Surviving Ice (Burying Water, #4)(25)

Is she thinking about me right now? I heard everything she said; I’m guessing I’m the “hot guy” she turned away today, whom she would have made strip. That makes me smile, because there was nothing about our encounter that would suggest she’d ever give me the time of day. It sounds, though, like she doesn’t give many guys the time of day. Or at least not a lot of time. I’ll have to be careful about how I approach her. I don’t want her getting bored with me before I’ve gotten what I need.

This, I can say for sure, has never happened to me. I’m letting my mind wander as I wait, her body tempting a weaker side that I have learned to suppress until now. That has frankly never threatened to sway me during an assignment, where I hunt threats and criminals, vile human beings that the world is better off without.

I do not hunt young, attractive—albeit sharp-tongued—women who pleasure themselves in bed in front of me, who cause me to entertain thoughts of slipping out of this closet and not leaving this house. Of walking over to her bed. Of her opening her eyes and reaching for me. Of my stripping and climbing onto her, tossing that wand to the side and finishing her off with my hands, or my mouth.

Or the dick that’s pressing hard against my zipper.

But I know that reality will not match fantasy, and that is not my purpose here, so I force down my urges and chastise my dick for even veering in that direction. And yet I still don’t look away when she closes her eyes and opens her mouth and arches her back and moans out a release, even though I know that would be the respectable thing to do.

I just f*cking can’t.

She simply lies there for a few minutes, those tits swelling with her deep breaths, until she calms down. Then, groping the mattress near her thighs, as if she has expended her last ounce of energy, she pulls the sheet up and over her body.

Ten minutes later, she is as still as a corpse, her breathing shallow and slow.

Easing the door open so slowly that it can’t sound a creak, I edge out of her bedroom, down the stairs, and out the front door, ensuring that I lock the dead bolt on the way.



Her boots stomp on each step as she drags herself down the steep front stairs to the Honda parked out front, a tall coffee travel mug gripped in one hand, a black case dangling from the other, oversize black glasses covering half her face. Reluctant to be awake, I’m guessing, even though she logged in at least twelve hours of sleep last night.

I know because I’ve been sitting in the backseat of my car and watching that upstairs front window since midnight, waiting for her to leave, like she told someone on the phone that she would. But the light didn’t come on until six this morning. I guess she must have been exhausted.

I reach back and rub the muscles in my neck. I drifted just once, for half an hour, when the clock hit four and it didn’t look like she was going anywhere. It’s never a good sleep, hidden under a black blanket in case anyone walks by and chooses to peer in, but it’s all I needed. Besides, this backseat is probably cleaner than the hole I rented—the walls shedding their floral paper and dark corners hiding roaches. It’s fine, I’ve barely been in it since I got to San Francisco. I went back last night only to shower, jerk off to thoughts of her naked on her bed, and change clothes.

Even now, the sight of her fully dressed has my heart rate quickening. I need to push away the mental images of her still burning in the forefront of my mind and remind myself that she is a potential target.

A threat that I might need to eliminate.

Based on what I overheard of the girl’s phone conversation, I assume she’s heading back to the shop now, to clean before her afternoon appointment shows up. That gives me a few more hours inside her house, to search through the filing cabinet for clues on other properties, rented deposit boxes, anything that could be used as a hiding place.

Her taillights flash red just as the burner begins vibrating in my pocket.

I slink down in my seat, not wanting her to spot me when she pulls out. She’d remember my face, and that wouldn’t be good. “What?” I don’t hide my irritation from my voice. Bentley knows better than to call. It’s against protocol.

“The house?”

“Negative, so far.”

“What’s taking you so long?”

I frown and don’t answer.

“The girl?”

“I told you I’d call when I had an update.” I slide down even farther, to a lying position as she passes.

“Then find a f*cking update to give me today.” He hangs up, leaving me both irritated and intrigued. This isn’t like Bentley. He always cuts contact until I’ve completed my assignment. It’s one of his requirements, to limit any dots from ever connecting him to my work, if I don’t cover my tracks well enough. He’s also never this impatient, trusting me to do my job swiftly and effectively.

It makes me wonder exactly what’s on that video.

But I need to not think about Bentley or the pretty girl, and the private moment that I was privy to last night. I need to focus on simply finding this video and completing my job.

I quietly count to ten, then make my way back to the house, promising myself to stay the f*ck away from her bedroom this time.





NINE


IVY


Dickhead.

I should have expected this. Ned always said these bikers operated on their own clock. They’ll book an appointment and then stroll in three hours later, expecting you to drop everything for them. Ned said the first time he got fed up enough to tell one of them to f*ck off because he had another appointment, he thought he was going to end up in a pine box by sundown. After that he learned to keep wide windows of time free around their bookings.