I wandered up the wide-open staircase, stumbling because I still couldn’t tear my eyes away from the view, and then took the door he instructed.
Of course the room was gorgeous. It was all white—white walls, white bed, white canopy, white curtains billowing in the breeze because the sliding glass doors were open letting in the sound of the waves. The only color was from the dark hardwood floors and the view. I peaked briefly into the bathroom, which was all white marble and chrome fixtures. Not wanting to waste another minute, I dumped the contents of my bag onto the bed, scattering the clothes all around, and found a pair of loose white linen shorts and a fitted black T-shirt.
I changed quickly, only pausing for a second when I pulled off Charming’s shirt to replace it with mine, and then I left the room barefoot, padding down the hall to another bedroom, the master, and pushed open the partially closed door.
The room was almost all white too, but his bed was much bigger and the trim on his bedding was black. I didn’t bother to snoop around, I just tossed his shirt onto the bed and then hightailed it back downstairs so I could get outside.
Charming was standing by the back door, a new pair of jeans riding his hips and making his ass look like he should be an underwear model. Apparently it wasn’t just one pair of jeans he looked good in, but all jeans.
He turned when I stopped behind him. He was wearing a Lucky Brand T-shirt the same vibrant green as his eyes. A pair of aviator sunglasses were pushed up on his head and he was rocking a five o’clock shadow.
His eyes started at my toes and raked up, lingering on my legs and then settling on my face. “Where are your sunglasses?”
“I guess my butler didn’t grab them.” I sighed. “Good help is so hard to find.”
He rolled his eyes and pulled the aviators off his head and handed them over. “Here, you’re going to go blind in that sun.”
“What will you wear?”
“I have more than one pair of sunglasses.”
Well, of course he did.
“Thank you,” I said, taking the glasses. I barely knew how to act when he behaved so, so… nice. If I wasn’t careful, I would fool myself into thinking he was someone other than exactly who he was.
“I have to go out. I have stuff to do,” he said, watching me closely.
Well, there went my previous thoughts. “I have stuff to do” was code for “I’m going off to murder someone.” I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at him.
“I don’t know when I’ll be back. Make yourself at home. I’ll leave the keys to the convertible on the counter.”
“You’d let me drive your car?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
I shrugged. He didn’t really seem like the kind of guy who liked to share.
“If you wreck it, you owe me a million dollars,” he said, winking.
I wasn’t charmed. I wasn’t.
“Don’t turn into a lobster while I’m gone.” He stepped away from the back door.
The reason he was leaving crashed over me all over again. Sharp pains cut through my middle. “As long as no one comes to murder me, I’ll be just fine,” I snapped coldly.
He stopped in his path but didn’t turn around. I saw him flex his hands at his sides. “I wouldn’t worry about that. All you’d have to do is open your mouth and anyone coming near you would run away as fast as they could.”
He started walking again, but I didn’t stand there to see if he looked back. I went out the back door, slamming it behind me. I wasn’t going to think about him. I wasn’t going to think about what he could be doing. I was going to take advantage of this beautiful place and not think at all. With any luck, the waves would carry away every single thought I had.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Kill - to deprive of life.”
Charming
The Target was a man. I didn’t get a huge folder of background information on him. Just his name, his whereabouts, and the fact that he was supposed to die. Frankly, I welcomed the fact that I didn’t have to learn anything about him. It seemed like such a waste of time to get to know someone who was practically already dead.
I didn’t even know why G.R. wanted him dead. It wasn’t for money or the job wouldn’t be an in-and-out type of thing. If he had an ability G.R. wanted for someone, he didn’t say. All I was supposed to do was complete the job and then call him so he could come collect.
Although, I really wouldn’t be surprised if this man had anything G.R. wanted. He was probably just some lame excuse to get me out of town and away from my real Target for a couple days.
I wasn’t even sure what he did with the bodies, with the souls of the Targets. Once we called and he came, our part was through and we left. I never asked him and he never volunteered the information. I never really cared. Until now.
Robert “Bobby” Salzman worked in the entertainment industry. In Hollywood, that could mean anything from blockbuster movies to adult films. Whatever he did paid him pretty well, judging from the size of his house and cherry-red Dodge Viper sitting in the driveway.
But he should have spent his money on better security. I pulled the motorcycle I “borrowed” into his driveway, leaving my helmet on but flipping up the visor so it only looked like I was too lazy to pull it off and not like I was trying to hide. I kept the leather jacket and gloves on and then unstrapped the pizza that I picked up from the local pizza joint on the way and carried it toward the door.
To any wandering eye, it would appear I was just the pizza guy delivering lunch. I made it to the front door and rang the bell. From what I knew, he lived alone, but I wasn’t sure if he was alone today, so ringing the bell would give me a chance to figure it out before I actually finished the job. It was never good when you realized there was a witness that you didn’t know about. Then your single Target became two. Yes, the rules were you killed no one but the Target, but when the job was compromised, exceptions were made.
He answered the door. I checked a housekeeper off my list of potential witnesses. He was wearing a bathing suit and no shirt. He smelled like tanning lotion and his skin was slick with the stuff. “What?” he demanded.
“Pizza delivery,” I said, holding up the pizza.
“I didn’t order a pizza.”
I read off the address—his address—on the order form attached to the pie.
“That’s me, but I didn’t order a pizza.”
“Well, I’m already here and no more orders to fill. Here,” I said, holding out the box, “on the house.”