Jessica Clare - Last Breath

“I know a lot about you. What, you think I like trolling the slums of Rio de Janeiro for blondes because I can’t get laid?” He gestures back where I came from. “Come on. The meter’s running.” The man reaches for me again.

I sidle away so he can’t touch me, tugging the coat closer. I look at the two dead men at my feet. I should feel something for them, right? Some sort of horror that they died right in front of me? That this man shot at them while I stood here? But all I can think is that they were this close to dragging me back to the brothel.

And this man knows my name. He was looking for me. My heart thuds in my chest. Once. Twice.

Maybe I’m not forgotten after all.

“Who are you?” I ask as I step over the lifeless body of one man.

“Call me Daniel.”

Daniel

REGAN IS LOOKING AT ME like I’m going to kill her or, worse, take her to someplace that will make Gomes’ brothel look like Disneyland. Not that I blame her. If I was in her shoes I’d be running in the other direction too. She doesn’t know jack about me other than the shit I spouted off in front of Gomes, which was essentially that I was taking her to my hotel room where I’d pound her so hard that there wouldn’t be anything left but a corpse. She’s unlikely to believe that the only place I’m taking her is to the U.S. Embassy, so rather than waste time arguing with her, I start walking. Actions over words and all that.

The taxi is likely long gone and even if it wasn’t, bringing Regan back into Gomes’ reach isn’t an option. He’s too interested in her return. Why he’s having second thoughts about selling her for the night doesn’t add up for me. It’s not like Regan’s the only blonde in a hundred-mile radius. I’m not even convinced she’s the only star spangled pussy around. She’s damn pretty though, and maybe if I were a half-rate, back alley brothel owner I’d think a girl like this could elevate my reputation amongst the expats who like a taste of home. But I’m not paid to think about why. I’m paid to do.

I’ve located Regan after running around Russia like a fool, freezing my nuts off until the head of the Petrovich Bratva , a powerful Russian criminal family, learned that she had been shipped down here. By accident, Vasily Petrovich told me. That’s some kind of accident. Vasily had stashed her in a Petrovich house, only someone stole her from there and sold her to some rich dude in Rio. Then when I arrived in Rio, she wasn’t with the rich dude but was in Gomes’ place. Another week wasted. I just need to get her to the Embassy, and then I am on to the important part of my task: Finding my sister. Vasily gave me a tip in exchange for retrieving Regan that there was a stream of blonde girls from the United States being funneled down to some guy in Rio. One of those blondes might be my sister.

Petrovich should’ve known I’d come for Regan anyway since Nick was kind of a friend and Regan was his girl’s best friend but instead he gave me two pieces of information. I’m supposed to be looking for some hacker that Vasily wants called the Emperor, but his little task will be put on the back burner until I find my sister.

Wary of me, Regan walks a half step behind. Or rather, I let that distance between us exist. She’s more afraid of bogeymen jumping out of the houses or back alleys than she is of me right now, but that could change at any moment. Fear is a good thing. It makes you sharp and aware. Complacency makes you dead.

“How do you know my name?” she repeats.

“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,” I quip.

She curls her lip at me, telegraphing disdain for my humor. But I’m not telling her anything. Who knows what she will tell the folks at the U.S. Consulate? If she’s smart, she’ll tell them everything—including how a tall guy with a black suit and big black guns killed two Brazilians in the slums—and then I can add U.S. military to the number of people who want to see me captured or dead. The list is long and varied, but I’m still alive and most who’ve encountered me are not.

Fighting the urge to stare at her is more challenging than I expected. As we walk down the hill, several boys make hooting calls that cause her to flinch and drive her closer to me. I take her in surreptitiously. Only the lights from the homes and the occasional street light illuminate our path. The dirt and poverty looks more like quaintness than squalor. And Regan Porter looks like the shiniest rock in the diamond mine. I can’t fucking take my eyes off her.

Maybe she’s been sent to me as karmic punishment. You can look but don’t touch. Or worse, you shouldn’t even be looking.

Despite all that she’s gone through, Regan is magnetic. Her blonde hair has dried in a cloud around her face, and neither the dirt nor the trauma can disguise the oval perfection, high cheekbones and full lips. My hand rises of its own volition to tuck a few strands of hair behind her pretty pale little ear. She jerks back from me, wide eyed, nostrils flaring like a scared wild Mustang I’ve brought in to tame.

And then my dick takes over and my thoughts go on an inappropriate detour thinking about all that pale pinkness riding me and that long blonde hair brushing my bare chest. And those plump lips making a perfect circle for my—oh fuck. I am such a fucking asshole. Clenching my hand, I force myself to back off. Time and place, Daniel, time and fucking place.

“Hurry the fuck up,” I bark out. She flinches, and that helps to suppress my ill-conceived desires. I’m not into chicks who don’t want me and particularly not those who are scared of me.

But I’m not the only one drawn to her. I should’ve asked for a paper bag to place over her head, but you’d still see those long legs, the sexy indent of her waist and the thrust of her tits against the tissue thin coat. It’s a good thing the night air is warm because between the swimsuit and the napkin that we’re calling a coat, she doesn’t have much protection from the elements. I can’t even take off my suit coat because I have a brace of guns underneath, but I can do something about her lack of shoes.

Her feet are dirty from both Gomes’ place and the unpaved roads. I hadn’t expected her to run through the favela . I figured I’d hustle her into the taxi, drop her off at the Embassy, and be done with it.

But now we’re walking in the back alleys, drawing all kind of unwanted attention, and I can’t stop thinking about those tender feet being eaten up by the dirt and stones. Stopping abruptly, I swing around to face her. She makes a small sound, like wounded animal. I wonder what she thinks I’m going to do out here, throw her down and mount her? Heaving a frustrated sigh, I kneel down to unlace one shoe and pull off my silk dress sock. Shoving my foot back into the rich leather of my shoes, I repeat the action on the other side. Raising one knee, I gesture for her to lift her foot up. “I’m going to brush the bottom of your foot off, okay?” I ask, patting my knee so she knows to rest her foot against my leg. Peering up at her, I can see her big green eyes wide with wonder. Or suspicion. “Look, doll face, I don’t have some weird sock fetish."

Her lips are trembling and her eyes are beginning to water. Oh shit. She’s going to start crying, and I don’t need that. Holy fuck do I not need that. So I pull out the asshole because I sense that she’ll snarl back at the asshole but weep at a nice guy. “I’m tired of hearing you snivel while we walk, but if you’re going to sit there and cry, I can put it back on.”

Just as I suspect, the steel rod returns and she’s rigid again. She lifts her foot, pressing two fingers against my suited shoulder. And despite the suit coat, dress shirt and beater underneath I can still feel the heat and it’s burning a path from the shoulder right down to my groin. I hate myself. I really fucking hate myself.