I’m standing alone at the edge of Robert’s property, enveloped in darkness, the moon masked by thick clouds. I’m going to have to climb a tree, so Blue can’t be here. There are some cases where four legs are not better than two. The scent of winter—frozen mud and wet snow—perfumes the cold night.
I lift the night vision goggles, surveying the old mansion again.
The tree is perfect for climbing—long thick limbs that spread wide, running nearly horizontally to the ground. It’s like a ladder of branches, conveniently placed beside the house for me climb it to Robert’s window.
The lawn I need to cross is exposed, though. The grass crunchy with night frost.
I’m wearing all black—my face covered in a black sheer stocking with holes for my eyes and mouth. It’s silky soft against my skin, letting the cold night air pass through. Simon likes it for night missions because it breathes better than the oil-based makeup alternative.
A sentry silhouetted against the well-lit home—whom I’ve been watching complete his circuits for the last thirty minutes—disappears around the side. I break into a sprint, pumping my legs and arms, using every ounce of speed I have, racing toward the tree.
My breath blooms in white clouds. My sneakers are quiet in the frosted grass. There must be motion sensors—they will know I’m here. But I hope by the time they do I’ll be in Robert’s room, and he will tell them not to kill me.
Why not just walk in the front door, why not just call? I’m his wife, after all.
That wouldn’t be “us.” No, I need to remind him why he loves me. Because I may be the only person who can kill him...and doesn’t.
I don’t slow as I approach the tree, but lengthen my stride, leaping up for the first branch. I catch it and swing my feet into the trunk. Then taking two steps up the bark, I swing a leg over the branch, getting the sole of my foot on it to pull the rest of me onto the thick limb.
Standing, I reach for the next branch and use the trunk again to swing up onto it. My breath comes in short pants as I reach for the next branch, my gaze casting to my goal—the second-story window of Robert’s study.
He should be sitting and reading at this hour. A pang in my chest reminds me that there was a time when I’d sit with Robert, my own book in hand, Blue and the puppies curled around me, reading in companionable silence.
I pad along the solid limb toward the window, the abundance of smaller branches shielding me from the outside world. The window is closed—warm yellow light spilling out into the cold night. Sweat slicks under my face covering.
Slowing, I crouch, peering inside. Robert relaxes in a large armchair, a book in his hand, a cut crystal glass on the side table, long legs crossed. The room is decorated in lush blues and greens. Bookcases line the walls. A fire crackles in the hearth. It’s all very rich man relaxes in evening luxury.
The window isn’t locked—it’s an old double-hung window and doesn’t look like it ever had a locking mechanism. I grip the bottom and lift.
Robert looks up, raising a pistol from his lap and aiming it at the window. “It’s me,” I say, pushing the window up high enough to climb through.
A smile breaks across his face as I leap lightly into the room. The indoor heat engulfs me, suddenly making me hot as fuck.
Robert stands, unfolding from the chair, his old grace back in full force. But there is more silver at his temples and woven into his neatly trimmed beard. He’s wearing elegant dark gray slacks and a white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up, top button undone—rich man relaxing chic.
Robert smiles at me like I’m a child and he my indulgent guardian. “Brock would be very angry if he saw you sneaking in my window.”
“He’d be humiliated,” I say, pulling off the face covering and pushing it into the back pocket of my black cargo pants. It’s basically the only pocket without a weapon in it.
“I hope you didn’t hurt any of my men.”
“No, I just snuck past them.” I start to unzip my black jacket. Robert’s eyes follow my movement. Underneath I’m wearing another black layer, this one a thermal.
Pounding steps in the hall pull my attention, but Robert’s stays riveted by my shedding layers.
“You could have come through the front door, you know you’re always welcome,” Robert says as his eyes trail back up my body.
I wait to respond until his eyes have reached my face. “It’s more fun this way.”
The door bursts open, three men spilling in, weapons up, faces grim. All the barrels trained on me. Robert holds up one elegant hand. “It’s fine,” he tells the soldiers. “Well.” He breathes out a laugh. “The fact that she snuck past your defense perimeter isn’t fine, but we will discuss that later.”
Brock appears behind the men and, seeing me, tightens his jaw so hard that I’m waiting for the sound of a cracking tooth. “Stand down,” he grits out. His men look confused and it’s cute—like a pack of fervent German shepherds unsure what to do with all those bared teeth and sharp claws. Go lie down by the fire, boys. Maybe Brock will give you a bone to chew.
They back out and Brock says something to them low enough that I can’t hear, then steps into the doorway. He’s wearing a black suit, shirt, and tie, looking like a real killer with that block-shaped head and dark eyes. There is murder in his gaze when it lands on me. “Sorry,” I say with a little smile.
