Last Kiss (Hitman #3) by Jen Frederick, Jessica Clare

of her lips.
    Abruptly, I change the subject. “Why did you not leave Hudson? For eighteen months you have worked for him, running an extraordinarily profitable illegal enterprise. With your skill, you should have been able to send coded messages to someone.”
    “Yeah, right. To another computer geek? How’s she supposed to mount an offensive to fly down to a foreign country and extricate me from a compound guarded by freaks with machine guns? And if I tried and failed? Hudson showed me pictures of whathe’d do to my family. Logically it made sense to accede to his demands. Besides, I was shortchanging the pay of his guards. I thought eventually one of them would kill him in anger. Did I do wrong?” The glance she shot me is quick but illuminating. She feels some kind of remorse for her actions, perhaps in part because she didn’t do more to free herself.
    “Was it peaceful there, Naomi?” I ask gently.
    She stares inside her glass for a long time, the occasional swirl of clear liquid the only sign she’s still conscious. “Very,” she finally says.
    “I can give you that . . . and more.”
    “How?”
    “You would like Russia, Naomi. In the winter at the
dacha
, the snow falls and a blanket of white covers everything.” I piece together all of the things I know she likes from what little time we’ve spent together. “It is very orderly, although small. Only seven or eight rooms. I could add on to it if you like. There’s a wood-burning fireplace that heats every room and only one way in or out. No surprises.”
    “Why would you offer this?” she asks, her voice small, but pleasure and curiosity coloring every word.
    “It is yours for as long as you want it if you do but one thing for me.”
    “The Madonna?” she asks.
    “Yes, that’s right,” I reply, because that is the only answer that makes sense now. The feelings of need and wanting possession are too strange for me to comprehend. I push them back but it will be only a matter of time before they overwhelm me . . . and her.
    “And if I find it for you, you will take me to this place in Russia?”
    “After the Madonna is taken to my home, then you will havefree run of my
dacha
. It is yours to do with as you will. Funds will be at your disposal to renovate and add on what you need.”
    She could build a mansion out there to rival the tsars of the old country if she would agree to stay. The desire to ensconce her in my private world is so strong that it is a taste on my tongue—both bitter and sweet.
    She appears to consider the offer.
    “Do I get to go when I tell you where the Madonna is or after you retrieve it?” she cagily asks.
    “After it is returned to the Petrovich vaults, then you may go.” Her cleverness and quick mindedness impress me. She would make a formidable enemy but a powerful ally. I want her, more than I should, and I will do whatever I can to make it so she aligns herself with me. Right now the carrot is a more viable option than the stick. Threats have little power over her. I cannot tell if it is because she has no fear because she does not care, or if it is because she cannot feel fear.
    “All right. I want a baseball cap, too.”
    “Of course.” I hide my satisfaction by pulling out my phone and pretending to review all the messages I have missed in the last few hours. “Why don’t you go and color your hair, Miss Karen,” I prod her. “You should be ready when we land in Madrid for refueling and then get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day.” I hope.
    “Will you do it?” she asks.
    Placing my phone on the table, I peer at her. What trick is she playing now? “I thought you did not like to be touched.”
    “I don’t but I also don’t like the color brown unless it’s food related, because brown things are normally cooked long enough to destroyany bacteria. I might be sick if I see it on my hands, though.” She shudders, holding her hands out as if they are already contaminated.
    “I am your