Young Love Murder Part 14

"What are you talking about?" I ask in frustration, racking my brain for what that something could be.

"Oh, let me see. What's in two days?" He raises one eyebrow at me and I get the familiar urge to yank on it. One of these days, I'm going to wax them off.

"Monday?"

He shakes his head, as if disappointed, and sighs dramatically. "Annabelle, Annabelle. Two days from now is March 10th. Your birthday," He emphasizes his words as if speaking to a child. "We always spend our birthdays together."

That's right, I'm about to turn eighteen. What Jackson said is true. We do always spend our birthdays together. It's one of the rare times that we do normal-people stuff, things real families do. "I totally forgot."

We enter my hotel room and he pulls me in for a hug. "I know. You've had a hard time the past four months, but now I'm here to take you to Paris in time to celebrate."

I pull back. "Why Paris?"

He has an impa.s.sive look on his face as he says, "Simon has received information."

"What kind of information?" I step away from him and place my hands on my hips, knowing that something's up.

He gets cold look in his eyes from whatever he's thinking. Huh, he's wearing gray contacts. "All sorts of wonderful information," he says sarcastically. "Sit down. It'll take a while to get through the list."

Sitting down in a chair nearby, I look at him expectantly. "Well?"

He also sits down, leaning back in a slouched position. "Well, let's see. Where should I start first? How about Brazil?"

"What about Brazil?" I ask warily.

"Simon has received reports on your a.s.sa.s.sination methods in each of your past six a.s.signments, not including the current one."

"And?" I ask, already knowing what he's about to say.

He shrugs his shoulders. "Fine, here's what Simon heard. In Brazil you pushed the target out the gla.s.s window of a VIP booth at a soccer game."

"Check," I say while making a 'checking off' gesture with a finger in the air. This list is going to be long if Simon's computer geek gathered the info. The dude is nothing if not efficient.

He narrows his eyes at me, but continues, "In China, you . . . nunchakued to death the target."

"Check two," I say, adding another check mark to my invisible list. "I also threw some throwing stars at his jugular first."

I think he's trying not to laugh, but I can't be sure. "In Mexico, you took a wooden baseball bat to the target's head."

"Check three." Another check marked on the hit list. "And I'd like to add that his head was rather large. It reminded me of a pinata."

He chuckles before clearing his throat, putting his serious Jackson face back on. "My personal favorite, you used a machete to make the kill in South Africa."

"Check four," I say, then grumble, "I would not recommend that one, bro. Messy as h.e.l.l, I hate when the blood splatters on me."

He grimaces and continues, "I'm surprised you didn't car bomb the former IRA member when you were in Ireland. What's up with shooting them in front of witnesses? And Simon heard that you stole a bottle of whiskey from the bartender." Wow, what a thorough report, I think sarcastically.

"A car bombing crossed my mind, but I was in a bad mood that day. By the way, check. And that d.a.m.n whiskey gave me a nasty hangover the next day."

He gives me a 'whatever' look. "Moving on, in India, you dressed up as an extra and sent a poisonous snake into the dressing room of that Bollywood actor."

"Dirty rapist," I mumble under my breath. "And lastly, check six. That took some delicate planning and the snake was a b.i.t.c.h to catch afterwards." I still feel guilty about giving up the chase and shooting it.

He shakes his head. "Oh no, after tonight, I'm adding another check mark to the f.u.c.k-up list. A garrote, Annabelle? You know it takes forever to strangle someone to death."

"They say you should try everything at least once," I remind him sarcastically.

He looks amused by my annoyance. "And who, exactly, are 'they'?"

I make an exasperated noise. "Uh, you know . . . 'they', people, everyone." Pointing towards the hotel room's windows, I add, "Out there."

He rolls his eyes. "Whatever." In a superior tone, he says, "I don't really think that there's a general opinion that every method of a.s.sa.s.sination should be tried at least once. Simon taught us well, Annie. You need to stick to the basics. Gun, poison, bomb."

I lean forward excitedly and point at him in triumph. "Ha! You forgot knife! It looks like someone needs to re-read his a.s.sa.s.sin manual."

He looks as though he's about to finally lose his patience. "There's no such thing as an a.s.sa.s.sin manual, drunktard. Why don't we finish this conversation when you've sobered up?"

"Maybe I don't plan on sobering up."

And, yep, he loses his cool. Standing up, he practically growls, "And what's up with that? You never drank to this extent before. How many of the last seven jobs have you been drunk for?"

I look up at the ceiling. "If I had to estimate, I'd say somewhere between one and seven of them."

"So it's all of them, then? Are you still having that hard of a time getting over him?"

I shoot my brother a dirty look and say through clenched teeth, "I don't want to talk about him."

"Well that's too bad, because he's the other reason I'm here."

"What do you mean?" Not sure that I'll like what I'm about to hear, as my heart begins to race.

