Stolen Love (Beauty in the Stolen 3)

He takes my wrist and brings my watch to my face. It’s almost six.

I free my arm and push onto my elbows. “Did you get a car?”

“A truck. It’s parked on a dirt road running next to the fence. I couldn’t risk driving through the gates, even though it was tempting signing in as Cyndi Lauper.”

I take in his grin. The fake name is no doubt a jab at the name I gave him at the bar.

“Come on.” He takes my hand and pulls me to my feet. “I got dinner. I even got sheets.”

“Sheets?”

He gives me a cocky look. “Unless you prefer sleeping on my jacket.”

“Sheets are good,” I say, my cheeks heating a little from not wanting to admit I enjoyed the smell and feel of his jacket. It reminds me of better times. Never safer, but definitely better.

We nuke the mac-and-cheese he got and eat a quick dinner. He insists on an early night, saying we need to be rested for tomorrow. He’s right. Tomorrow is the big day. I take the bed with the new sheets, and, like the gentleman he is, he takes the sofa.

I wake up with my stomach in knots. Facing myself in the bathroom mirror, I get that nervous feeling of the first day of high school or a job interview. My cheeks are pale and, despite a nap and a full night’s sleep, the circles under my eyes are dark. I look like a patient in recovery, not like a strong woman about to take on the enemy trying to kill her.

After a quick shower, I moisturize my skin and brush out my hair. Taking a step back, I study my reflection in the mirror again. Since the accident in Zim, I haven’t used make-up except for the time I dressed like Cindy, but that wasn’t to look pretty and feel confident. That was to hide my features and seduce a man.

Lina got me a few cosmetics. I unpack them on the basin and set to work, applying foundation a shade darker than my skin tone to hide the paleness, blush on my cheeks, and a dusting of eyeshadow. Black eyeliner and mascara makes the blue of my eyes pop. I color my lips berry-red and press them together. There. That’s much better. I’m not going to face Mint looking like a corpse.

I pull on the purple matching underwear set and the new clothes Lina got for me. The T-shirt and jeans fit tightly. The jeans have a bootleg cut to hide an ankle holster. I strap on the holster and secure my gun. The sneakers are comfortable and far more practical than my heels.

I take a minute to tidy the bathroom before going to the lounge. Ian is already up, wearing only his jeans. He drags a gaze over me, appreciation heating his eyes. I don’t dare look at the naked plane of his chest and abs. Instead, I focus my attention on the breakfast laid out on the table. He made coffee and toast. My pills are set out on a saucer next to my place setting.

“Eat up,” he says. “You’re going to need it.”

I take a seat and pull a mug closer. In a heartbeat, he’s at my back, bending over me to pour coffee into the mug. He drags in a breath, inhaling me as if it’s still his right.

When I stiffen, he pulls away.

He sits opposite me and pushes a black dot the size of a pill across the table. It’s sealed in a plastic casing with a foil backing.

“The bug,” he says. “It has a self-adhesive backing. Stick it somewhere they won’t notice. The police may dust the shop for fingerprints if Mint alerts them you were there, so you’ll be wearing gloves.” He puts a pair of brown leather gloves next to the miniature microphone.

Putting down the mug, I pick up the gloves. The leather is thin and soft.

“Try them on,” he says. “I had them made.”

I look at him quickly. “Made?”

“Damian knows a guy. He took care of it. Your hands are small, and you need a good grip to plant the microphone. If the gloves don’t fit like a second skin, you risk dropping the bug.”

I fit the right hand. The cut is slim, and the leather has good stretch. It indeed feels like a second skin.

His tone is warm when he says, “They look good on you.”

Avoiding the appreciative evaluation in his eyes, I avert my gaze. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Even if I don’t look at him, I can hear the smile in his voice.

The rest of our breakfast passes in silence. When it’s time, I braid my hair, pull on a baseball cap, and grab my backpack.

Making sure the guards aren’t near, he takes me outside and leads me through the back of the property to the fence. The truck is parked on the other side. He’s cut a hole at the bottom of the fence to climb through. I’m still anxious as I climb in beside him, but my purpose gives me direction, and my direction helps me to focus.