Have Gun, Will Travel (The Bare Bones MC #5)(57)

I called my assistant at the nursery to find out how things were going. I was pretending even to her that I’d had appendicitis—something that wouldn’t affect me too heavily later on, something that didn’t leave too many tracks to cover. You can imagine my guilt when she told me there had been an outpouring of gifts and cards from customers. Our entire office, she said, was crammed with potted orchids, cards, and balloons. At least a hundred people had come by to give something for me. Tears came to my eyes. She texted me a photo of our office. There was even a giant stuffed lemur from a customer who knew I loved lemurs. My religious training required that I feel horribly guilty over having lied. But really, now. Wasn’t being pursued by a cartel kingpin much worse and scarier than having your appendix out? I tried to keep telling myself that, but I still felt guilty that they were sending me cards when I was perfectly fine and sitting in an Adirondack chair in the middle of an English herb garden.

For the first time in my life, I felt genuinely safe and secure. There was no fence around Sax’s property, but I couldn’t see the closest neighbor, either. I could have sunbathed nude and no one—well, maybe a few hikers—would have seen me.

It was ironic that I felt protected and sheltered right when all of my senses should have been on high alert. In retrospect, it was my own lack of awareness that was my downfall. I’d always sort of been lost in my own little dream world, another thing the nuns used to chastise me for. I was out back with a copy of Men’s Fitness—the only reading material other than mineral handbooks worth my interest around there—while evil lurked in the f*cking bushes.

I was actually lying stretched out, my eyes closed, the upside-down magazine on my bare abdomen making a black and white imprint of a shirtless muscle man on my skin. I was drifting with images of Sax dancing in my brain. I still reeled with disbelief that I’d been collared by such a virile stud as Zane Saxonberg. He had that low, smoldering gaze I used to read about in romance novels. He had that dangerous aura that was balanced finely between brutality and kindness. I just knew he’d instinctively use the right amount of force in any given situation.

And his body. Ah, his body. My nipples poked the cups of my bra when I remembered him standing above me, his half-mast cock jutting from his fly, the beautifully carved six-pack of his abdomen. He had a healthy tan for an outdoorsman, a guy who probably went picking for rocks shirtless in the sun, or whatever it was mineralogists did. I even squirmed as I dared to imagine f*cking him. We were taking our time building up to that, which was fine by me. Like I said, Sax had great instincts, unlike me. He knew it probably would have freaked me out if he’d come on like gangbusters. I was skittish, unused to being dominated by such a macho stud. He was wise to take it one step at a time with me.

I realized I wasn’t just hungry for Sax’s cock in my *. My stomach was growling, so I stirred myself, swung my feet off the ottoman, put them on the ground.

That was when Tony Tormenta whipped the gag into my mouth.

I was so taken by surprise, his brutality nearly decapitating me, that I just spun on my ass on the chair. I wound up banging my tailbone on the dirt as he made a vicious knot with the scarf at the back of my head. Of course, I didn’t know it was Tormenta until he became satisfied with his knot and came to kneel in front of me. I’d seen him coming and going from the Flag clubhouse, doing business with Leo, banging a few of my friends. He’d made a pass at me once but I, and the others, had explained to him I wasn’t exactly a sweetbutt. We had to let him down easy, so I guess someone told him I was a nun, and he immediately backed off.

His real name was Anthony Tataglia, so he was of Italian extract, and somehow had gotten mixed up with the Sinaloans. His Catholic beliefs probably explained why he’d backed off of me. He wasn’t wearing that fake gold tooth grill today, just a single overly large gold chain above his LeBron James jersey. And boy, did I suddenly wish he had worn the grill, because his real teeth were now revealed in all their twisted, rotten, gnarled glory. Maybe the grill had corroded them.

“We finally meet again,” he said, his very voice dripping with venom. He had to swallow his spraying saliva, that’s how profusely he was drooling. “Now how can you be a nun if you’re banging that * Zane Saxonberg? Do you mean to tell me your friends lied to me? Oh, wait. You can’t answer me. You’re gagged. And your friends are dead.” He tried to laugh, but wound up choking.

Well, my hands and feet weren’t bound, so I leaped for my beer bottle, grabbed it by the neck, and brought it smashing down on his skull. It had the effect of a leaf falling on a boulder, and of course it didn’t breal into smithereens like in the movies. Rage overcame his face, his hand shot out to grab me by the wrist, and he twisted my arm behind my back so painfully I was seeing stars. I hadn’t been in many brawls in my life, but it sure seemed like he’d already sprained my arm. And I hadn’t even given resistance my best shot. I was on my knees already. I’d forgotten I was dealing with a trained assassin, and one who loved his job to boot.

“Bitch,” he snarled in my ear from behind me. He was fumbling for something in a pocket that turned out to be a zip tie. He easily zipped both my wrists together. While he was occupied, I made another desperate breakout attempt. I was rewarded with a giant kong on the head with something extremely heavy, metallic. I realized later it was the butt of a pistol.

At first, with no hands to break my fall, I nearly crashed face-first to the pebbles. But my inner strength, which was quite powerful and firm, helped guide me to my feet, and soon I was running. Something that felt like hot jam ran down the side of my face, seeping into the corner of my mouth. I ran for my shitty little cage with the idea that I’d slam and lock all the doors and scream as loud as I could with the gag in place.