His Princess (A Royal Romance)(81)

“There’s a water restriction, by the way,” she says haughtily, turning up her chin. “You’ll probably get a ticket for violating the water conservation rules.”

“Ooh.” I make a little motion with my hand. “I’m scared. Not a ticket!”

She huffs and crosses her arms harder, wriggling in the seat. Her face keeps turning red.

I stop at a stop sign and wait.

“I don’t know where I’m going.”

“Dentist’s office. It’s in town. I’ll tell you where.”

I nod.

Then I put the pedal to the floor.

The acceleration throws her back into the seat and she screams, sliding across the bench. I feel her hands on my chest and ease off the gas, grinning. She sits back, brushes her hair from her face, and glares at me.

“Are you crazy?”

“We’re going forty-five, Rose.”

“Don’t do that again,” she says, breathless, and sinks back into her seat.

“So you’re a dentist,” I say. “Fits your personality.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Besides, I’m not a dentist.”

“Dentists are sadists. Hygienist?”

“Sadists? Says the jackass that sprayed me with a hose for his own amusement. I bet you thought that was real funny.”

“Honey,” I sigh, “seeing you sopping wet, funny is the last thing that comes to my mind.”

She glares at me, pouting.

“You planned that, didn’t you? You just wanted to get me in the car. Well, people know where I am, so you better not try anything, and if you do—”

She whips out a can of Mace from her tote bag and holds it in her fist.

I sigh.

“You can put that away, I get the message,” I say smoothly. “Look, the hose thing was an accident. I’m trying to make amends. That’s all.”

“Right,” she says bitterly. “We’re almost there. Turn left.”

She points at a sign. “There.”

It’s just a house, but I guess most dentists’ offices are. I pull into the lot and she hurriedly fumbles her door open and steps out.

“Hey, Rose, you want a ride home?”

“No,” she snaps back, “I’ll take the bus. Thanks…” she trails off.

“Quentin. I’m Quentin.”

“I don’t care,” she says hurriedly, and then rushes inside.

I lean back in the seat and drum my fingers on the steering wheel.

Rose. An apt name. Something about her lights a fire where there’s been only embers for a long time. I can feel them swirling around hot in my stomach as the real heat kicks over and spreads. The image of her sopping wet in those clingy scrubs stiffens my dick.

She’s got a spark, too. Most girls just fawn over me and try to hop into bed. Normally I oblige them. A wise man once told me a good f*ck is like breakfast: never pass it up, you don’t know the next time you’re going to get it.

This one is less a good breakfast and more a fine wine.

God bless bitchy women.

I back out of the spot and roll away from the office, slowing when I see her sitting down behind the receptionist’s desk, a blank look on her face. She leans on her palm, sighs, and looks up, spots me, and turns away, her cheeks turning pink.

When I pull out on the road I lean back in the seat and shift so my hard-on isn’t so uncomfortable.

“Jesus, Quentin,” I say out loud. “You’ve been here less than a day and you’re already thinking about plowing the local milf. Get your shit together.”

Last thing I need right now is some girl…woman hanging around my neck while I sort out what the f*ck I’m going to do.

Rose may have her problems, but I’ve got mine. A crazy bitch tried to slice and dice me yesterday, and she’s probably not the only one hunting me.

She mentioned his name.

Santiago.

Santiago de la Rosa. The greatest assassin in the world, the Leonardo of killers, the Mozart of murderers. For years I was his protégé, learning his methods, drawing on his secrets. That girl—she called herself Lily—knew I was one of his. There were others. When he trained me, I was one of two. Myself and a girl, Samantha, about my age.

We were close.

Bad things happened.

Santiago has trained others. Killers. Some of the deadliest in the world. Poisoners who can kill from across the country, snipers who can drop a man at a thousand yards as easy as swatting a fly. Masters of a dozen killing arts.

They’re probably all going to be coming after me soon.

I’m a dead man. I will bring nothing but turmoil and suffering into the life of anyone I meet now, not that I was much of a catch before. I did all those one-night stands a favor ignoring their calls.

Connections are death. Form a human bond with somebody and it can be used against you, and worse, probably will. When I took up my mentor’s trade I became husband to death, brother to misery. I bought a fine life for myself at the expense of never waking up in a bed with the same woman two nights in a row. Never staying in the same house too long. Never fathering a child to bear my name or carry my memory.

I am become death.

It was a hard lesson I learned from Santiago. He taught me poisons, marksmanship, hand to hand, torture techniques, psychology, all sorts of things, but his last lesson was never to form any attachments. They’re a liability. A weakness.