Page 101 of Mercenary

“I’m promise you, my sister is trustworthy.”

“Then why did my enemies show up on my doorstep?”

I shake my head, not understanding.

He slowly polishes off his beer. I get the impression he’s waiting for me to speak. And with every sip, my hope that I’ll be able to resolve my sister’s issue fades.

“What can I do?” I still manage to prompt.

I study his face, hidden behind those damned mirrored glasses. Would I recognize him on the street without them? Without his hair slicked back and his expertly tailored suit?

“I haven’t decided yet.” He rolls his empty beer bottle between his hands. “Who chose Rome?”

“Excuse me?”

“On the list. Was Rome your choice?”

He carefully unfolds a piece of college-ruled paper, and my eyes widen as I catch sight of the familiar flowery handwriting and the purple ink used. I’m too stunned to take it, so he pushes the paper before me on the table. At the top, it reads bucket list. On the bottom are our signatures, Luciana’s drunken idea. “To make it official. That we’ll both be there each year, no matter what happens,” she’d laughed.

I stare down at the paper in disbelief. There are even silly smiley faces below each name. And listed on the paper are forty locales around the world, Cabo being the first, Rome the second, and so on. I have the list memorized—we both do, except for the last few places that I scribbled in that night while we sat around the bonfire. The same night all hell broke loose.

“Where did you get this?” I demand.

Hayden doesn’t answer. God, I’m getting used to the long periods of silence he’s so fond of.

I glance down at the paper. Why on earth would a man like him want to know about our bucket list? Unless . . .

“This list, is it just the two of you?”

I stare at him, dumbfounded.

“Any boyfriends invited?”

Oh sweet Mary. He’s positively livid at the thought.

“Anyone special? Someone she loves?”

I feel the deep V form on my forehead. Evidence of our friendship is right there; those smiley faces aren’t lying.

Holy hell. Not only does he know her . . . all his subtle, unsettling questions, the cuts, the other person involved . . . his odd comment, “Friendship has gotten you somewhere.”

“You’ll have to ask her yourself,” I say, fighting to keep my voice from straining under the weight of his stare.

He holds his stare a few seconds more, then grunts and grabs the paper out of my hand, folding it back up and putting it inside his suit pocket. “Luciana found a good friend in you. Answer this one question, and I’ll make you a deal.”

My eyes widen.

“Did she choose Rome?”

“Yes.”

It’s hard to believe, given the situation at hand, but he seems pleased. He nods as if he understands why country number two, Italy, is significant. I simply stare at him, this conundrum of a man, as he flips his wrist then glances at his expensive gold watch. A Rolex? Then he rises and stretches like a big, satisfied cat. “He’s located her by now.”

“Luciana?” I ask, still wondering about their relationship.

“Kylie.”

I almost tumble off my seat.