Les Recidivists (Chance Assassin Book 2) by Nicole Castle

Author:Nicole Castle [Castle, Nicole]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2014-05-17T17:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Had Silva begun plotting his demise all those years ago when he created a passageway between bedrooms, he could not have made his murder more convenient for Frank. It gave him an alibi every time he put away laundry. Bella knew about the hidden door and even she did not suspect him. That was fortunate. Vincent was too young to be a widower, and she would certainly make him one if she found out Frank had killed Silva.

Frank attempted to put away his and Vincent’s clothes, finding space where he could amidst Bella’s rainbow of fabric: dresses for every occasion and every day of the week for the next several decades. Handbags dangled from hooks in the ceiling like carcasses in an abattoir and the floor was littered with more shoes than could possibly ever be worn. He squeezed a final black shirt between a dress that looked a bit like a goldfish and a long, red woolen coat. So many of Bella’s clothes were near duplicates of each other to his untrained eye that it took him a moment to recognize the coat; she had been wearing it the first time they met. The men had torn it while yanking it off of her shoulders, ready to kill her, or worse, at Malkolm’s command. Because Frank had offended her by saving her life, he had offered to sew it for her.

That was twenty years ago. It must have been the oldest thing in her closet, no longer in style and likely never worn again even after he took the time to mend it. But she had kept it.

“Do you remember when we met, Bell?” he asked, returning to the room where Bella and Vincent were sitting together on the bed. Vincent had somehow been tricked into painting her toenails, and was doing such an appalling job that he was certain never to be asked again. Bella had cucumber slices on her eyes and blue mud on her face, oblivious to her crimson painted feet. It looked as if she had been tiptoeing through broken glass.

“You were a prick,” she said.

“And you were the biggest bitch I had ever met.” His first impression was that she was like d’Artagnan from The Three Musketeers: quick tempered and eager to fight anyone over the slightest offense.

Malkolm was refusing to let her enter Silva’s home, claiming that she was trespassing. He had four armed men with him, and though Frank saw glimpses of fear on her face, she carried on as if she could conquer all five of them at once with nothing more than a nail file. It would have very likely been her last battle had Frank not intervened on her behalf. Just as quickly as he had come to her defense, she turned her rage upon him, shouting that she didn’t need his “fucking protection.”

Frank was not insulted by any means. He was enchanted. He had suddenly become a musketeer himself: Athos, taciturn by nature and presently injured just as he had been in the book, challenged by the hot blooded Gascon.

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