Malibu Beach.
Hunter stared at the woman standing before him.
She was flawless. A linen-colored mane of hair cascaded down her back. Her black bikini clung to curves that were both soft and dangerous, a perfect trap designed by nature. She looked about twenty-six or twenty-seven—the prime of her life.
Hunter's mind raced. Angelina Jolie's face. Which movie?
Tomb Raider? No, she wasn't British.
Salt? Maybe.
Wanted? Possible.
Mr. & Mrs. Smith? Highly likely given the sniper skills.
"Beautiful lady," Hunter said, flashing his most charming smile. "Were you talking to me?"
Jane Smith's eyes swept over him, lingering on his chest and abs. Her gaze was predatory, appreciative, and calculating all at once.
"Just admiring the view," she purred. "The company intel didn't mention you looked like this."
Internally, Jane was analyzing him like a piece of machinery.
Muscle density is perfect. Not gym-bro bulk. Functional. Explosive. He didn't get that body from a treadmill.
Jane was the ace of her agency. In ten years, she had never missed a contract. Raised by a Special Forces father, she had been handling firearms before she could ride a bike. By nineteen, she was a lethal weapon.
But three days ago, she missed.
She had Hunter dead to rights—a perfect ambush from four hundred meters. And he had dodged it. Not by luck. By instinct.
Since then, she had been shadowing him. Watching him swim, surf, play tennis. He was a machine. His routine was chaotic, his awareness supernatural. Every time she lined up a shot, her instincts screamed danger.
She trusted her gut. It had kept her alive this long.
So, she changed tactics.
Her agency had a rule: If a contract wasn't fulfilled in three days, it went open market. Any assassin could take it. Jane Smith had never failed a contract. Her pride wouldn't allow her to lose this target to some second-rate hitter.
If she couldn't kill him from a distance, she would kill him up close.
"I'm Jane," she said, extending a hand, her voice dripping with honey. "I saw you surfing. You're good."
Hunter took her hand. Her grip was firm, her skin cool. He noticed the slight callouses on her trigger finger.
"I'm Hunter," he replied, holding her gaze. "And you're not bad yourself."
He knew exactly what she was doing. The Honey Pot. The oldest trick in the book. Use beauty to disarm the target, get close, and then slip a knife between the ribs or a poison in the drink.
Jane stepped closer, invading his personal space. The scent of coconut oil and expensive perfume filled his senses.
"I'm bored," she whispered, looking up at him through her lashes. "My friends bailed on me. You look like you know how to have fun."
"I might," Hunter smirked. "Depends on your definition of fun."
"Oh, I think we have similar tastes," Jane smiled, a dangerous glint in her eyes. "Fast cars? Adrenaline? Maybe a little... danger?"
"Danger is my middle name," Hunter quipped.
Jane laughed, a throaty, genuine sound. "Good. Because I hate safe."
She ran a finger down his arm, tracing the muscle.
"So, Hunter. Are you going to buy a lonely girl a drink? Or are you just going to stand there looking pretty?"
Hunter felt the trap closing around him. But he didn't pull away.
This was Jane Smith. The deadliest woman on the planet. And she was inviting him to play.
"A drink sounds perfect," Hunter said, offering his arm. "Lead the way."
As they walked toward the beach bar, Hunter's mind was already formulating a plan.
She wanted to kill him. He wanted to survive.
But more than that... he wanted to see if he could tame her.
Game on, Mrs. Smith.
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