Rachel Caine: Kicking It

“This contract is only good for three minutes,” she said.

“Long enough for you to see that what I offer is real and to make up your mind. Unless you’re slow.”

Her gaze narrowed in warning at his jab. “Give me a pen.”

Marcus pulled one from his pocket. She took it, her warm fingertips grazing his skin. He couldn’t tell if the touch was accidental or not, but he was already hoping she’d do it again.

She scrawled her name at the bottom of the contract, leaving behind a signature as intriguing and curvy as the woman herself. “There. Now what?”

“The purse is now yours for three minutes. Look inside again.”

He’d made it a point not to touch the purse in any way. He didn’t want her to think he was cheating—not after the lengths he’d gone to to make sure she got what she wanted. He needed her cooperation too badly to make any mistakes.

Simone lifted the flap once more and looked inside. Her lips parted in surprise, and a small hint of excitement quivered along her mouth. She pulled out a throwing knife, heedless of the other customers nearby.

It glinted in the café’s lighting, its keen edge a testament of skill and patience. She briefly touched the angular maker’s mark at the base of the hilt, and if he wasn’t seeing things, her finger trembled slightly.

“I thought the blacksmith was dead. How did you get these?” she asked.

“You don’t need to know that. All you need to do is make up your mind. The purse and the knives in exchange for your help retrieving an object. The purse is exactly as you requested—only the owner can see the hidden contents.”

“It’s a neat trick.”

It was a hell of a lot more than that—it was weeks spent bent over his workbench, pouring everything he had into the project. “So, do we have a deal?”

“What are the terms?” she asked.

“Terms?”

“What am I stealing? From whom? How long do I have?”

“A few days at most.” The portal the Fractogasts were building was almost done. After that they would expand and open more building sites, and this chance would be lost.

“What’s the object?”

“A hammer.”

She lifted an inky black brow in question. “Why not just go to Sears?”

“It’s a blacksmith’s hammer. And it’s special.”

She absently stroked the surface of the leather purse. “How special?”

“Special enough that I included a set of throwing knives made by the hand of a craftsman who’s now dead.” Uttering those words without any hint of feeling cost Marcus a good chunk of effort.

“No hammer is that special.”

“It is when it’s in the hands of the Fractogasts.”

Her skin paled noticeably, making her smoky eyes look larger. “You know about them?”

“Unfortunately. They’ve stolen loved ones from me. As they have from you.”

“Don’t pretend like you know me, or that we should bond because of what those monsters did. I don’t bond. Ever.”

“Good to know. I’m not looking for a new BFF. Only a partner for a single job.”

“No, you’re looking for an idiot. If you’d told me that I’d be sneaking into ’Gast territory, I’d never have come.”

“You didn’t ask. You were too busy making demands on your price.”

“Which you exceeded because you knew you were asking me to risk my life. This isn’t like stealing a diamond necklace. They’ll see me.”

“Not in those boots.”

She went still and every trace of teasing feminine power trickled out of her, leaving behind a hard-core, pissed-off badass. “What do you know about my boots?”

“Everything.”

Her fingers tightened around the hilt of the throwing knife. Her muscles coiled under black leather as she prepared to strike. “How? Who told you?”

If he didn’t appease her soon, he was going to end up with a knife in his throat. “No one told me anything. They didn’t have to. I was the one who made them—the one from whom you stole them.”

This was not a business meeting. It was an ambush.

Simone should have known better than to think that any offer this good could be true.

She looked around the café, searching for signs of which patrons might be Brighton’s backup. While several people looked at her, they were all wearing the same expressions of desire, apathy, or jealousy that she was used to seeing. Not one person here had that cold stare of a man willing to kill.

“I came alone,” said Brighton, apparently sensing her unease. “I’m not here to turn you in to the authorities. I don’t even want the boots back. All I want is your help.”

Again, too good to be true.

She didn’t bother snatching the purse away. The contract was good for only a few more seconds. After that she could no longer benefit from the purse’s inherent magic. It would be just another pretty handbag.

Apparently her sneaking into his mobile workshop and stealing the boots had taught him to be more careful with his wares. She only wished she’d known his name then so she could have seen this ambush coming.

The knife she’d taken out felt good in her hand. Its balance was perfect, the grip fitting her palm as if it had been made for her alone. The cross guard was small, but big enough that she could use the blade as a dagger if she wanted to get that close. Or simply had the misfortune of ending up that way.

There were two more knives just like it inside the purse—two perfect knives that would be lost to her once those three minutes were up.

She reached for the purse, but Brighton was faster. He slapped one big hand down on the leather and gave her a warning look. “Not unless you help me.”

“How do I know you’re not lying?” she asked.

“You don’t. At least not yet. But we both know you’re perfectly capable of killing me if you choose. And people are starting to stare.”

Simone palmed the knife and slid it into her sleeve. A quick glance around the room proved that Brighton was right. People were shifting nervously at the sight of the weapon, and at least two of them were on their phones. Maybe talking to police.

Time to go.

“Good luck, Brighton,” she offered as she headed for the door.

Marcus was right on her heels. “What about our deal?”

“What deal? You offered me a job. I’m turning it down.” She shoved her way out through the door. The cool night air sucked some of the heat of anger from her cheeks.

She made a beeline for her motorcycle, which was parked nearby.

“If you’re not going to help me, then give me back the boots,” he ordered.

She laughed as she mounted her bike. “Sure. I’ll get right on that.”

Brighton grabbed her arm. Until this moment, she’d pegged him for a suit. Normal, boring, law-abiding. Soft.

His hand on her arm was anything but. Strength radiated through his touch, shackling her biceps. She could break his hold, but not without getting off her bike and exerting some serious effort. And drawing a crowd.

“Please,” he said, his voice ringing with the kind of desperation she’d heard only from men who knew they were going to die. “I need your help.”

Simone looked up at him and instantly wished she hadn’t. There was pain in his eyes. Loss. Grief. She could have been looking into a mirror.

Her resolve started to crack, and damn if Marcus Brighton wasn’t smart enough to see it instantly.

“I have a place we can go and talk. Just give me a few minutes of your time. Hear me out. If you still think I’m out to get you, then I’ll find someone else. Somehow.”

The way he said it made her wonder if he even had a plan B. Maybe she was his only shot.

There’d been a time when that would have made her feel good, but now all she felt was sad. If she was his best shot, then he was in a world of hurt.