Christ.
He pulled his gaze away and laid back, staring up at the ceiling. He ran a hand over his face in frustration.
Last night, just after seeing Annabelle to her room, he’d received a phone call. He’d stepped away from the hall door, further into his room, to take the call.
His handler had a job for him. He wanted to meet the next night to give him the details. Jack agreed, contingent on his particular terms, as he always did. The handler was accustomed to this and the deal was made. Jack hung up and five hundred thousand dollars was deposited into a special account.
Jack had re-pocketed the phone and taken off his gloves and head wrap to run a hand through his thick blonde hair. Then he’d stood there at the windows, staring out over the vast mini-world that was The Big Apple.
And he’d felt lonely. Lonelier than he had in a long, long time.
He wanted to talk to Annabelle. She always pushed his loneliness away. She never failed to fill in the spaces inside of him that otherwise threatened to fill up with darkness.
With a set of his jaw, he determined to go to her and talk about what was going to happen the following morning.
Without heeding the distinct possibility that Annabelle could already be asleep or even be in the shower, and without even knocking, Jack had gone through their adjoining door and into her room.
All intent to discuss their current case flew from his mind the instant his eyes fell upon her naked form, silhouetted by the city’s sky line in the background.
She turned to look up at him and he’d seen the solitude in her own eyes. At that moment, every last shred of willpower and discipline dropped away from him, leaving him bare and vulnerable to the furious need burning through his blood.
There was no hope for him. And none for Annabelle.
It was a mistake, and he knew it, and he just didn’t care.
Now, as he gazed up at the tiles above him, he pondered that mistake. He would do it again in a heart beat. Without a second thought. And it would still be wrong. Not for him. Not wrong for him, at all. But for Annabelle.
He knew her well enough to know that she would feel guilty. She would beat herself up over this night as if a scarlet “A” had been burned into her chest. She wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye and that, right there, would be his undoing.
There was only one way to rectify this situation and that was by telling her the truth. Which truth did he tell her first, though? There were so many things he was keeping from her. There was the truth about his “marriages.” There was the truth about the men he’d hired to watch over her. The truth about how much danger she was in for even knowing him, much less liking him.
No. He mentally shook his head. Each of those would only make her hate him. She was a passionate woman. He’d seen her anger and knew how long she could hold on to a grudge. He couldn’t bring himself to be on the receiving end of that ire.
Oh, no? A little voice inside of him taunted. You would rather have her hate herself than hate you, eh? Coward.
Jack narrowed his gaze at the annoying conscious inside of him and mentally cursed.
Christ. What a bloody mess.
And to make matters much, much worse, now that he knew what she bloody-well felt like under all of her bullet-proof armor, there was no way in hell he was going to be able to concentrate enough to keep them safe over the next several days. Not only were the Colonel and some unknown second hired gun out to ensure their unfortunate demise, but Jack had a bloody, god damned job to do that night!
Life had become a circus and he felt like a ring leader dressed in big red shoes, carrying a flashing neon sign that read, “Royally F.U.B.A.R.”
He took a deep breath and let it out through his nose.
Annabelle stirred beside him. He rolled over onto his side, gently laying his hand on her small hip once more.
“Jack?”
“Yes, luv,” He found himself lowering his lips to her ear. He felt her shiver.
“Cold?”
“Why are you guys always asking me that?” she said, a hint of teasing in her tone.
Jack blinked. Us guys? What did she mean by that? But any concern he had for her words was quickly overshadowed by the realization that there was not a hint of self loathing in her lovely voice.
Before he could say anything, she yawned. When she was done, she stretched lazily beside him, like a long, lithe cat. “I’m hungry.”
Again, he blinked.
She wasn’t going to hate herself? She wasn’t going to hate him?
She rolled over to face him and, covering her mouth, she arched her brows inquisitively and asked, “You gonna stare down at me like that all day?”
He didn’t know whether to laugh that she was so courteous as to hide any hint of morning breath from him or to simply stare down at her all day, as she had suggested.
“Course not, luv,” he finally replied, his lips curling into a wicked smile. A hint of something nefarious flashed in his deep blue eyes.
She narrowed her own. “Don’t even think about it. Get out of bed and order some room service.”
The smile became a grin, flashing perfect white teeth. His grip tightened where it rested on her upper thigh. Hell, if she wasn’t going to hate him, he was bloody well going to take advantage of it.
“Now, Jack.” She lowered her tone to a dangerous level and defiance flashed in her own beautiful eyes.
He laughed out loud and rolled away from her, leaving the sheet behind.
When he did, Annabelle caught sight of the tattoo on his left shoulder. She had never seen it before. She’d never even seen his un-clothed back before, in all honesty. Before last night, she’d had no idea that the few scars she’d seen on his arms were much more plentiful across his abdomen and chest. As strong and sculpted as it was, his body frankly looked as if it had been to hell and back.
Her mother had once told her that each scar on a person’s body had a story to tell. If that were true, Jack’s body could fill a few volumes.
But the scars didn’t bother Annabelle. Not in the least. It was the tattoo that gave her pause.
It was an “81”, with a strange ring that looked like a thorny Celtic knot wrapped tightly around it. The tattoo, itself, even bore a scar. Just another of Jack’s near misses.
Which meant that he’d had it for a while.
Annabelle watched the assassin get out of bed, pull on his pair of jeans, and move to the phone that hung in a mounted cradle on the wall.
“You’ve been holding out on me, Jack.”
Jack turned to her, the phone in his hand. His brows were drawn. “What, luv?”
“How long have you been a Hell’s Angel?”
Jack’s eyes widened, almost imperceptibly, and his lips parted. Then recognition dawned on him and he looked to his left shoulder. As if realizing that he couldn’t see the damned tattoo from this vantage point, he lowered his gaze and took on a thoughtful expression. Then he put the phone back in its cradle and very slowly looked back up at her.
“A while.” He said, softly.
Annabelle watched him for a moment, their gazes locked inexorably together. And then, with tremendous will, she pulled her own gaze away, rolled over, and got out of the bed. She left the sheet on the mattress, figuring that there was no longer any part of her body she needed to hide from Jack Thane.
Without a word, she bent and picked up her clothes, piling them into one arm so that she could pick up her boots in the other. In harsh contrast to what normally happened when she was troubled, her mind was not filled with a multitude of racing thoughts and fears. Only one thought now presented itself to her.