Dirty Work

Published by: eXtasy Books

Author : Ann Raina

ISBN :978-1-4874-4206-4

Page :235

Word Count :72252

Publication Date :2024-12-20

Series : Nick and Jacklyn#0

Heat Level :

Available Formats : Dirty Work (epub) , Dirty Work (mobi) , Dirty Work (prc) , Dirty Work (pdf)

Category : Contemporary Romance , Romance

Product Code: 978-1-4874-4206-4

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Just when you think you have found the perfect match, you may find yourself bursting into flames.

In the Washington, DC metro, police officers are being maimed and murdered, unconnected victims chosen randomly. What kind of killer is the FBI up against? Can Agent Hayes and his team uncover the truth behind the brutal murders?

Callahan turned on the light. Weatherly lay in his own blood, flowing freely from a deep cut in his throat. There were other cuts across his torso and legs, but they were minor compared to the gash that had torn open his throat.

When FBI agent Richard Weatherly dies, the team of agents led by Nicolas Hayes is assigned to investigate. Their assumption that the murder might be connected to the Mafia case on Callahan’s desk proves wrong. Then the next officer becomes the victim of the Death Trap Killer, a faceless man who attacks old people in their homes. It becomes clear that the killer's aim is far more sinister—he’s on a killing spree, and his main targets are law enforcement officers.

In his private life, Nicolas is confronted by a group of gangsters who want to kidnap his girlfriend, Jacklyn, for reasons only her father can explain. To keep her safe, the couple must separate. Regretfully, Jacklyn leaves their home, not knowing when she will be able to return.

The left side of the old man’s wrinkled face was covered with blood, from his temple down to his bearded chin. More of it had trickled across his left ear and into his neck. A small puddle formed on the floor beside the armchair in which the old man was sitting. His eyes were closed, his mouth slack. The smell of blood mingled with the scent of after-shave and a polisher. The bottle and a piece of cloth lay on the coffee table nearby. The victim appeared to be an orderly, even distinguished old man, at least on the surface. Even though he had been cleaning his living room, he wore pleated pants, a checkered dress shirt, and a knitted pullover. Vincent had witnessed the old man shouting at two youngsters who had done nothing more than trespass on his lawn. The old man had sworn at them and threatened to call the police next time. He shook his fist and threw an empty flowerpot at them when the two boys didn’t climb over the fence quickly enough. The incident had affected Vincent deeply, and he had vowed to do something about this man.

Vincent took a step back, cocked his head and watched the motionless victim with grim satisfaction. He felt righteous and it felt good. He was here to do the right thing, to avenge injustice, to right the wrongs. In a time when inequity was everywhere, Vincent was making up for it, and he was proud of what he was doing.

He looked back toward the window. If he switched on the small lamp on the coffee table, every passerby on the sidewalk would have a clear view into the old man’s living room.

Not yet. Vincent strutted through the dark room, pulling his heavy rucksack from his back and unpacking it. He had a lot of work to do. Excited in an almost sexual way about the damage he would cause, he went to work.

* * * *

Calm down. Forget her words. Equanimity. Joy. Happiness. My life is not hers.

The argument with her mother still lingered on Jacklyn’s mind. The heated exchange returned in a loop. It had been an old argument, one that her mother brought up now and then when she felt grumpy or dissatisfied with something in her own life. The older her mom got, the more spitefully she worded her scorn about Jacklyn’s unworthy lover. Most of the time Jacklyn brushed off her bickering and pretended that she didn’t care. But there were times when her skin was thin, her equanimity gone. Today she had suffered trouble at her physiotherapy office. She had left work exhausted and querulous, dissatisfied with the way she had handled the problem. Then her mom had called and the two women were soon engaged in a heated argument that grew louder with every sentence. Her mom accused her of spending too much time doing nothing useful and ruining her life with a man who hardly ever showed up for family events. She should look for a man to marry. In her definition, that meant to find a lover with lots of money, no matter his age or looks. Finally Jacklyn had ended the call to avoid further insults.

It was senile obstinacy showing, but her mom’s behavior still bugged her.

Jacklyn couldn’t shake her mother’s repeated complaints that Nicolas was merely an FBI agent, not even boss of the institution, just a kind of policeman with odd working hours and little income. He makes less money than you, darling, her mother had said. He would never make it into the High Society of DC or anywhere else. Jacklyn didn’t know how to explain for the umpteenth time that she didn’t strive for riches or for acceptance in the DC high society. Her physiotherapy office made enough money so that she could afford to take a few days off should Nicolas be home after a stressful case. They had enough money in the bank to live comfortably. Unlike her mom, they didn’t need a house in the Hamptons to be happy.

But her parents’ estate was nice—a wonderful home with many rooms and every amenity a spoiled guest could think of. And it was deserted for the weekend, so that Jacklyn had taken Nicolas on a long-deserved vacation.

She sat on Nicolas’s bare back and rested her hands on his shoulder blades while he carried her around on all fours. The Persian carpet under his hands and knees was soft and thick, the perfect place to play games. She ran her hands along his torso. Scars gave testimony about his dangerous job. He’d faced more dangerous situations than she wanted to know about. She had visited him in hospitals, had worried about his health, and despite her fears, she always kept her head high. Her mom’s criticism had only strengthened her resolve to spend as much time with him as possible. He was a good man, an honest man, regardless of her mom’s scathing words.

He was also the sub in their relationship.

She bent forward to whisper in Nicolas’s ear. “Isn’t this the perfect place to play?”

He turned his head. “You mean if your mom knew we’re making out on her precious carpet in her antique living room, she’d have a heart attack?”

She nibbled his earlobe, giggling like a girl doing something very much forbidden. “Something like that, yeah.” Then she laughed. Tranquility. Fun. Love. She slapped his shoulder playfully. “Go on, my Beast, you can work a little bit longer, and then we’re going places. Bedrooms, bathrooms, dining rooms…wherever I can screw you.”

“As you wish, ma Belle.”

The rush of love she felt was overwhelming. She thanked whatever benevolent god had sent him to her five years ago. “Off you go!”