Free Touch If You Dare by Stephanie Rowe Page B

sniffed.
    Rotten bananas.
    “Hello, my dear,” a well-cultured male voice drifted over the afternoon air.
    She scrambled to her feet, and there he was, less than ten yards away. Augustus. Not Good.
    The world’s most well-decorated and highly sought after assassin was every bit as scary as she’d thought he would be. At least two inches over the five foot mark, his skin was crusty, and a half-smoked cigar was dangling from the left side of his mouth. A tattered cowboy hat was askew on his balding head, a few gray hairs were protruding from his chin, and his purple velvet slippers seemed to be a sign of impending insanity, which was never a good thing when it came to professional killers.
    He smiled, a thin, nasty smile that would have made the nearest cockroach run for cover. “Reina Fleming, I presume.”
    He’d come for her? “Oh, I’m so sorry. Reina died ten minutes ago. You just missed her.”
    But in a horrifically unfair state of affairs, the ultimate bad boy had enough brain cells to realize she was lying. “I heard you wanted to kill me.”
    “You did?” She’d gotten her assignment less than two hours ago. If she was still alive to text after Augustus left, she would let her boss know that his impenetrable safeguards had been violated… hmm… had Death himself leaked the news? Was he setting her up to fail?
    Of course he was. That would be just like him, wouldn’t it? Hadn’t he told her that he was far too complex for a linear, simplistic assignment? Anyone with the ability to comprehend the blatantly obvious would know that she had no chance against Augustus, so if Death had sent the ultimate black sheep after her, then it meant he was trying to get her fired in the most permanent way.
    Men could be so despicable sometimes. Weren’t women supposed to be the ones who were plotting, circuitous, and resourceful, and men were simply supposed to put their heads down and charge? Hello? Had someone failed to copy her on the gender reversal memo?
    “Of course I know you need to kill me,” Augustus said. “Do you think I would dominate my esteemed profession if I didn’t have an extensive underground network of people willing to betray others to keep me alive in return for a payoff so paltry it insults their intelligence?” He ripped open his black satin shirt to reveal an unexpectedly well-muscled chest and a black tattoo in the shape of a chicken over his heart. “I’m busy, so I thought I’d make this easy for me. We’ll do it Old West style.”
    Oh, this did not feel good. “Do what?” she asked warily. She poked Jarvis with her toe, but the menacing hottie didn’t budge. Was he dying? Fear edged at her, and she risked a quick glance. His chest was moving. Still alive. Relief rippled through her, and she nudged him again. “Jarvis,” she whispered. “I need you.”
    No response.
    She did a quick look around to see if anyone else could help her, but the street was eerily empty, as if every living creature had sensed the need to stay away from the purple slipper killer. All the wannabe studs who’d been queued up outside Scrumptious? Gone. Where were the male heroes, huh? What happened to rescuing a damsel in distress? No wonder these studs needed virility balls. Any man who took off at the sight of the perennial all-star assassin was not a real man.
    Not that she needed a man to rescue her, of course. It was simply an observation. But hey, if there was a man who wanted do to the hero thing and help her, well, why not contribute to his ego and self-esteem? As a woman, wasn’t it her girly duty to help build up the testosterone level in every male who had the potential to, you know, save her life? A man like Jarvis.
    She quickly knelt beside the warrior in question, pulled her sleeve over her hand to protect it, then yanked the star out of his head. She lightly tapped his shoulder. “Jarvis? Can you hear me?”
    Augustus pulled out another pink star and lodged it under her chin. “To