Beck: Hollywood Hitman (5 page)

Hmm . . . maybe she’d had enough alcohol to actually speak to the guy. She could saunter over, bend forward, flirt a little until they figured out just exactly who she was.

“Maybe . . .” Natalie wiggled her eyebrows and slid her gaze back to the gorgeous men three tables over.

“Girl, what kind of trouble are you up to?”

“The fun kind.” Natalie stood. The room tilted and she grasped the edge of the table. No matter—she’d been tipsy before. She shook her dark hair and fluffed her fingers through her locks. Bit her bottom lip, readjusted her shirt so that just the right amount of boobage was available for Mr. Badass to see.

“Honey, I can’t imagine any man saying no to all that.” Stacia poured the last bit of wine from the bottle. “Go get ’em, girl.”

Natalie smiled. Yes, this was just exactly what she needed. A little fun. A little flirtation. A little diversion. A little someone to make her feel a whole lot less alone and a whole lot more safe.

***

She wobbled. Unsteady on her feet. Inebriated. Loud and giggling. Natalie Warner might as well be walking across the restaurant wearing a flashing neon sign that read “easy target.”

Irritation flamed through Beck. Deep breath. She was now his to protect, and this show of behavior proved how difficult his job would be.

“You ready for all that?” Remi asked, barely moving his mouth.

“Do I have a choice?”

The corner of Remi’s mouth twitched. “Not anymore.”

Unsteady gait, but still with a swish of her hips that mesmerized. Plump lips and a wide-eyed, sexy yet soulful stare.

“I don’t need to go over the no-fraternization policy again, do I?”

Beck shook his head. After the hit his heart had taken with Marisol on the last mission, he couldn’t imagine falling for a woman. His gaze returned to Natalie. Although this woman could easily fit every hetero man’s sexual fantasy.

The very assets that caused Natalie’s career to skyrocket were liabilities to her safety. Even he—hard, cold, and well-trained—wasn’t immune. His cock stirred for the first time in a very long time. All that milky white flesh . . . to run his tongue across the roundness of her breasts . . .

He shoved the thought from his mind. He was here to protect her from harm, not fuck her senseless, no matter what his cock wanted.

She arrived at their table with a lopsided but still sexy smile on her face. “Hey, guys.”

She pulled a tendril of her hair near her chin and started to twist the lock. Very femme. Very sultry. No body language interpretation needed. The statement “I’m yours if you want me” came through loud and clear. Message received; Beck’s cock hardened.

He dismissed the sexual tug, aware of the overt and obvious sexuality and the natural desire that pulsed through him. Her eyes contained more than wanton lust. Beck understood the need for connection. Here was a woman that had everything but a family and people to love, and she was throwing herself at two complete strangers. He’d seen people do much worse for much less.

“Hello.” Remi leaned back in his seat and shot a quick gaze to Beck. Oh, yes, in that one look, Beck knew exactly how Remi wanted this played.

“So my friend and I were wondering . . .” Natalie leaned back and nodded toward the woman sitting at her table, who would be Stacia, Natalie’s best friend since they’d both been sixteen, if the dossier Beck had studied was accurate. “. . . if you two cared to join us.”

Remi squinted and tilted his head. “Do I know you?”

There in a flash, so quick that if you weren’t trained to capture the change in her facial features, the slip of the corners of her mouth, the tightness around her lips, the drop of her eyes, you’d miss the change. Disappointment flashed across her features. Disappointment that she’d been made. She’d been hopeful they wouldn’t recognize the famous Natalie Warner.

“Not personally, no.”

Good answer. Not a lie, but not the entire truth.

“Ah, well, while I’d love to join both you beautiful ladies, Mr. Tatum and I have an appointment this afternoon.”

“Really?” Natalie leaned forward against the table and the milky-white curve of the top of her breasts was exposed for Beck and Remi’s eyes. “How important is that appointment?”

An enticement, an invitation, a request from Natalie that the two of them forget responsibility and afternoon appointments and realign their time to her.

Irritation pummeled Beck. This chick needed some serious minding. A whack job stalking her, getting closer and closer and closer and bolder and bolder, and she was tottering around a restaurant after three bottles of wine showing off her titties to strangers?

