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“Not happening,” he told her as he dragged her toward the exit. A quick elevator ride, a fast stroll through the lobby, and they would be on the street. His black Porsche was there, and he would force her into the car. From there, he had no clue. Maybe he’d take her to his place or leave the city. They had to get away from here first, and without her causing a disturbance.
“I’ll scream,” she threatened as they stepped into the elevator. “I’ll kick or scratch you. I’ll shout so the desk clerk calls the police.”
“I don’t think so, Chica.”
As the elevator door closed, Javier hit the “stop” button. He pulled her to him and without any tenderness or finesse, he kissed her. His mouth took hers, his lips hard and harsh. Javier forced his tongue into her mouth, French kissing her until his dick stiffened within his jeans. Aroused, he pulled her tighter against him, his hands down below the fabric to stroke her breasts with one hand. Her wrap fluttered to the floor and he moved his mouth to kiss her bare shoulders, then nibbled at them. Another few moments and he would take her in the elevator, dominating her into submission. Using skills he’d honed as a preteen, he managed to pickpocket her phone out of her purse and slid it into his pocket.
One moment, he would have sworn she returned the kiss, then she wiggled out of his arms and slapped him across the face. “Get your hands off me, you murdering bastard!”
Javier took her into his arms again, this time with a tight grip she couldn’t easily break.
“You liked that,” he whispered into her ear. “Don’t tell me you didn’t. We’ll do that and more, I promise, but here’s what will happen. We take the elevator to the lobby and we walk out, holding hands or with my arm around you. If you want to live, you won’t scream or ask for help. We get into my car and we’ll go to my place. Then we’ll talk.”
Talk was the least of what he planned to do once they arrived.
He gazed into her hazel eyes, which had widened as he spoke. Without blinking, she stared back. “So, you’ll kill me if I don’t do what you want?”
Javier shrugged. “You said it, not me. Let’s go.”
As she retrieved her wrap, he started the elevator and as it descended, he gathered his thoughts. He ached to fuck this woman and would, but after that, he had no idea what to do with an eyewitness who could place him at the scene of a crime. She had the power to take him down and Javier vowed to do whatever necessary to prevent that. He wouldn’t kill her—not a woman—but he had to figure this out and soon.
“What’s your name?” he asked, as the elevator reached the lobby.
“Cecily Randolph DeLauncy,” she proclaimed as if it meant something. It sounded like royalty the way she pronounced it. “You may call me Ms. DeLauncy.”
“I’m Javier, Cecily,” he told her, ignoring her request. He linked her arm through his as they exited the hotel. Although he expected her to fuss, she didn’t. She walked, her heels tapping out a rhythm on the floor, head high as if she entered a ballroom or high-class event. Her manner made him almost feel he was wearing a tux, not black jeans, a black button-down dress shirt, a leather jacket, and Army boots. The rifle case he carried could have been a gym bag, laptop case, or even a briefcase.
At his car, she balked. “Where are you taking me? Are you going to kill me?”
“Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies,” he said. Javier glanced down the street and saw red emergency lights flashing by on one of the avenues. “Get in the fucking car and let’s go. Andale!”
Cecily pursed her lips into a pout and glared at him. “What if I don’t?”
He opened the passenger door and pushed her into the seat of his Turbo 922 Porsche. Javier clicked the seat belt harness into place so she couldn’t easily bolt. Without another word, he got into the driver’s seat and took off at speed, avoiding anywhere close to the hotel or the adjacent apartment building where he’d scored the hit. She shrieked as he took the next corner on two wheels and the tires squalled.
“If you’re taking me to some slum, I’ll scream until the police come,” she told him as she pounded her feet against the floor.
“Scream and I’ll slap you,” he said without any heat. He would, although he’d rather not mar that beautiful face with his hand. “Do you think a man with a car like this one lives in a motherfucking slum, Azúcar? Is there a brain above the pretty face?”
She folded her arms across her chest and glared. “Slap me and I’ll hit back. I’m not afraid of you, you loathsome piece of shit. I don’t scare easy.”
He admired her bravado but pegged it as false courage. She might think herself to be tough, but he’d grown up in a housing project in the Bronx. Javier learned to fight before he started kindergarten, got initiated into a gang by junior high, and changed paths by high school. Back then, which seemed like a lifetime ago, not less than two decades, Javier sought to be a hero, not a hoodlum. His military career had been intended as his way up and out of poverty, not his downfall into this high-dollar criminal life as a paid assassin. Becoming the man he was now made him hard, almost invincible, and unbreakably strong. Along the way he’d left behind his heart and probably his soul.
Javier laughed and it wasn’t a happy noise. “You’re terrified, Chica. That’s why your hands are trembling, and your eyes are big as a centerfold model’s tits. You probably need to pee and your tummy hurts. Your chest is tight, and your throat is choking with tears.”
As if proving his point, Cecily put her right hand over her abdomen. “I get stomach cramps when I’m stressed.”
“Just don’t puke in the car.”
Javier sped north on Madison Avenue, then careened onto East 65th for a few blocks until he turned onto First Avenue. After that, another few turns landed him on York Avenue within sight of the condo he called home. He parked the car, faced Cecily, and barked, “Stay here or I’ll ice you. There’s a reason they call me ‘Ice Man.’ I got something to grab. I’ll be back in five.”
His fee would be tucked beneath the chin of one of the elephant sprinklers in St. Catherine’s Park. At this hour, the park would be empty, no kids on the playground, no teens running the track, or playing basketball. No adults would be on the handball courts or using the climbing wall. Javier strode into the park, plucked the waterproof envelope from the beast, and resisted opening it there. In his early days, he always checked to see if the cash was inside, but he knew it would be. He could tell from the size and weight that the twenty-five grand in small bills was in place.
With the money tucked into one of the inner pockets of his Romano leather jacket, Javier jogged back to his car. Cecily remained in the passenger seat although her pretty lips twisted into a pout. He slid into the seat and fired the engine.
“Let’s go home,” he told her.
The woman sputtered, cussed him in fluent French, Italian, then English, and spit at him. The first two he could handle but not the last. Javier lifted his hand in time to catch the spew, apparently aimed for his face. “Don’t try that again, Chica,” he said as he wiped his hand clean with a linen handkerchief. “You won’t like the punishment.”
