Free Hittin It: A Hitman Romance (Marked for Love Book 2) by Amie Stuart

the wrong person? Botched a job? What had triggered it all? And how had they found the Monte Carlo? How was it all tied together?
    When had he crossed the line from hunter to hunted? And how had he not known?
    Where would he die? He’d never imagined it would be like this.
    And most important of all, why ?
    Why had someone taken a hit out on him? Why did they want him dead?
    If he really thought about it, dying by hired killer was fitting in some twisted way. Maybe even no better than he deserved. But he was the oldest, the strongest, the fastest Collier. He’d been blessed with the best instincts of all his brothers.
    And, if he could help it, he wouldn’t die today, or tomorrow or anytime soon.

CHAPTER TEN
    W ondering what had Will so deep in thought, I reached over and flicked off the kitchen tap. On second thought, it was pretty obvious. He was thinking about us , here, trapped like fish in a barrel.
    He looked down at me, his eyes hotter, more intense than I’d ever seen them, his sexy mouth grim. “We’re not going to die.”
    Sorry, but I wasn’t convinced. And, as a rule, life-altering events didn’t come with a money-back guarantee. “Everyone dies.”
    He nodded in acknowledgement and said, “Maybe so, but not us. Not anytime soon.”
    “You don’t know that,” I insisted. “Or we wouldn’t be here.” Surely he wasn’t that naive.
    “You are the most confounded fucking woman I’ve ever met in my life.”
    I turned away and bit my lip, unsure of what left me more tickled: The use of confounded or the fact he’d said fuck . I was too tickled to even get mad over being insulted. “I am what I am, Will.”
    “I know.” He said it in a way that made me stare. Almost smug. As if he knew me so well when, in fact, he didn’t know me at all. He wiped his hands on a dishtowel, and then proceeded to wipe down the counters. Maybe it made him feel better to clean. Maybe cleaning was second nature for him, like walking was for me. Plus I guess in his business, you had to be tidy.
    Will folded the towel with deliberate, precise movements. He had beautiful hands, long fingers, trim tidy business-like hands. I guess hands were important in his line of work, too. Will had amazing hands—the kind that made me wish I was a palmist instead of a card reader just so I could touch them.
    The night stretched out in front of us, with no television beyond a fuzzy rerun of something I couldn’t name, no radio, nothing. As repulsed as I was by how Will made a living, there was a part of me that wanted to know more. To understand him. Chalk it up to research, but maybe, if I understood him, I could figure out my attraction to him. “How many people have you killed?”
    He smoothed the dishtowel out as the longest five seconds of my life ticked by. Finally, his head slowly swiveled so he could look at me through narrowed eyes. “ What? ”
    I swallowed the lump in my throat and repeated myself through lips numb with fear. “How many people have you killed?”
    His face was chilly-cold, scary-cold—his eyes the color of stainless steel. “A lot.”
    I should shut up now. I really should have but I couldn’t seem to stop despite his obvious anger. I struggled to keep still, keep breathing. “Up close?”
    “I think there’s some cards in the nightstand drawer. Why don’t you go get them?”
    “Answer the question first.”
    “Go get the cards,” he countered.
    “Answer the question.”
    “A few times. When I had to. Now—” He gave me a pointed look, one eyebrow arched. It said, if I knew what was good for me, I’d shut the fuck up...like ten seconds ago.
    I shut up and went to get the cards, tossing the rubber-banded pack on the table. “How do you usually kill people?”
    “It depends.” He straddled a chair, ripped off the rubber band and started to expertly shuffle the cards. “You play poker?”
    “No.” I moved closer, wanting to ask him more even though I sensed he wanted me to shut the hell