aren’t we?”
“Yes, we are. I’ll call Mr. Pelletti on the way.” The look he gave her was a flash of pride, and it reminded her of the flicker of a glance she’d earned the first time he’d put a gun in her hand, and now she’d proven him right.
She could do it.
She could kill.
Chapter Eight
One Year Later
“Dammit Smith!” Camille shouted as she lifted her arms to block another kick, the force of it knocking her off balance and she rolled as she hit the ground, popping up a few feet away.
“Language,” he muttered as he came at her again. She had barely taken up her stance when he fired a series of blows at her. The first punch she blocked and redirected, delivering a kick to his side when his weight was leaned too far to strike again. His grunt was short, and then his other fist was coming towards her. She ducked, ducked the next punch, and then dropped down and swept his leg out from under him. Smith hit the floor hard, but rolled backwards and was back on his feet in an instant.
“Show off.” She grumbled as she moved, watching him carefully as they circled each other, slowly getting closer, but she kept her hands up. Ready.
“That was good. Let’s see if you can keep up.” He went straight for her face but she leaned back, side-stepping to throw her own punch, which he caught. Smith twisted her wrist, trying to lock her arm against him, but she rolled inward and landed a hard elbow directly into his nose. His stunned shout made her pause for a moment, and he used it, kicking hard behind her knee to buckle her and send her flat on her back with another strike. Pain radiated up her leg, but she breathed through it until it abated. “Giving up so soon?” he taunted.
“You wish.” Twisting, she pushed herself up from the floor and ducked his first attack, countering with a hard hit to his diaphragm. She caught his attempt to grab her, and lifted her leg between them to kick him back. With little air left in his lungs, Smith stumbled back and landed flat on his ass. He coughed from the floor, and she stayed back, having learned that the fight was never over unless he said it was. “Need a break?”
“Ha. A few kills under your belt and you think you’re top dog now?” Smith flipped to his feet, the smirk at his lips one she knew all too well by now. He was about to make it much, much harder to put him on the ground.
This will be fun.
“Eleven. Eleven kills, Smith. That’s more than a few.”
“Your first two don’t count.” With a lunge he snagged a knife off the coffee table and swung at her, and she jerked backwards to avoid it.
Fuck. He was not playing around tonight.
She paced him, making him follow her around the hotel room so she could get the meter of his steps, measure when he was comfortable taking a swing with the blade. The next time he thrust, she blocked with her forearm, and grabbed his wrist, driving her thumb into the tendons until his grip went slack. With a twist she ripped the knife free from his palm, and threw it. It tumbled end over end, and then buried its tip in the headboard of the bed.
“Yes!” Camille cheered, and then he tackled her, his shoulder slamming into her stomach just before she hit floor and all the air left her lungs. An instant later he was hovering over her, both of her wrists pinned, his weight distributed at the top of her thighs so she couldn’t counter.
“What did you forget?” he panted, his breath brushing over her cheek.
“I forgot to put you on the ground after I disarmed you.” The words were automatic because she was too distracted to consciously respond with his weight on top of her. Smith was barely inches above her, the warm smell of his skin, his sweat, his aftershave, floating in the space between them – and his mouth was so close. Just an inch or so, and she could…
Before she could stop herself she had lifted her face to his, and their lips met. It was a kiss, warm and soft, and he pressed her back to the
“Yes, we are. I’ll call Mr. Pelletti on the way.” The look he gave her was a flash of pride, and it reminded her of the flicker of a glance she’d earned the first time he’d put a gun in her hand, and now she’d proven him right.
She could do it.
She could kill.
Chapter Eight
One Year Later
“Dammit Smith!” Camille shouted as she lifted her arms to block another kick, the force of it knocking her off balance and she rolled as she hit the ground, popping up a few feet away.
“Language,” he muttered as he came at her again. She had barely taken up her stance when he fired a series of blows at her. The first punch she blocked and redirected, delivering a kick to his side when his weight was leaned too far to strike again. His grunt was short, and then his other fist was coming towards her. She ducked, ducked the next punch, and then dropped down and swept his leg out from under him. Smith hit the floor hard, but rolled backwards and was back on his feet in an instant.
“Show off.” She grumbled as she moved, watching him carefully as they circled each other, slowly getting closer, but she kept her hands up. Ready.
“That was good. Let’s see if you can keep up.” He went straight for her face but she leaned back, side-stepping to throw her own punch, which he caught. Smith twisted her wrist, trying to lock her arm against him, but she rolled inward and landed a hard elbow directly into his nose. His stunned shout made her pause for a moment, and he used it, kicking hard behind her knee to buckle her and send her flat on her back with another strike. Pain radiated up her leg, but she breathed through it until it abated. “Giving up so soon?” he taunted.
“You wish.” Twisting, she pushed herself up from the floor and ducked his first attack, countering with a hard hit to his diaphragm. She caught his attempt to grab her, and lifted her leg between them to kick him back. With little air left in his lungs, Smith stumbled back and landed flat on his ass. He coughed from the floor, and she stayed back, having learned that the fight was never over unless he said it was. “Need a break?”
“Ha. A few kills under your belt and you think you’re top dog now?” Smith flipped to his feet, the smirk at his lips one she knew all too well by now. He was about to make it much, much harder to put him on the ground.
This will be fun.
“Eleven. Eleven kills, Smith. That’s more than a few.”
“Your first two don’t count.” With a lunge he snagged a knife off the coffee table and swung at her, and she jerked backwards to avoid it.
Fuck. He was not playing around tonight.
She paced him, making him follow her around the hotel room so she could get the meter of his steps, measure when he was comfortable taking a swing with the blade. The next time he thrust, she blocked with her forearm, and grabbed his wrist, driving her thumb into the tendons until his grip went slack. With a twist she ripped the knife free from his palm, and threw it. It tumbled end over end, and then buried its tip in the headboard of the bed.
“Yes!” Camille cheered, and then he tackled her, his shoulder slamming into her stomach just before she hit floor and all the air left her lungs. An instant later he was hovering over her, both of her wrists pinned, his weight distributed at the top of her thighs so she couldn’t counter.
“What did you forget?” he panted, his breath brushing over her cheek.
“I forgot to put you on the ground after I disarmed you.” The words were automatic because she was too distracted to consciously respond with his weight on top of her. Smith was barely inches above her, the warm smell of his skin, his sweat, his aftershave, floating in the space between them – and his mouth was so close. Just an inch or so, and she could…
Before she could stop herself she had lifted her face to his, and their lips met. It was a kiss, warm and soft, and he pressed her back to the
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