Page 11 of The Rough Ride (Sanctuary, Inc. #3)

I llusia’s phone vibrated and shimmied down the couch pillow, landing on a purple seat cushion.

She set the bottle of cherry nail lacquer on an end table and glanced at the name on the screen. Pffft…he could kiss her ass. That dweeb military guy she’d been seeing the past two weeks? Let him ring a hundred times. Done with him. Idiot.

Plus, his breath was plain foul.

In just under a year, she’d contacted every veteran on her list. Most of them were losers as far as she was concerned.

She’d posed as a journalist looking to write a series on the military stationed in Iraq.

Almost all had given her necessary pieces of information like dates, locations, and even a few confidential conversations.

She collected facts, steered the small talk, asked questions, and laughed at their bad jokes and one-liners.

One thing she’d learned? Vets loved to talk about their time in the service once they had a few beers under their belt.

She’d followed up on vets as far as California, Nebraska, Texas, New York, and Louisiana. It had cost her a chunk of savings to trek that far, but she’d had to follow the names she’d found in her brother’s online journal, and that’s where they led.

And none of them had any idea they’d been selected for a mission greater than themselves. Every detail they’d revealed added to her cause, justified the means, and brought her another step closer to revenge.

Except for Sergeant Nick Flannery. A real tight-ass who hadn’t relaxed one iota until she instructed the bartender to keep the beers coming at twenty-minute intervals. She’d slipped a fifty in the barkeep’s tip jar as a thank you.

Even then, the first two beers hadn’t softened the good-looking sergeant’s tongue or demeanor.

He’d hardly given her the time of day, focusing on the music and ordering a cheeseburger platter.

Out of patience and running out of cash, Illusia picked up the third round of beers at the bar herself and laced his with a full dropper of Super Spanish Fly .

Not the cheap stuff. The trademarked brand with a money-back guarantee.

Not to worry—she’d needed a good boning, anyway.

She wasn’t a heathen. Of course, she felt bad when she read the directions on the bottle of aphrodisiac the next day.

Five drops would’ve been plenty to command his attention.

But she couldn’t stand there at the bar counting drops without somebody noticing.

And so, the sergeant with the broad shoulders, tasteful tats, who kept himself in shape, and was a gentleman? He’d been insatiable.

But he was a distant lover. He muttered that woman’s name when it counted, but she didn’t give a crap.

He’d stayed tight-lipped with his military stories but sure knew his way around a woman’s body.

And when the Spanish fly wore off, he’d passed out cold for hours.

She’d cloned his phone (just in case) and tiptoed out of the room with heels in hand minutes before dawn.

Illusia sighed. So sorry to see that one go. He was worth the effort and price of a DC hotel room.

She’d marked him hoping he’d think of her when he whipped that bad boy out the next time. Make him gun-shy with other ladies for a while. She smiled to herself. There was nothing wrong with being memorable.

She finished the second coat to her nails and waved her hands back and forth.

Shit. She’d forgotten to turn on the TV before she applied the polish.

Now, she’d have to miss half her show because the freaking remote always dinged at least one glossy finger.

These nails were important. She had to look professional.

She stood and paced. Getting primped and pretty for the business world sucked big time, but the bank account needed replenishment.

She couldn’t touch the offshore savings for a few more months and had to be careful with the identity theft.

The last thing she needed were detectives ringing her doorbell.

She had to blend in like the illusion she was and be a respectable renter in her gated condo community.

Illusia sighed long and hard. Sometimes, when she looked in the mirror, she couldn’t see the woman she’d been two years ago.

But that was the grief talking. She hadn’t spent nine months in the womb and a lifetime afterwards with a twin brother to lose him one day in supposed service to his country.

Not when his journal stated otherwise. And she’d located the decision maker who caused his death.

They’d pay with their blood.

She’d make absolutely sure of it.