed toward the parade. He turned the knob and slipped outside, closing the door behind him, and tugged the brim of his hat down to shield his eyes.

  Chapter Two

  The purr of a boat motor combined with the sound of waves lapping at the sides of fishing boats filled his ears as Jace took a deep breath of marshy air and strode to the end of the dock, passing the old vessels tethered to rusty hooks. His forty-two-foot cabin cruiser stood out like a new Rolls Royce in a junkyard. Dropping his case on the cushioned seat of the stern, his gaze caught Ursula’s sun-kissed legs at the other end as he stepped onto the deck. “Ready to roll?” he called. His question was answered with a thumbs-up as he untied the line, freeing the stern and climbing to the bridge. Jace wrapped his hand over the throttle and brought the boat to life.

  Ursula climbed to the bridge. “I put the trombone away with your other instruments.” Her sultry voice rumbled through his body and settled deep in his belly like a delicious mix of warm honey and Southern Comfort.

  Jace nodded. Leave it to Ursula to add levity to the last step of a hit, the escape. She liked to compare his arsenal of guns to musical instruments. His sniper rifle was a trombone, his handgun a trumpet, and the semi-automatic pistol concealed under his pant leg,
a piccolo.

  “Don’t you owe me a thank you? And I don’t mean for putting away the rifle.”

  Jace cleared his throat and cast his gaze toward the river. “Why am I thanking you, Urs?”

  “Why? I got him into position for you, even after he wouldn’t sit in the right chair. At first he acted weird, especially when I tried to touch his head.” She shrugged. “Most guys love having a girl run their fingers through their hair. He must’ve had hair issues or something because when I moved off his head, he was like Play-Doh in my hands,” she said with a chuckle.

  A barbed ball of fire wedged in the corner of his gut as he recalled Ursula’s performance on the balcony. “Getting him into position was your job and you seemed more than happy to play with his dough,” he said evenly.

  She crossed her arms. “That was crude, even for you, Jace.”

  He shrugged. “You went a little overboard.” He regretted the words after they left his mouth. She played her part perfectly, always did. Jace couldn’t ask for a better partner. It wasn’t Ursula’s fault his emotions crossed the line, even though he would never allow his body to follow. Jace’s issue was exactly that: his issue.

  She barreled to her feet and knocked his shoulder, forcing him to meet the daggers flying from her eyes. “I don’t tell you how to do your job. Don’t tell me how to do mine,” she spat and started down the stairs to the deck.

  “Fuck,” he muttered. “Ursula!” he yelled over the boat’s motor. He was the one who went overboard. What the hell was wrong with him?

  Her footsteps stopped halfway down the stairs. The wind swirled the mass of curls around her head as she turned around. Were her eyes glistening? Impossible. Ursula Lyons didn’t shed tears. She was a female version of himself—cold, hard, and ruthless. But, like him, she took her work seriously and his comment was out of line. Ursula did what was necessary to get the job done, even if it was stroking the target’s hard-on. He shook his head, erasing the vision from his mind. “You’re right. You did well tonight.”

  He watched her chest rise and fall with a deep breath before she nodded and the mask of ice fell over her features. “I know.” She continued down the stairs. Seconds later the cabin door slammed breaking the lazy river sounds and sending Ursula’s message loud and clear. She wanted to be left alone. Jace cut back on the throttle, slowing the speed before leaning back and lighting a cigarette. The tip glowed orange as he pulled a calming drag and his eyes tipped to the empty chair. Ursula had always kept him company on the long ride from New Orleans to Baton Rouge. But compliments of his big mouth, it looked like he was without his co-pilot during this trip.

  Jace usually read people like a book, especially women. One look was all he needed to know exactly what they were thinking and, most importantly, how to get them to do what he wanted. This was true for most women, except Ursula. From the day they met, she’d been a mystery. As soon as he thought he had her figured out, she changed gears and he was back to clueless. Jace’s gaze hit the reflection of the moon dancing over the wake as the bow slowly sliced through the water. He could get to Baton Rouge faster with a flick of the throttle, but it was a risk he wasn’t willing to take. The least amount of human interaction the better, especially within a few hours after the hit. He figured cops were swarming the restaurant and immediate area which could include the waterways leading out of New Orleans. The high-profile target was sure to garner headlines for days to come and the authorities would be under pressure to wrap up the investigation so the tourists could continue spending money during the city’s biggest event.

