Authors: Natalie Dae and Sam Crescent
A Total-E-Bound Publication
ISBN # 978-1-78184-048-1
©Copyright Natalie Dae and Sam Crescent 2012
Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright July 2012
Edited by Stacey Birkel
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2012 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL, United Kingdom.
This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a
This story contains 144 pages, additionally there is also a
at the end of the book containing 8 pages.
Natalie Dae and Sam Crescent
Fallan and Bishop are thrown together when she’s his mark on an undercover government operation. Will he manage to tame the feisty redhead?
Bishop is a government agent, sent to prevent messes before they splurge into the news and wreck lives. His latest mission is to intercept a package before it gets into the wrong hands, and as he sits in a hotel dining room watching his target, he knows if he has to make her his first kill, he’ll be changed forever.
Fallan Jones is that target—an unsuspecting innocent sent to drop off the package in return for a free hotel weekend and ten grand to pay off her mounting debts. When sexy-as-hell Bishop follows her after she’s secreted the goods then forces her into his car, she realises she’s in a whole world of trouble.
Taken to his secret hideaways, Fallan finds herself overly attracted to the gorgeous Bishop and wonders if fear plays a part in how much she wants him. But if he’s going to kill her, she may as well enjoy great sex before she dies…
Other forces are at work, though—the government and the men who offered her the deal—and she’s a risk. If she talks, she’s dead. If she keeps quiet, she may still end up dead.
Their sexual affair turns into something more, though neither can afford to be with the other. But love is a strong emotion and doesn’t plan on letting them be apart. However, the government has other ideas…
It was a pleasure working with you, Natalie.
You’re an amazing writer and I look forward to many more projects like this.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Waitrose: John Lewis Partnership
Asda: Asda Stores, Ltd.
: Paramount Pictures
Mickey Mouse: The Walt Disney Company
Ford Mondeo: Ford Motor Company
Renault: Renault S.A.
Windows: Microsoft Corporation
Waterman settled more comfortably in his leather office chair. It squeaked until he found the right position. “Each woman will put the goods in the requested location. Each woman will receive ten grand for doing it. Each woman will live the rest of their lives thinking they got lucky. End of.”
Kemp sat opposite, swivelling in his seat, one foot on the floor, the other resting on his knee. “What if they look in the bags? We won’t know if they do.”
Waterman sighed. Kemp got on his nerves when he acted like this. “If they look and we find out, then they’re fucked, simple as that. We have all their addresses. We know which woman has what information. Anything leaks, it won’t take a scientist to see who peeked.”
“I still say it’s a risk.” Kemp pinched his beard-covered cleft chin.
Sunlight coming through the window behind Waterman made Kemp’s black hair shine. Waterman wished he had a full head of hair like that, instead of his bald nut. Still, he had everything else he could possibly want—money, prestige, the ability to put the fear of God into almost everyone. What was a bit of hair loss compared with that?
“No risk,” Waterman said. “They signed contracts not to open the bags. The people who want the goods think they’ll get them—that’s what they’re paying us for. They know there’s a risk of their misdemeanours being made public, but they think we’ll do our best not to let that happen. Frankie let the women know, in that lovely way of his, what might happen to people who poke their nose where it isn’t wanted.”
“Jesus!” Kemp shook his head. “Any one of them could go to the police if he’s used his usual threats.”
“Nah. He did it in the right way. Said it but didn’t, know what I mean? Got a way with words, that one. The lure of money means a lot to women like them. They’re all skint, all need to pay off a few bills hanging over their heads. Bailiffs coming to the door—amazing what ten grand can stop. Worry, sleepless nights, all that. The chance to start again. That’s why I picked them. They’re desperate, living on edge all the time. My offer was like a gift from God.”
Waterman leant forward, slapping his hands onto the desk. “Are you questioning me, fucker?”
Kemp sat upright, both feet planted on the floor. His face reddened, and he loosened his tie. “No. No, I just—”
“I just nothing, right? Those women were checked out. Thoroughly. I’d bet my old dear’s pearls not one of them will look in those bags. Now, if you’d rather I call the whole thing off and send
to deliver the goods, you’ve only got to say the word.”
