Читать книгу Tempted by His Target - Jill Sorenson - Страница 11

Izzy was lying next to a dead man.

The realization came in slow degrees as she regained consciousness. Groggy from the night before, she didn’t want to open her eyes. She certainly didn’t want to inspect the unnaturally stiff form beside her.

In her sleep, she’d snuggled closer, but his body offered no warmth. Instead, it sucked away her peaceful oblivion and made her stomach twist with unease. The stillness of his chest was matched by eerie silence. He wasn’t breathing.

Was this really happening?

She sat up in bed, moaning as her vision swam, and then cleared. Head pounding, she forced herself to focus on the man beside her. For a few dull seconds, she couldn’t place him. He was fully clothed, like her, his dark hand lying across his stomach. He looked young and well-built. There was something vaguely familiar about his slack features.

Even dead, he was handsome.

Jaime.

The events from the previous evening came tumbling back to her, a confusing blur of images and sensations. She remembered popping too many pills. Smoking too many cigarettes, ordering too many drinks.

She knew that she’d hooked up with Jaime at a seedy underground club. He was one of her favorite new friends, rich and pretty and loaded with dope. Best of all, he was always more interested in getting high than getting laid. They’d shared a cab to her Hollywood Hills apartment in the wee hours of the morning.

Everything after that was a blackout.

Fingers trembling, she reached out to touch his limp wrist. She couldn’t feel a pulse, but she wasn’t a nurse. When she released his hand, it stayed there, his arm sticking upright rather than falling back down by his side.

Rigor mortis.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered, clapping a hand over her mouth. On the nightstand above him, there was a prescription pill bottle. She snatched it up, reading her own name on the label. These were her “knockout drops,” not for casual partying.

And they were gone.

Panicking, she swept her purse off the ground and stashed the empty pill bottle inside. She had to get out of here. This was too much. Her sling-backed stilettos were lying on the shag carpet. She shoved her bare feet into them and stumbled across the bedroom, disoriented. What else should she take with her? Car keys. A light shawl. Her cell phone rested on the nightstand, message notification blinking. She couldn’t think of a single person she wanted to talk to. Everyone in her current circle was a flake.

Maybe she should call a lawyer.

Her gaze skittered past the phone, settling on a brown leather bag that she knew belonged to Jaime. Although it looked like a casual briefcase for school assignments or textbooks, it housed a hefty cache of pot and cocaine.

She stared at the bag, her heart thumping in her chest, aware that it held the evidence of last night’s debauchery. If she left it here, would she be charged with drug possession? Reckless endangerment? Manslaughter?

Leaving her cell phone untouched, she crouched down beside the bed to pick up Jaime’s leather bag. The instant her fingers closed around the strap, a cold hand shot out, trapping her wrist in a death grip.

“Puta,” the man she’d stabbed said, blood dripping from his lips.

Isabel awoke with a jolt.

She stretched her left hand across the mattress, searching for a friend or foe. Her right hand went to the knife at her waist. Both came up empty. The room’s only other occupant was standing by the window, and her weapon holster had been put away last night.

The disturbing dreamscape receded as she stared into Brandon’s calm blue eyes. His expression told her he hadn’t missed a thing.

Self-conscious, she brought her flailing arms closer to her body. Although the temperature had cooled, her skin was dotted with perspiration, her tank top clinging to her chest. She wondered how long he’d been watching her sleep. Sitting up, she pushed her hair off her forehead.

“I wasn’t sure how you’d take it,” he said.

Her eyes met his, startled.

“Your coffee,” he clarified, lifting his own cup.

There was another cup on the nightstand, steam rising from the top. Beside it, a mildly sweet pastry known as pan dulce. She took an experimental sip. He hadn’t added enough sugar to suit her. “It’s fine.”

Satisfied, he glanced out the window, drinking his own coffee. He looked better this morning. The bruises on his face had darkened but the swelling was down. If he put on a pair of sunglasses, the flesh-colored bandage on his brow would be hard to notice. He also needed a hat to cover his ash-brown hair.

She realized that she’d made her decision. Any man who could stand watch, grab breakfast and keep his hands to himself was worth his weight in gold. She also had to admit that waking up with him was better than waking up alone, after a nightmare like that. “I’ll go with you,” she blurted.

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Good.”

“You haven’t changed your mind?”

“No.” He took another drink from his cup, mulling something over.

She tore off a piece of pastry. “What is it?”

“Those guys from last night … do you owe them money?”

Chewing the bite she’d just taken, she stalled, not wanting to give away too much. “Yes, but I don’t think that’s what they’re after.”

“What are they after?”

“Blood.”

His jaw tightened at the answer. “There’s one thing I need to make clear before we move forward.”

She regarded him warily. “What?”

“I don’t like drugs. If you’re on something—”

“I’m not,” she said, her cheeks warming.

“Since when?”

“I haven’t even had a drink in years. Is that okay with you, Boy Scout?”

“Yes,” he said, curt.

She ate the rest of her pan dulce without really tasting it. “Why are you traveling by yourself?”

His brows rose. “Why not?”

“Are you a lone wolf?”

“This from a woman who surfs solo.”

“I have reasons for that.”

He lifted his cup to his lips, making a noncommittal sound.

“You’re not … involved with anyone?”

“No,” he said, glancing at her in surprise. “And I’ve never had a girlfriend who would be interested in this kind of vacation.”

She sipped her coffee, contemplative. He probably dated prissy Miss America types with perfect hair. There had been a lot of those in Hollywood, if she remembered correctly. “What about guy friends?”

He shrugged. “They all have lives, and I made the plans at the last minute. Besides, I don’t mind doing my own thing. Sometimes I prefer it.”

Isabel tried to imagine wanting to be alone, and couldn’t. “Do you have a family?”

“Yes.”

“Are you close?” she asked, embarrassed by the sudden pressure behind her eyes. Her estranged relationship with her mother was one of her greatest regrets. She couldn’t mend it from a distance, though she longed to.