Hell Bent

She’d showered? Now she vaguely recalled something about hot water… clothes in a pile by the bathroom door. And, Jack had called her boss? Annabelle rolled her eyes and was immediately sorry that she did when more pain assaulted her.

She had to admit that she appreciated Jack looking after her. But the truth was, her job was the source of much discontent in her life, and part of the reason she’d gone on a binge the night before.

“The good doctor wasn’t pleased, but he was understanding,” Jack continued calmly.

“He’s up to his eyeballs in more work than he has any right to be,” she muttered under her breath. “I’m just adding to his stress.” Stress for him because he depended on her so much and now she wasn’t there and it was because she’d been careless and immature. And, stress for her because she hated her job but felt guilted into not quitting.

She took a slow, deep breath. Then another one. Sometimes deep breathing helped with the pain. It wasn’t working this time. She said, “Speaking of cars, Jack, I need to borrow your bike.”

Jack stopped what he was doing and turned to face her, one damnably perfect brow arched inquisitively. “Oh?”

“My car was impounded yesterday.” She shifted uncomfortably beneath her covers and then, distractedly, she glanced under them to see what she was wearing. Jack watched her carefully, an amused expression on his handsome features. She sighed when she saw that she was down to a white tank top and Victoria’s Secret Pink panties. She very much doubted she’d picked them out herself. When she felt like crap, she normally chose comfy sweats and thick socks to curl up in. Not little bitty undies and a tight tank top. That had been Jack’s doing.

She looked back up at him, ignoring his wicked smile. “The bike, Jack? I promise I’ll be good to it.” She didn’t bother asking him for one of his cars. They both knew that she wouldn’t drive them – they gobbled gasoline and she was a hard-core conservationist. In fact, the car that had been impounded was a Honda Civic hybrid. Ugly, but practical.

A bike, on the other hand, was ecologically sound, economically prudent, and very, very fun. Especially Jack’s bike, which was a Harley Night Train. It was the most beautiful thing Annabelle had ever laid her eyes on. She liked the bike almost more than she liked its owner. Almost.

“It isn’t the bike that I’m worried about, luv.” His smile became less amused and a touch more gentle. He brought the clothes and shoes to the bed and sat back down. “You can’t possibly be at a hundred percent just yet. You caused quite the stir last night.”

Annabelle’s blush was inescapable. She sulkily yanked the bra and t-shirt out of his hands and proceeded to dress beneath the blanket. Aside from the migraine, it wasn’t too difficult. Women just know how to do those kinds of things.

“Still wanna marry me?” she asked sullenly. All she could picture was her head bent over the porcelain bowl of the toilet, her strawberry blonde and gold hair falling lankily on either side. What a vision she must have been. Actually, now that she was thinking of it, images of last night’s unpleasantness were coming back to her. They only deepened her embarrassed flush.

“In a moment’s notice, luv. Just give me the word and I can be divorced within an hour.”

Annabelle blinked and stared up at him. Not a hint of teasing could be detected in his expression. His voice had dropped an octave and his blue gaze was steady. Annabelle, on the other hand, had been utterly and completely joking. Not only had she tried to make it clear to Jack that, because of… stuff… she could never be his wife, but the man was also married right now, and his current wife could kick the shit out of both of them. Well, out of Annabelle anyway. There wasn’t much on Earth that could kick Jack’s ass.

Annabelle found herself beginning to squirm beneath his gaze. She looked away, deciding on a change of subject. “Come on, be honest with me, Jack. Sherry’s on the juice, isn’t she?” She mumbled, not meeting his gaze. Sherry was Jack’s new wife. Wife number three. And she had a body like granite. She terrified Annabelle. Except for when Annabelle was drunk. And then, unfortunately, not nearly enough terrified Annabelle.

Which she had made all too clear the night before. When she’d picked a fight with a Canuck hockey fan who had said something derogatory about the late, great Sergei Zholtok. When Sherry had come forward to suggest that Annabelle settle down, Annabelle had whirled around to wail on the large woman without thinking. It hadn’t ended pretty, and Annabelle figured she was lucky that Jack had been there to prevent the situation from becoming even uglier than it had.

Jack chuckled. The deep, sexy sound sent a shiver through Annabelle.

“Cold?” he asked, obviously having noticed the small gesture. Annabelle watched as the blue in his eyes darkened. “Shall I turn the heat up?” His expression remained innocent. Annabelle could truly sense the deception in it. She’d always been good at reading people, and she had nearly ten years of experience with Jack.

She shook her head. “No, I’m fine.”

Ever the one to retain control of a situation, Jack expertly diffused it. “Sherry is a good girl, Bella. Give her a chance.”

“She looks like a skin walker who stole Arnold Schwarzenegger’s body and lopped a bunch of curly red hair on top.” Annabelle knew she was being ungracious. She couldn’t help it. She felt like crap and candidness was a fault she could never work around when she was feeling below par.

“You read too much fantasy. Perhaps horror.”

“She wants to eat me for breakfast.”

Jack’s smile returned. It was unabashedly wicked. “Now, there’s a thought- ”

“Jack!” Annabelle held out her hands for the folded jeans that he was still holding. Her head was pounding and the coffee in the other room was screaming her name.

Jack sighed and handed her the jeans. He watched, somewhat bewildered, as she skillfully pulled them on without allowing him a single glimpse of her golden flesh.

Annabelle realized, as she was pulling them on, that he had chosen her tightest pair. Typical man. Then, once she’d buttoned them up, she was surprised to find they weren’t as tight as she’d expected. One of the benefits of throwing up all night was that you were dehydrated enough in the morning that just about anything would fit you.

She finished and settled back against the head board of the bed, thoroughly taxed. She sighed, again rubbing her head with one hand as the other felt above her covers for the bottle of pain killers. “Jack, the bike? Yes or no.”

He answered her sigh with one of his own and stood. “Very well, but you take the meds when you get to work, not before.”

Annabelle sighed and shoved the bottle in her front pocket. “Fine.” There would be no arguing this particular point with him. She knew from experience. The bottle bulged out and pressed against her pelvic bone, but she would transfer it to her jacket later.

Annabelle threw the covers aside and turned on the bed to pull on her socks. When she reached for her shoes, she saw that Jack had chosen her riding boots, even before he’d agreed to let her have the bike. He’d known, all along, that she would be using it. Which meant that he knew about her car. She frowned. He really did know everything about her. How did he manage that?

She shrugged it off as she reached for the black leather boots. A cold, hard shiver of anticipation went through her. They were Harley-Davidson’s, old, rugged and well worn. She’d had them for years now, since she’d first learned to ride.

When she finished, she stood to find that Jack was watching her in silence. He was leaning against the door to her bedroom, his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes were intensely, impossibly blue, the way they got when he was paying extra close attention to something. Annabelle was uncomfortably familiar with that look. It was the way he watched his marks when he was on the job.

Jack Thane was an assassin.

For all she knew, Annabelle was the sole person on the planet – alive, anyhow – who was not an assassin, but knew that Jack was. And it was that knowledge that had kept her from accepting his proposal for marriage on more than one occasion. Marriage would mean late nights, staying up, wondering where the man who was supposed to be laying beside her actually was. What he was doing. Who he was doing.

And, by “doing,” she meant killing. It was an unsettling thought – enough so, that she couldn’t quite make