The End of You: A Single Lady Spy Series Novella (The Single Lady Spy Series Book 3) by Tara Brown Page B
Authors: Tara Brown
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rarely filled
people in on the dirty side, like letting a piece-of-shit cartel rat put his
dick in your mouth because it served the greater good. The image of stabbing
the last man who had done that to me made me feel ever so slightly less dirty.
My
mind drifted as the older woman rattled on and eventually I was asleep.
When
I woke we were in Norwich.
I
cleared customs as Barbara Newton, a Canadian who was on vacation and visiting
her great aunt who was on her deathbed. When I rounded the corner to the baggage
claim, my bag instantly caught my eye. Not because it was lime-green and
stuffed to the max with vacation clothing, but because the hand holding it made
my thighs tighten.
His
firm grip and large body made me quiver at the sight. My gaze didn't lift to
his face; I didn't need to see it or the smug look upon it.
I
knew his hand well enough to know exactly who was holding my bag.
Glancing
around, I wasn't certain what my options were. The man holding my bag was the
man who also, coincidentally, held my heart captive. He was the ultimate
package and not in the way you would expect or want. He was the sort of man who
could make you want him—make you choose him over considerably smarter
choices. Everything about him was too much. His intense kind of love was the
type you dreamt of and avoided at the same time. It burned too hot for you to
survive it. The mystery surrounding him was the appetizer, something to wet
your pallet and get the games started in your head. Just when you thought you
had him figured out, he did something incredibly evil or saintly or sweet. It
was confusing in every way. He took opposite stances on discussions regular
people wouldn't ever consider thinking.
His
name was Servario, Gustavo Servario, and he was a very bad man in all the right
ways.
Before
my eyes drifted farther than his hands on my bag, he turned and walked from the
airport. That was his way of telling me I had to come with him.
He
was the double agent every woman wanted to date, or just fuck. But he was also
the international millionaire bad boy that every woman in the world, who was in
the know, wanted to love. And just for me, secretly and on a level of down-low
I didn't even understand, he was the man who had been in love with me for
years, watching from the shadows and protecting me.
My
footsteps followed him, my vagina tried to convince my feet to run, and my
heart desperately wanted to turn and go the other way.
Being
around him was nearly impossible. He was the choice I was never going to make.
I was a mom and daughter and an agent. Those didn't match his cover—international
arms dealer who dabbled in human trafficking and drugs.
It
wouldn't have been so bad had he not loved his cover like a real job, but he
did.
Every
step my ballet flats tapped across the airport and then the parking lot went in
the wrong direction in my opinion.
When
I got to the black SUV with the tinted windows and the door wide open, I
contemplated running in the other direction. Being alone in a car with him was
never a simple car ride.
Taking
a large, deep, dissatisfying breath, I climbed inside and let the driver close
the door. I didn't turn my head to look into Servario’s hazel-green eyes. I
knew what lurked in there. He had a history of speaking with a stare. In my
peripheral I could see his dark hair was a little long for him. Normally, he
kept it short but it seemed to be playing with his ear, resting there with
promises of feathery tickles. His skin was paler than normal. Usually he was
tanned. Being Italian-Serbian made him a candidate for a year-round summer
glow. He wore pale-gray slacks, like he had the first time we met. The way they
fit him, you knew they were custom made by the very best Italian tailor.
His
shoes were deep-burgundy Italian leather, shiny to the point I could see the
back of the seat in the reflection. He wore a steel-colored dress shirt, opened
at the top so you got a glimpse of the places your fingers
people in on the dirty side, like letting a piece-of-shit cartel rat put his
dick in your mouth because it served the greater good. The image of stabbing
the last man who had done that to me made me feel ever so slightly less dirty.
My
mind drifted as the older woman rattled on and eventually I was asleep.
When
I woke we were in Norwich.
I
cleared customs as Barbara Newton, a Canadian who was on vacation and visiting
her great aunt who was on her deathbed. When I rounded the corner to the baggage
claim, my bag instantly caught my eye. Not because it was lime-green and
stuffed to the max with vacation clothing, but because the hand holding it made
my thighs tighten.
His
firm grip and large body made me quiver at the sight. My gaze didn't lift to
his face; I didn't need to see it or the smug look upon it.
I
knew his hand well enough to know exactly who was holding my bag.
Glancing
around, I wasn't certain what my options were. The man holding my bag was the
man who also, coincidentally, held my heart captive. He was the ultimate
package and not in the way you would expect or want. He was the sort of man who
could make you want him—make you choose him over considerably smarter
choices. Everything about him was too much. His intense kind of love was the
type you dreamt of and avoided at the same time. It burned too hot for you to
survive it. The mystery surrounding him was the appetizer, something to wet
your pallet and get the games started in your head. Just when you thought you
had him figured out, he did something incredibly evil or saintly or sweet. It
was confusing in every way. He took opposite stances on discussions regular
people wouldn't ever consider thinking.
His
name was Servario, Gustavo Servario, and he was a very bad man in all the right
ways.
Before
my eyes drifted farther than his hands on my bag, he turned and walked from the
airport. That was his way of telling me I had to come with him.
He
was the double agent every woman wanted to date, or just fuck. But he was also
the international millionaire bad boy that every woman in the world, who was in
the know, wanted to love. And just for me, secretly and on a level of down-low
I didn't even understand, he was the man who had been in love with me for
years, watching from the shadows and protecting me.
My
footsteps followed him, my vagina tried to convince my feet to run, and my
heart desperately wanted to turn and go the other way.
Being
around him was nearly impossible. He was the choice I was never going to make.
I was a mom and daughter and an agent. Those didn't match his cover—international
arms dealer who dabbled in human trafficking and drugs.
It
wouldn't have been so bad had he not loved his cover like a real job, but he
did.
Every
step my ballet flats tapped across the airport and then the parking lot went in
the wrong direction in my opinion.
When
I got to the black SUV with the tinted windows and the door wide open, I
contemplated running in the other direction. Being alone in a car with him was
never a simple car ride.
Taking
a large, deep, dissatisfying breath, I climbed inside and let the driver close
the door. I didn't turn my head to look into Servario’s hazel-green eyes. I
knew what lurked in there. He had a history of speaking with a stare. In my
peripheral I could see his dark hair was a little long for him. Normally, he
kept it short but it seemed to be playing with his ear, resting there with
promises of feathery tickles. His skin was paler than normal. Usually he was
tanned. Being Italian-Serbian made him a candidate for a year-round summer
glow. He wore pale-gray slacks, like he had the first time we met. The way they
fit him, you knew they were custom made by the very best Italian tailor.
His
shoes were deep-burgundy Italian leather, shiny to the point I could see the
back of the seat in the reflection. He wore a steel-colored dress shirt, opened
at the top so you got a glimpse of the places your fingers
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