"He's become a problem."

"He's my problem, not yours." I don't like Jackson even mentioning the word 'problem' in the same sentence that's referring to Gabriel.

"Simon doesn't think so." Dammit! I definitely don't want Simon thinking along those lines.

"What does Simon think?"

"He thinks your 'experience' with Gabriel is affecting your work. He thinks that you've become reckless on your a.s.signments because you're heartbroken." Jackson gives me a pitying look that makes me want to poke him in his fake gray eyes.

"I am heartbroken," I whisper and my eyes well up with tears. Squeezing them shut, a few slip out to roll down my cheeks. I am never drinking again. It turns me into a big d.a.m.n crybaby.

When I open my eyes, Jackson has a sad expression on his face. "You were going to quit for him, weren't you?"

I nod my head and then shake it. "It doesn't matter. We weren't meant to be anyways."

"Either way, Simon's asked me to accompany you on your jobs for a while. Just to make sure you're alright and keep you from continuing on the path you're on."

This annoys me, I'm not a child. At least in two days, I'll no longer be a legal minor. "I don't need a babysitter, Jackson. Nor do I need you tagging along to evaluate my work."

He ignores me, saying, "There's another thing that Simon mentioned."

"Please, do tell," I say in a hostile tone.

"It seems that someone has been trying to find you," he explains cautiously.

"Simon told me that Gabriel never told the police I was the one who killed his father," I respond, alarmed.

"He still hasn't," Jackson rea.s.sures me. "The police still believe you're a possible kidnap or murder victim. Or a runaway before you'd even moved to Miami, given the lack of records for an Anna Walker."

"What's Simon worried about then?" For whatever reason, Gabriel is keeping his mouth shut. I miss his mouth. I miss him. My eyes begin to fill again in self-pity and I blink rapidly before Jackson notices.

Jackson nods. "Simon received a call from Marie Perrot." He clears his throat and blushes. Really, Jackson just needs to get over it. So Marie had one of her former employees teach Jackson about s.e.x a little more thoroughly than I was taught. Big deal, the virginal blush is years too late. Avoiding eye contact, he continues, "Anyways, Marie told Simon that a young man by the name of Gabriel Sanchez, along with a private investigator by the name of Steven Russo, showed up at her home in Paris. The two went around the city, going to all known Madams and former Madams, asking if they knew a girl by the name of Anna Walker, showing a sketch of you."

I tense up at this revelation. "Gabriel's looking for information on me in Paris?"

"Yes. I guess he left school early for spring break."

"And we're going to Paris tomorrow?" I try to hide my excitement, but obviously fail, by the expression on Jackson's face.

He gives me a suspicious look. "Why do you seem happy about this information?"

"I'm not," I squeak out.

He still looks suspicious, but slowly says, "Anyways, Simon's asked us to go to Paris and meet with Marie. Also, we need to find out any information we can on Gabriel's intentions. Why he's looking for you."

Aw h.e.l.l, it's useless. I give up and stop trying to hold back my grin. "Okay."

"Annie," he says sternly. "Simon's instructions are that we're not to make contact with Gabriel or the private investigator without receiving permission from him first."

Squirming in my seat from excitement, I agree, "Okay."

"Annabelle," Jackson says in a warning voice.

"Jesus Christ! Quit acting like you're my father." Rolling my eyes, I pretend that he's the one being unreasonable.

"No, I'm not your father. Our father died for the very same reason you've been acting so recklessly, for love."

I scowl at him. "That's heartless, Jackson. Our father died trying to save our mother because he loved her."

He looks at me gravely, leaning forward to rest his arms on the chair he'd vacated. "That's right, but we're the only family each other have left. I don't want to lose you too."

Getting up and going over to him, I give him a hug. "Don't worry, Jackson, you won't. I'm the best a.s.sa.s.sin in the world. No one is going to be able to hurt me."

He smiles reluctantly, returning the hug. "Second best, you mean."

Chapter 19.

Annabelle Paris, France - March 10th Waiting for us at the garish front desk of our infinity-star hotel in Paris is a package from Simon. The man always seems to be one step ahead of us. Jackson's French is flawless as he thanks the concierge. Our father spoke French almost exclusively with Jackson up until the time he died. To speak as well as the natives, I have to actually make an effort.

We own a flat in Paris, but whenever we're concerned about the possibility of being compromised, we stay at hotels instead. It's more anonymous and allows us to scope out our private home before settling in for any length of time. Within the next day or so, we'll park ourselves outside of our Paris flat to see if it's being watched. It's always a joy to stakeout your own home. I doubt Gabriel or his private detective have found out its location. In each country that we own property, we have a different alias that we list them under. Not that we get to enjoy our own vehicles and residences very often.

I already know what the package is, so I s.n.a.t.c.h the manila envelope out of Jackson's hand as soon as the gold elevator doors close. He frowns in disapproval. "Annabelle, you shouldn't get your hopes up."