  Jace navigated the boat up the river in silence for an hour, or maybe two, keeping as close to the river bank as possible. He shifted in the helm chair. They were still at least forty miles from Baton Rouge and he had to hit the head. Exhaustion weighed on his shoulders like a wet blanket and he had little energy to deal with Ursula’s wrath. The last of the adrenaline had finally escaped his system, leaving him with a headache the size of Jupiter, but nature called and he was forced to listen.

  Had he not opened his big mouth, Ursula would’ve ridden shotgun and could’ve taken over while he took care of business. Now he was forced to delay their trip so he could take a piss. Jace threw the throttle into neutral, allowing the boat to drift on its own. He shuffled down the stairs, curled his hand around the cabin door and gave it a tug. “Damn it, Urs,” he muttered and rapped his knuckles on the door followed by pounding of his fist. “Open up!” he called.

  Nothing. He grumbled and wondered why women held onto grudges like men did their high school varsity jackets. He moved to the platform at the end of the stern, unzipped his pants, and began to add his personal contribution to the Mississippi River. His ears perked at the click of the door.

  “You can’t imagine how much I want to kick you in the ass right now,” Ursula’s voice rang from behind.

  “Actually, I can,” he replied as he planted his feet further apart and continued. He would’ve kicked his own ass if it were possible.

  “What are you doing?” Her voice moved closer, louder.

  “Men piss standing up, Urs. Do I have to teach you everything?” He couldn’t resist the comeback.

  “You’re such an asshole. Why are you doing it out here?"

  He finished and zipped up before turning around. “The door was locked and you didn’t answer my knocking. It was either the river or my pants. I chose the river.”

  She wrapped a throw blanket around her shoulders. “I didn’t hear you. I was sleeping like the dead. I’m just so fucking tired.”

  “Yeah, me, too. Mind if I?” he asked holding up his hands and she sent a limp wave toward the cabin.

  After washing his hands and splashing cold water on his face, he pulled a couple of beers from the mini-fridge and carried them outside to find Ursula curled up on a cushioned bench. His gaze trailed to the ends of her curls sweeping over her bare shoulder where the blanket had slipped down her arm. As though sensing his presence, she turned to face him. Even in the dim light shining from the opened door of the cabin, he noticed the dark circles under her eyes which matched the same ones he spotted on his face in the bathroom mirror. “We both look like shit,” he said and collapsed onto the bench. He twisted the cap from each bottle and handed her one.

  A half-smile appeared on her lips as she accepted the beer. “Thanks.”

  “What’s going on, Urs?” It was a loaded question. He knew it as it left his lips, but he needed to know what was floating around in her head because he hadn’t a fucking clue. She was wound tight lately. They used to have an easy rapport. He’d spent many nights exchanging quips over beers with Ursula after a hit. It helped him feel more human and less like a cold killing machine. Although, the more time he’d spent with her, the deeper he found himself getting lost in her eyes and feeling too much. He caught himself wondering how her body would feel under him more than he wanted to admit. However, he didn’t have the luxury of exploring any of his fantasies where Ursula was concerned because crossing that line would be a death sentence for them both. Emotions didn’t mix well with his career. He learned that the hard way years ago and would never again make the same mistake. Instead, he shoved his feelings away and settled his sexual frustrations with mindless trysts and his own hand. He couldn’t afford to lose his razor edge which was guaranteed to happen if he opened his heart and pulled her inside.

  Her gaze was like a punch to the gut. The woman who only hours ago led a man to his death with ice running through her veins now appeared as fragile as spun glass. “What’s going on?” she repeated. “Nothing.” She took a deep breath and narrowed her eyes. “Everything.” She picked at a loose end of the beer label with her fingernail before facing him again. “What happened up there? Why’d you go off like that?”

  “I don’t know. Just tired, I guess,” he lied.

  “I don’t think so.”

  Even though Ursula’s mind was a complete mystery to Jace, she seemed to always read his thoughts. As m
uch as he denied it, most of the time she was spot-on. He knew she wasn’t about to let it go so he asked, “Okay, since you seem to know. Why don’t you tell me?”

  Her shoulder brushed his with a shrug. “I think you’re jealous.”

  He took a long pull of his beer. “Jealous of the dead guy?”

  “Jealous of the attention I gave the dead guy before you killed him.”

  “Interesting assumption, but impossible. I don’t get jealous,” he said wondering if saying it out loud wouldn’t only convince her, but himself as well.

  “I think that’s impossible.”

  “Not for me. I’m wired differently.” He stared into the murky depths of the middle of the river, feeling the weight of his words.

  “Why? Because you’re a hitman? Because you kill people for a living means you can’t have feelings towards another person? You don’t kill nuns and school teachers, Jace. You shoot bad people who are a danger to others. You’re doing something good.”