seal of my dreams
Holding the rifle, Billie Jo stayed down and inched to the window to sneak a peek at a compact car. The door opened with the headlights still on, blinding her to whoever got out of the driver’s side. But as the figure emerged into the light and walked toward the door of the trailer, she hissed a breath of horror.
“Son of a bitch. He sent someone to kill me.”
Someone who obviously could do the job. The man must have been six two and damn near two hundred pounds of rock solid muscle covered in a rain-soaked T-shirt and worn camos. His hair was shorn to highlight sharp features, an angular jaw, and a mean slash of black brow.
But it was his hands that stole her breath. Hands the size of a small country, with long fingers and wide palms. Hands designed to do two things: make a woman scream in pleasure or squeeze the life out of another human.
Billie had no doubt which one this beast had come to do.
Nutmeg’s growl grew louder and Billie shook her head furiously. “Hush, Nutsie, please!”
As if she understood her owner’s fear, Nutmeg obliged, sinking back into the pillow. But it wouldn’t last; the second Conan the Barbarian reached the door – the only door in or out of this damn place – nothing could keep that dog quiet.
Think, Billie Jo, think. Just as she turned to grab the dog, the man pounded on the metal door, the sound reverberating back to the bedroom where Billie stayed.
As expected, Nutmeg vaulted from the bed, staccato barks echoing as she ran into the trailer’s only other room.
A hit man who knocked?