Last Kiss (Hitman #3) by Jen Frederick, Jessica Clare Page A

streaming over her curves, dripping downward to cling to the blond curls between her legs.
    I’m halfway across the room before I realize that she’s caught me again. Naomi is clever, and not just with computers. I have forgotten myself. “You have a silver tongue. I will remember that.” With a click of my heels and a formal bow, I bid her good night.
    I am not prepared for the Emperor to be a female. The fake passports and identities I’ve brought are all for men. In my room, I take them out and rifle through the identities. The shortest one is a male, five-eight, and that is still taller than Naomi, so disguising her as a male would not work.
    This is not a problem I cannot overcome. Rio is a tourist city. There are people—and thus passports—available everywhere.
    I place a pair of thin rubber gloves in my pocket and a knife in my boot.
    “Where are you going?” Aleksei asks me as I enter the foyer.
    I respond coldly, for it is unusual that he is watching me so carefully. “Out.”
    He knows better than to ask for an explanation but the look in his eyes raises the hair on my neck. It is intense and calculating. I would deal with him now, but I need someone to watch Naomi while I am gone.
    “I’ll be back shortly,” I tell him, part in warning.
    He nods in reply.
    The hotel we are in is too luxurious for the tour buses, my current target. I walk down the beach and then around to the front of each resort, looking for a bus returning to the airport. At the third hotel, I find the perfect mark. The tour guide is busy corralling guests inside. There is a passenger with a dog who is yapping loudly. The bus driver is leaning against the front, sharing a smoke with a hotel valet.
    And one of the passengers is approximately Naomi’s height. Conveniently, her purse is left abandoned on top of her suitcase as she chases down a small child. I hunch over, lowering my head, and no one notices as I begin rolling the cases toward the open luggage compartment at the bottom of the bus. Or if they notice, they think I am nothing more than part of the tour package.
    When I get to the mother’s suitcase, I simply walk off and climb into a waiting cab. Inside the purse I find a passport for an American woman, Karen Brown. Like her name, she has dark brown hair and is the same height as Naomi. It is perfect.
    The clothes inside the suitcase will work as well. Satisfied, I give the driver the address of the hotel.
    When I return to the hotel, I immediately have the new luggage and passport sent to the jet that is on standby. Upstairs in the suite, Naomi is in virtually the same position she was when I left. Aleksei is in his room, pacing. I retreat to the bedroom and once there, I find myself full of restless energy.
    I cannot hear Naomi or the click for the soundproofing is too good in the suite. It is why we chose this particular hotel and set of rooms. Only one way to enter, and no one can hear our activities. Yet now I wish for thinner walls and less space. I wonder if her skin is still wet from the shower. I wonder if, when she cleaned between her legs, she lingered, imagining my touch there.
    My body grows tight and ready. I tell myself it is adrenaline from the theft earlier, but I can only lie so many times to myself. Quickly I throw on running shoes and shorts.
    “What is the matter with you?” Aleksei asks, joining me in the exercise room, where I have sought my physical release.
    “I am hiding,” I admit. Sweat drips down my forehead. Without interrupting my long strides on the treadmill, I swipe the liquid away with the bottom of my shirt before it can sting my eyes.
    “From the girl?” He smirks.
    She is no mere girl. She is a temptress with her luscious breasts and curvy form. I, who am never tempted by women or men for that matter, cannot stop thinking of her. An hour of exercise and I’m still feeling an ache in my balls—
from the girl.
    “She is dangerous,” I tell him. “Stay away from her.” I do