Easy. Target.

And his responsibility.

Like a sucker punch to the gut, the realization hit him harder than it had before when they’d first arrived. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move a muscle on his face, but slid his gaze toward Remi. The lift on one corner of Remi’s mouth told Beck that Remi completely understood. Hence the hefty salary, the long folder, and full-on psychological profile of Miss Warner that Beck had been presented with over the last three days.

“Miss Warner.” Beck voice was smooth and firm. “I’m afraid we have to decline.”

The skin on her arms prickled and she stiffened with his words. Her back went ramrod straight and away went the gorgeous breasts. Conflicted. She was conflicted by her physical attraction to Beck and her dislike of being rejected. She licked her lips and pulled her hair behind her ear. Her entire demeanor shifted from sultry sexpot to spurned child. Yeah, with that body, those eyes, and all that fame, Natalie wasn’t rejected often.

“So you do know who I am.”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

Her smoldering gaze went arctic frigid faster than a bullet split bone.

“No”—she tossed her head and tilted her chin upward—“everyone just
thinks
they do.”

She shot him a sharp smile, like he’d just confirmed her every negative belief in humanity. “Gentlemen, have a lovely afternoon. Hope your appointment is worth it.”

With that she spun on her heels and gave both of them a world-class view as she sauntered back to her table.

Chapter Seven

“They’re gone,” Stacia whispered through the bathroom stall door.

“Thank the lord.” Natalie opened the door and straightened her shirt. Yes, she’d fled the dining room in full-on rejection shame mode, leaving Stacia to pay the tab, take care of the tip, and watch for the two guys to disappear into the dimming late-afternoon sunlight.

“You probably gave them the thrill of their day.”

“Yeah, right.” Natalie peered into the bathroom mirror and washed her hands. Such a fucking fool. Really? Of course she’d thought the whole “I’m so sexy” routine would work, but she’d failed miserably. Her plan backfired and now she was alone, buzzed, and rejected. Sucked to be her. She barely recognized the face in the mirror. Those eyes that sold millions of movie tickets looked tired and sad. Not her eyes from years ago, no, these eyes had watched good people turned bad by greed and the need for personal gain.

“The blond guy was completely down for some action.”

“Please.” Natalie shook her wet hands above the sink. “He rejected me outright.”

“Hmm . . .” Stacia tapped her finger to her lips and rolled her gaze toward the ceiling. “Said something about a work meeting, not that he wasn’t interested.”

Natalie yanked paper towels from the dispenser. “If he was interested, he would have skipped the work meeting.”

“Says the woman who hasn’t had a day off in months.”

“Whatevs.” Natalie straightened her shirt.

“The heat was crackling between you two. I’m sticking with my first assessment—the man was digging your action.”

“Mmmhm.”

Stacia lifted her eyebrow. “You two sent the temperature up about ten degrees in all of Beverly Hills.

“Doesn’t matter now, because he’s gone and I’m going home.”

“Nat, not yet! Come back to my place. We’ll party there and then head to Hollywood.”

“I have a read-through tomorrow.”

“Work, work, work.” Stacia opened the bathroom door and they both slid into the hallway. “My car’s out back.”

Natalie put on her ginormous sunglasses. “Mine’s in the garage across the street.”

They hugged and gave each other the obligatory double-cheek kiss.

“I’ll see you before I leave?”

“Absolutely.” Natalie pushed open the heavy metal back door, expecting the blinding flashes of shutterbugs.

No photogs?

That was amazing and . . . strange. Angelina Jolie had to be walking naked in Beverly Hills because usually photographers greeted Natalie’s every move. Lucky her. She really didn’t need a picture of her looking hammered and weaving across Rodeo in high heels like a drunken whore. That picture would have been splayed out on every trashy website within a half-hour.

But then again, Boom Boom Wong, her PR person, kept saying that all publicity was good publicity. Boom Boom claimed that even the ugly publicity about her parents and Rico had been good for her career. Not so good for her heart, her head, or her psyche.

What a weird time of day in Beverly Hills. The lunch crowd was gone, and the evening crowd hadn’t arrived. She entered the elevator to the subterranean parking garage and the cool metal wall pressed through her shirt. The doors opened on the third floor of the underground parking structure.