Kemp snorted. “Fuck no.”
Waterman chuckled. “Didn’t think so. Don’t like the idea of the government sniffing about and finding you, do you? Them knowing you know what’s on those microchips?”
“No.” Kemp closed his eyes and shuddered.
“As far as they’re concerned, I don’t even know what’s on them, but, if I send you to deliver—because lately you keep querying every fucking thing I do—well, Frankie might let it slip you’ve looked on the chips, know what I’m saying? It’s easy for them to get rid of you.”
“Why are we even going through the charade of dropping the bags off when we’re sending our own people to steal them back? We’re not even keeping to our end of the deal. It would have been cheaper if you dropped them off, would save you paying the women. Why don’t you do it?”
“Why have a dog and bark yourself?”
“We need to make it look like someone else entirely has taken the goods from their hiding places, not us. Those government agent fuckers are dangerous to mess with.”
“I know, but—”
“There you go, then. Shut the fuck up.”
. He rolled the word around in his mind, testing whether it fitted. He quite liked it as names went. It wasn’t a bad one, better than some of the others he’d had, but it wouldn’t be his long enough to matter, anyway.
They never were.
He stared across the hotel dining room—with white cloths draped over round tables big enough to seat six—to the woman sitting in the far right-hand corner. She hadn’t clocked him watching her since yesterday—or at least he didn’t think she had—and ate her Beef Wellington in delicate morsels, gaze fixed into the far distance as though she had a lot on her mind. And she would have, if the other marks were anything to go by.
He looked at his own plate, the food there unappealing, and wished he’d opted for the Wellington himself. A pork chop—undercooked, the fat around the edge soggy and unappetising—seemed to mock him, the mashed potatoes next to it just as sloppy, just as stomach-churning. He pushed his plate aside and reached for a glass of water, catching a glimpse of his reflection owing to the harsh lighting from the chandeliers.
Bishop sighed. He appeared in sore need of sleep, those dark circles beneath his eyes the bane of his life. The inch-long scar on his cheekbone from an assignment last year had at last faded from deep pink to a paler shade, but it still marred his otherwise handsome face, still reminded him he’d failed.
The one who got away…
He grimaced, placing his glass on the table, turning it this way and that for want of something to do. Occupying his mind on occasions like this was always difficult—he watched, he noted, he waited, over and over again, until his marks did what he’d been told they would and he had to finish them.
A lock of his black fringe caught on his eyelashes, and he shook his head. Focusing on the woman again, he wondered why she’d been chosen for the job. That long auburn hair of hers would get in the way if she didn’t tie it up, and her slender figure brought forth thoughts of a ballerina rather than an athlete who could cope with running for her life if the need arose. It would, too, if things went to plan…and she’d be running from Bishop, lungs straining, leg muscles screaming.
That’s if she ran. He might get lucky and catch her before she had a chance to flee, but things rarely worked out like that when he was on a job. He’d had to fight for the end result every time, Fate or Lady Luck poking her big nose in, stirring things up so he failed to get an easy ride…
He laughed. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d ridden a woman. Relationships were few and far between in his line of work. It was pointless trying to have one, his long hours, days away from home—weeks, sometimes—didn’t bode well for keeping a woman happy. Still, he had his right hand, and that had been enough. Until he’d set eyes on Fallan Jones. Was that her real name or was she hiding, the same as him? He shouldn’t care, hadn’t in the past, but then his marks weren’t usually so bloody…attractive.
Fallan. He rolled that name around too, liking it more every time it echoed in his mind. He imagined calling it out when he came, when she clutched him to her, legs clamped about his waist, crossed at the ankles, heels driving him deeper inside a cunt he imagined would be tight. Soaked.
His cock twitched—the last thing he needed if Fallan got up and left the dining room. He willed it not to grow fully erect, thankful when it didn’t. He needn’t have worried. It looked as though she was going for three courses tonight. A waiter whisked her plate away, and another came by with desserts on a trolley laden with sweet delights.
She ought to be on that trolley, sweet delight that she is.
No, he mustn’t think of her like that. She was a mark, nothing more, someone who needed taking out before she did any more damage.