“Brandon Adams,” Quin said.
“Yeah. What about him?” I asked.
“What about him?” Quin grumbled. “You were supposed to kill him.”
Wow.
Quin wasn’t usually that blunt. For safety concerns for all of us, he rarely used words like “kill” or even “take out.” He preferred to use the more tame “handle it.”
“I’ve been meaning to get back here and explain the whole situation to you…”
“But you, what? Got distracted by some pretty co-ed and took a tour of the Caribbean with her?” Quin asked, looking tired. Of me, or of the job? I had no idea.
“What’s the problem, boss man?” I asked. “What does it matter who killed him so long as he’s dead?” I asked.
And then watched as Rosie and Quin shared the same quizzical look before turning to me, looking a mix of confused and worried.
“What?” I asked, straightening.
“Brandon Adams isn’t dead, Bell,” Rosie said, shaking his head.
“What?” I asked, frowning. “Yes, he is. I saw him take the bullet myself.”
Again, they shared a look.
“Did you check the body afterward?” Quin asked.
And, see, normally, I would. If it was my kill, I would have taken the time. Even with the guards bearing down on me. The job had to get done.
But because my instinct had been to get Shawn out of there—some primal, base urge to “protect the woman,” I guess—, I didn’t stop to make sure Adams was actually dead.
“While we are on the topic,” Rosie said, looking at me. “Who shot Brandon Adams?”
“Bellamy,” Quin growled when I paused, not wanting to share that yet.
“Her name is Shawn Saeed,” I said, not really having any other option.
Was I worried about Quin knowing her name? Of course. But if Brandon Adams was still alive, we had bigger issues than Quin being in the know.
Because if Shawn hadn’t managed to screw with the cameras at Adams’s place, he had her on video. It was only a matter of time before he figured out who she was. And then went after her.
And me, of course.
But I was more worried about Shawn than I was about myself.
I, at least, had the kind of training that would help me take down that bastard and his guards if they came for me.
But Shawn, for all her attitude, was just a normal woman. She didn’t, from what I could tell, have any sort of formal self-defense training. She was a scrappy fighter. Like a street kid would be. Which made no sense, given her family, but that was how it was.
The mystery that was Shawn Saeed intrigued me almost as much as how her body responded to mine.
“Saeed,” Rosie repeated, running through his mental Rolodex. “As in Saeed Jewels?” he asked.
“Yeah. The niece.”
“What do you mean the niece of a prominent high-end jewelry empire shot Brandon Adams?” Quin asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“I just learned about the whole family connection tonight myself. I haven’t put the pieces together yet, boss man.”
“You saw her shoot him, though?” Rosie asked, having just slightly more patience with me than Quin did, likely because he hadn’t known me as long.
“I did.”
“Okay. Fucking rewind, Bellamy. No more talking in circles. Tell us what happened from the beginning.”
So I did.
About Nia giving me the specifics.
Then about schmoozing the neighbor so I had my alibi.
Heading over to Adams’s place.
And finding Shawn there already doing what I was being paid to get done.
Then getting her out of there.
“And then?” Quin asked, knowing the story didn’t stop there since I’d been MIA for days.
“And then I tried to get answers out of her,” I hedged.
“Oh for fuck’s sake, Bellamy, you didn’t,” Rosie said, giving me a horrified, yet resigned, look.
Because while I might not have gotten around to dosing and taking my new coworkers—Rosie and Amita—on unplanned vacations, they sure as hell had heard about my history of doing that.
“Tell me you did not kidnap the niece of a wealthy family, drag her across international waters, and then hold her against her will. Tell me you didn’t do that,” Rosie demanded.
“As my potential lawyer someday, I did not do that,” I said, giving him a smile.
“Fuck,” Rosie hissed under his breath. “Supposing someone did do something that fucking idiotic,” he went on, “what exactly transpired after that?”
“Well, I think he would have gotten very few answers because of the whole lack of trust thing. And then he might find himself—and his boatman—drugged and stranded while she got away.”
“Jesus Christ,” Quin groaned.
“I suppose he could have also run into her at a charity event tonight where he learned the truth about her family and background, but failed to get any details about why she might have wanted to kill Brandon Adams. Oh, aside from him being an asshole,” I clarified.
“Was Adams at the event?” Quin asked.
“Being charitable doesn’t exactly seem like his cup of tea, wouldn’t you say?”