A shiver rippled down her spine. Parking garages weren’t her favorite. She flipped her sunglasses onto her head. When she’d parked she’d failed to find a spot near the elevator. Instead her two-seater convertible was parked across the garage beside a pole. She yanked open her purse and stuck her hand into her giant bag. Her foot twisted and she bounced forward.

Fuck.

A rock or drunk? Either way her ankle hurt. Natalie bent forward and slipped her high heels off her feet. Glanced around the garage . . . wow, not many cars . . . not many at all except for the one . . .

Her fingertips tingled and her belly tightened. No. That couldn’t be. The night on Mulholland had been dark and windy and she’d never gotten a good look at the car tailing her . . .

Natalie’s heart skipped a beat. The only other car parked on this floor of the garage aside from hers and the sketchy black sedan that looked identical to the car that had tailed her all the way home was a white BMW with tinted windows.

Shit.

Natalie limped across the cement floor, high heels in hand. She dug into her purse, her fingernails scraped the lining. Her gaze flicked toward the black sedan. Keys . . . where the fuck were her keys?

Her breath grew short. What an idiot. She was smarter than this, knew better than to hobble barefoot and boozy across a nearly empty parking garage without her keys in hand. Why didn’t she have her keys out and ready to go?

A cold bead of sweat trickled down her spine. The distance from the spot she stood to her car seemed wider than the Grand Canyon. No, not good, not good. Her keys? Where were her keys? She shook her purse and change jangled against metal. Fuck. She caught the flash of headlights. Someone was in that black sedan, the sedan that looked oddly similar to the car that had followed her home.

“Come on, come on, come on.” How much crap did one person need? Eyeliner, lipstick, a comb—for fuck’s sake, why did she have a spoon in her purse? She tossed the different items to the ground, nearly ready to dump the whole damn bag onto the concrete and grab her keys and run.

An engine started. She glanced toward the black car, too close, headlights and engine on.

Her stomach pitted and she started gimping faster toward her car, her hand still scrambling around the interior of her purse . . . searching, searching, searching.

“Keys, key, keys, where the fuck are my keys?”

The engine revved, a low growl of a predator from across the barren concrete expanse. She glanced toward the car. Please let the black sedan simply drive out the exit or some nice old couple get off the elevator so she wasn’t alone in this parking garage.

Neither happened.

The black sedan crept forward, slow but determined, lights on. She stood like the proverbial deer still fifteen feet from her car, still rummaging in her purse. She was just about to dump her bag when the white BMW pulled up.

“Get in.”

“What?”

Her eyes jerked around from front to back. Two men . . . who were . . . were those the guys from Villa Blanco . . . who were they . . .

The guy. The good-looking guy from the restaurant, tall and muscled and lean and hard cut, with a face that put Clive Owen to shame, was behind the wheel. “Now.”

“I don’t even know you—”

“You know I’m better than whatever is in that car coming at you.”

Did she know that? Did she? What if this was all some sort of ruse, a ploy, a way to force her into her own car with a good-looking man, and then take her to someplace . . . she was being followed . . . or stalked . . . Stalked.

“Ari hired me. Your middle name is Lynn.”

“That’s not tough. You could find that out on Wikipedia.”

“And you were born in Matoon, Illinois.”

“Again, not difficult.” The engine from the far side of the parking garage roared.

“Your mother had a coke addiction, your little brother died from leukemia when you were eleven, your father blew through exactly 3.3 million dollars of your money in about four years, and the name of your imaginary friend when you were a little was Malena.”

Natalie’s heart thudded. Her eyebrows wrinkled. “Malena?”

“Now get in the car.”

Natalie glanced from Mr. Badass toward the black sedan that still crept toward them. She ran to the passenger side where the other guy stood with the door open, his gaze locked onto the black sedan .

Was that a gun? Beneath his jacket Natalie saw the outline of a holster.

Two car doors slammed.

“Go!” the guy in the backseat said.

Mr. Blond-and-Blue-Eyes gunned the car, tore straight toward the black sedan, and made a sharp left. Natalie clutched her seatbelt.

He tore up the circling ramp until they burst out of the parking garage and onto the street. The sky was purpling in the oncoming darkness. Nothing behind them.