Page 6 of Devil's Claim

If I allowed her to work, maybe she’d remain silent. At this point, I needed to think about how to handle this. It was obvious having only three soldiers with me didn’t create decent odds. Still, there would likely not be another opportunity to get so close to the Moroccan without starting a war.

“Finish,” I told her.

After taking several gulps of her wine, she snatched the rounded paddle off the table, jabbing the edge into the bowl of icing. Every few seconds, she darted a glance in my direction.

I repeated her name in a dark whisper, allowing the syllables to stimulate my tongue. With my soldiers still on the street, I shouldn’t be enjoying the show, but I couldn’t help myself and it had been a long time since I’d tasted a woman.

The heated kiss had left a faint hint of strawberries lingering in my mouth, her soft lips leaving a burning desire swelling my balls. There was no reason for me to be lamenting my previous choices in women, yet bad things tended to happen when innocent women got involved with a killer like me.

Seconds later, she hissed and lifted her head. “Look. Either kill me or put the gun away. I meant what I said about this goddamn cake. I need to finish it. I know what I said earlier about my friends, but I do care about the bride, who happens to be my bestie. I’m only doing this for her. I really don’t have the money to be doing it again. So please, make your decision which. The buttercream frosting won’t maintain this balance for long. Not that you care about balance. Right? I can only imagine what you care about.”

Her chest rose and fell, which pushed her taut little nipples poking through her thin shirt. My eyes were drawn to them and she glared at me. Even her beautiful nose wrinkled.

“Rude,” she muttered as she jerked the shirt out with one hand.

She was feisty, but no match for me.

I shoved the gun behind my waist under my belt and threw back the tequila. The burn was decent enough. I’d come to enjoy the liquor since arriving to the city. Three fucking days had passed until an opportunity had presented itself to have a long chat with Fassi’s mistress. Some small part of me had hoped the worthless fuck had remained in town, eager to rekindle what I’d been told was an ongoing romance.

The Moroccan Cartel leader had learned even more caution since a billion in precious jewels had been ripped from his coffers. A brutal dictator, he’d almost destroyed the fortune and taken the life of the man I worked for, Jago Torres.

The bad blood hadn’t stopped there. He was out for our territory and that simply wouldn’t be allowed. The search for the mistress would continue.

While Christine worked, I studied aspects of her precious life. You could tell almost everything you needed to know by how a person lived. Shabby chic wasn’t the term I’d use for her apartment. While her furniture matched, the upholstered sofa and chair certainly not threadbare, they’d seen their better years a long time before. There was no appreciation for style including with what little she had for entertainment. Her television was small, with no surround sound or even a set of cheap speakers.

I had a sense she’d been forced to occupy the space quickly.

She’d been through some shit in her life.

What did it matter? I shouldn’t care one way or the other.

But I couldn’t help myself.

For that one precious moment when our lips had been sealed, I’d felt something that hadn’t occurred in a very long time.

I’d felt alive.

So much so, I’d risk much of what I owned to do it again. Christine caught my attention when she tugged strands of hair behind her ears, hunkering over as she stuffed a pastry bag full of the frosting. Everything about her was delicate, including her long fingers.

I chuckled and glanced at the side of the refrigerator. There were magnets everywhere holding various scraps of paper and flyers from various restaurants. Every one of them had been haphazardly placed as if in a hurry except for a single item. The crisp white note card had four perfectly centered small magnets holding it in the center of the panel.

Curious as to what had garnered special attention, I walked closer.

An invitation.

But not just any invitation.

One hosted by Tonya Cordello, Fassi’s mistress.

The date of the party?

Tomorrow night.

The coincidence wasn’t acceptable. I took two long strides and grabbed Christine by the arm, forcing her to drop the pastry bag. As it skittered across the floor, she gasped in true fear and shock.

“What… What? What?”

“Tonya Cordello,” I growled between clenched teeth.