Page 7 of The Vigilante's Lover

I hold fast to the woman’s ankle. What sort of spy is this? Vigilante? Counterintelligence? She isn’t trained like any operative I’ve ever seen.

Except one.

Jovana.

My anger burns hot at the thought of it.

Her honey-brown hair splays across a white pillow. Her terror is palpable. So real. Does she have some sort of mood enhancement capability? Her fright prickles my protective urges, and I have to stuff it down to maintain control.

Damn this vexation. I was at the highest pinnacle of the syndicate before Jovana. I’m not aware of this level of training. Now I’m out of the loop. Susceptible.

Her breaths are rapid and short. She seems on the verge of hyperventilating.

So convincing. Damn it.

“Tell me who you work for,” I bark at her.

Her eyes squeeze shut. “I don’t work,” she says, her voice raspy. “I was just watching out for my aunt.”

“Who is your aunt?”

Her throat moves as she tries to swallow. She’s good. I pin her ankle against my shoulder. This damn old-fashioned nightgown is in my way.

I flick my wrist, activating a hidden holster in my sleeve. A slender dagger falls into my hand. I slice the long skirt of her gown to the knee.

She gives a little yelp. Her face is pink, and her wide green eyes fasten on me. “My aunt is Beatrice Carina,” she says quickly. “She died two weeks ago.”

“Who killed her?” I ask, none too kindly.

“N-no one,” the woman says. “She had another stroke.”

“I assume you won’t identify yourself.” I grip her ankle in a vise that I know will bruise. To her credit, she doesn’t even wince. This element of her training is solid.

“I’m Mia,” she says. “Mia Morrow.”

I drop her leg to the bed and tug out the updated Identipad Sam packed in the case. It has been listening to the entire conversation and making cross-references. Paragraphs line up on the screen. I keep an eye on the woman as I scan it. She may be skilled in escaping silk-rope bondage.

Though it does look good on her. Something about the crimson rope on the lacy cotton gown makes my blood rush.

The year of enforced celibacy weighs on me.

Despite the information flashing across my Identipad, my eyes casually slide up her ankle, the slim calf, the smooth knee, and the beginnings of a soft thigh.

She makes me want to cut more of the gown.

But for now, I must assess her skills. She isn’t muscular or taut. So, not trained for military combat or fighting. Her talents must lie in her manipulation. Cunning. Mood-enhanced speech.

I am already distracted by her skin. Damn it to hell. They’ve sent another Jovana, another damsel in distress. False innocence. They think I will be that stupid again.

Rage blasts through me.

“You’re a liar,” I growl at the girl. The Identipad lists the owner of the safe house as Georgiana Powers, part of the Mason-Dixon syndicate. She vacated the house only six months ago.

The woman tries to sit up against the bonds, but fails, falling back. More thigh shows. I’m definitely distracted. They must have sent this one particularly for me. She matches my every preference in women. Honey hair. Petite. Skilled.

“Look it up in the paper,” she cries. “Her funeral was at the Baptist church. She was my only family.”

I ignore her prepared story, unmoved by its expert presentation. Mia Morrow comes up next, and this woman’s image. So she isn’t lying about that. But there is no history of her. It’s a blank slate. She’s wiped. No identification beyond her name and gender.

Just like Jovana.

I’m livid.

“You will talk to me,” I say, and slice the dagger through the white gown again. Now it’s slit high on her thigh. “Who are you, really?”

“Mia!” she cries. She pushes back against her pillow, as if she can escape me.

“Who wrote the letters?”

At that, she sags limply, her expression dropping into shame. “I did. I shouldn’t have. I—I led you on. I pretended to be K. Klaus.”

This makes me laugh out loud, ringing through the room with such force that the girl lurches away, banging against the headboard.

“Do you even know who Klaus is?” I ask.

She squirms against the wrist binding. “I assumed it was the woman you are in love with.”

I tuck the dagger back into my wrist holster and lift a polished shoe up on the base of the bed. I lean over, bracing my arm on one knee. I don’t know who this Mia girl is, but she poses no threat to me.

“Klaus is my partner. He came to this safe house to wait on my instructions. The letters were for him.”

“You—you like men?” she asks, still not understanding anything.

I drop my foot and come around to the side of the bed. She wiggles a little so that she can cross her loose leg over the slit in her gown, as if she is trying to preserve her modesty.

Whatever. I know how girls like her are trained. The innocent victim. They want to ensnare you, like a pool shark pretends to be a beginner.

But this one wrote me in my own code, which means she knew what she was doing, however pathetically she misinterpreted the knots.

I will show her I understand her game, and that I am not a Vigilante to be trifled with. We’ll end this little charade here and now.

I sit next to her. Her breathing speeds up again. The letters are still spread across the bed. I spot one with only a single line. “A new one?” I ask. “For me?”

She doesn’t answer, just watches with those green eyes. Vixen eyes. Looks like I’ll be ending my dry spell on this one before it’s over. Maybe I’ll let her think she’s seducing me, right till the end.

I pick up the letter.

“Let’s see,” I say. “What was on sweet Mia’s mind before she retired this evening?” I hold the paper to the light. “Mmmm. I like this. ‘You jerk my ankles apart with such strength that my gown disintegrates into tattered shreds around my naked hips.’”

I glance down at her thighs. “I say we give this one a go.”

Her eyes widen with shock. Such a well-trained little actress. I look forward to assessing her skill. What sort of maneuvers does she take pride in? I can already picture those slender legs wrapped around me.

I grasp the white cotton and tear it past her waist. Her hips are narrow in simple white panties. I finger the lace edge. Her breathing comes fast again. She’s so good at this. I almost believe it.

“Such pretty little underwear,” I say.

Her green eyes glisten with tears. So well done.

“Are you going to tell me you’re a virgin?” I ask. “I hope you know you can only do the hymen restructure surgery so many times before you lose feeling.”

Her mouth opens in a feigned oval of shock. As if she didn’t know.

“Your nightclothes remind me of one of my favorite books. Little Women. Have you read it?”

She shakes her head no.

“A pity,” I say. “Such strong women in that book. Do you consider yourself a strong woman?”

She shakes her head again.

“Too bad. Because we’re about to find out what you’re made of.”

When I rip another slice through her nightgown, she screams.