“It’s always a pleasure to see you, Mrs. Maxim.”
I grin at the insult underlying his show of respect. He knows I hate when he calls me that. “Always a pleasure to evade your security.” I smile sweetly at him.
“You can go,” Robert says without looking at Brock. “We will talk later.”
“Yes, sir.” Brock closes the door behind him.
“You could have been killed,” Robert says. He’s smiling like that’s an inside joke between the two of us. And I smile back because it is.
“I’m always safe with you.”
His smile grows. “I’m glad you’ve come to realize that.”
“It wasn’t always true.”
“No, I suppose not. You look well.”
“You look a lot better than the last time I saw you.”
His eyes grow stormy. “Yes. I do.” Silence swells thick and tension filled between us. Last time I saw Robert he was in a coma from Simon shooting him. Last time I saw Robert his life was in my hands—as his wife I had every right to pull his plug. To end him. But I didn’t. Which means Robert kind of owes me.
“You know I’m here because your protégé, Richard Chiles, is way out of hand.”
“Is he?” Robert turns, giving me his back, and strolling to a bar built into one of the bookshelves. The firelight gilds his white shirt.
“You know Joyful Justice didn’t black out New York City.”
“Do I?” he asks as he opens a decanter, the crystal clinking in that way that crystal does.
“Are you playing dumb?” I let out a short laugh. “Robert, we both know if there is one thing you’re not, it’s dumb.”
He pours caramel-colored liquid into a glass and replaces the top, turning back to me with it in hand before responding. “I’ve done dumb things.” He holds the glass out to me.
I cross to him, getting within arm’s reach, to take it. I sip. It’s rye, neat—spicy and sweet fire.
“Me too,” I admit. And I may be about to do another. But I’m out of fucks to give.
He holds my gaze and his head cocks slightly to the side as if he’s seeing something new there. Something different. And he is. He’s seeing me, accepting me. Accepting that I’m not like other people and that’s okay. It’s not just that I’m a killer.
“What do you want?” he asks, interest infusing each word.
“You,” I answer, my voice clear, strong. Sure.
He doesn’t stutter, doesn’t question, just drops his glass. It thuds quietly onto the carpet as Robert’s hands—those long-fingered, elegant, deadly hands—grip my hips, spinning us so that I’m pinned against the shelving. Books tumble off, thunking onto the thick carpeting next to the spilled Rye. My glass joins them. Robert hovers above me, his eyes searching mine, narrowed and seeking.
His upper lip raises into a subtle snarl before crashing down on mine. My hands wrap around his neck, holding him close. Breathing him in, his scent makes me dizzy, his kiss makes me crazy. It makes me wanton and desperate. I moan into his mouth, arching my body into him. Robert hauls me even closer with an approving growl—a sound that vibrates through his chest.
His lips leave my mouth and nip my jaw. A hand in my hair—when did it get there—turns my head so that he can pull the lobe of my ear into his mouth. He bites down hard enough to make me gasp.
“You want me?” he asks, his voice rough and almost cruel.
“Yes.” It’s not a lie. It’s not remotely untrue. “I’ve wanted you for a long time.”
“Good.” His grip in my hair tightens, stinging, bringing tears to my eyes. But it doesn’t hurt, it just heightens the maddening sensations racing through my body. “Beg me.”
“Never.”
He chuckles again. “Never say never, Sydney Rye.” Shivers chase each other down my spine. I grip his hair and pull his face around, capturing his lips again. He bites me. Hard. I like it way too much.
Pressing off the bookshelf, I push him away. He lets me, following my lead as I move us toward the chair he was sitting in. The backs of his knees bump against it. He sits, dragging me onto his lap. I straddle him, lording over him. But his hand sneaks back into my hair, sinking into the strands to cradle my head and hold me where he wants.
I pull back to catch my breath. Robert Fucking Maxim. He stares up at me, his chest heaving, eyes so fucking bright. They narrow as they flick over my face.
“You look good under me,” I say, my voice hoarse.
His lips split, teeth flashing. He uses the hand in my hair to pull me into another kiss. I fall into him. Fall into this…this thing I’ve wanted for so damn long and never let myself have because I was afraid of what it made me.
A slut, a whore, a dirty something I never wanted to be. Taken advantage of, tricked…as if fucking a man is giving him something instead of taking what I want.
So many lies about what a woman ought to be. Ought to want. But I don’t need to be afraid of what Robert Maxim makes me. I make me. I choose me. My wants. My needs. My desires.
And anyone who has a problem with it can go fuck themselves.