"Shut up," I say dismissively. Giving his reflection in the mirror a dirty look, I rip it open, too anxious to wait until we get into our hotel suite. On top of a stack of papers are pictures of Gabriel. It reminds me of when I first got the a.s.signment to kill his father and saw his picture for the first time. This time, though, the effect is a hundred times more intense. Because this time, I'm in withdrawal for him, needing my fix. Like a drug, the sight of him is racing through my blood.

He looks different. The hardness in the lines of his face disturbs me. As though in a constant state of tension. The coldness in his piercing green eyes makes me want to cry. He's dressed differently too. More mature, like a young exec on Wall Street, not a senior about to graduate high school. From the background, I can tell the picture was taken here in Paris. Obviously recently since he's been here for only the past week. There's a man in the picture standing near him. The older man is in his forties with sandy brown hair and a pleasant face, cigarette pressed between his lips. His suit looks less expensive than Gabriel's, more practical. He must be the private detective, Steven Russo.

I look through the other pictures, mostly of Gabriel in different touristy parts of Paris. A picture of him slouched in a wrought iron chair at an outside cafe makes me smile. Way to wrinkle your fancy suit, Gabriel. Some are with Steven Russo, some without. One of the pictures is of Gabriel and Steven Russo, taken on the steps of my old friend and s.e.xual mentor, Marie Perrot's home.

By the time we enter our large hotel suite, I'm rifling through the paperwork. The stuff Simon sent gives us details on the hotel they're staying at and all of the places they've been spotted at in the past couple of days. I roll my suitcase into one of the bedrooms and return to the living room. Sitting down on a jacquard Victorian loveseat, I curl up to read the remainder of the information. Unb.u.t.toning the top b.u.t.tons of his wine-colored dress s.h.i.+rt, Jackson grabs the TV remote and opens up the armoire to flip through the channels, stopping on a McDonalds's commercial.

Ignoring my brother's sounds of amus.e.m.e.nt from watching the commercial, I continue reading. The paperwork also gives background information on this Steven Russo person. He's a well-established and sought-after private investigator in Florida. With experience on cases that have taken him worldwide, a majority of them have been based in Florida and the nearby states. He's a former Navy Seal and was in the FBI for a number of years before retiring. He also belongs to a network of higher-caliber private investigators in the United States who share information and resources.

Looks like Gabriel found the right man to hire. Not that Steven Russo stands a chance of finding me if I don't want to be found. I'm not worried about Marie giving them information about me. She can be as secretive as a spy. A former lover of Simon's, I know she's as loyal to me as she is to him. I wouldn't call her 'friend' otherwise.

The first order of business is to do what Simon asked of me and visit with Marie, no hards.h.i.+p there. It's been awhile since I've seen Marie and, while I can't wait to talk to her, it won't be a purely social call. Being a Madam gave her an insight into people, particularly men, and I want to know how she interpreted Gabriel's visit.

Looking down at my jeans and sweater, I figure I need to change before going to see her. Normally, I dress down when I'm not on an a.s.signment, but I have a lot of respect for Marie and she believes that a female should dress to the hilt whenever possible. She's all about the feminine image. Plus, I don't want to hear her b.i.t.c.h about it.

Putting on a short silky red dress with black heels, I smooth out my hair and apply full make-up, including red lipstick. Since it's a chilly spring day out, I throw on over the dress a fitted dressy black leather jacket that reaches just below my ribs. Marie will approve of the siren look. Plus, it's my birthday. I'm in the mood to look good. My hair is black at present and I apply a little product and a brush to smooth it out, giving it a glossy s.h.i.+ne.

Jackson insists on coming with me to see Marie. I'm sure he plans to keep an eye on me and prevent me from sneaking out to find Gabriel. Whatever! I do what I want. It's not like I haven't given him the slip numerous times in the past. What makes him think he could really stop me if that's what I wanted? Of course, when the tables are turned and he's ditching me that can be pretty d.a.m.n annoying.

Do I want to seek out Gabriel? More than anything! I'm dying to see him in the flesh, pictures just aren't enough. On the plane ride to Paris, I was practically jumping out of my seat. I'm surprised the energy I was giving off didn't cause turbulence. Will Simon and Jackson be p.i.s.sed at me? h.e.l.l yeah, but I don't care.

The thought that Gabriel is scouring the globe for me has me dying to know why. On the taxi ride over to Marie's home, I turn to Jackson, "Why do you think he's looking for me?"

Jackson shrugs. "I don't know. There are many possibilities. Maybe you left a s.h.i.+rt in his car and he wants to return it to you." Jacka.s.s!

I hit him on the shoulder. "Be serious, Jackson! What do you really think?"

He looks at me with a serious expression, arching an eyebrow. "Annie, try to keep in mind that you killed his father."