His to Defend - Em Petrova Page 0,13
that Lillian wasn’t involved romantically with the racer.
“This is much more than a jilted husband.”
She bowed her head, and her warm brown hair tumbled forward. She carried herself with that guileless yet charming ease of a Parisian. Everything about her appearance suggested she didn’t put a lot of time into it, though he’d known enough French women that he didn’t buy that.
Naturally slender, with a straighter, more boyish body, she also projected something oddly alluring. He couldn’t exactly pinpoint what. Her androgynous trousers and simple button-down shirt could belong to either sex. She wore no makeup, not even mascara, though it might have worn off with crying.
He felt an urge to reach out and touch her hand to offer comfort, but he held back.
She scrubbed her hands over her face. “I don’t understand any of this. Who would want Pierre dead? One of his competitors?”
He considered how much information to share with her. He found when it came to his wards, he had to provide enough for them to recognize the dangers they faced so they obeyed him and he could keep them safe.
“Someone took a large life insurance policy out on him. He was supposed to die today in that crash on the racetrack, and right now, there is a very angry person who won’t be collecting the insurance money.”
She blinked at him. Her lashes were naturally long—she didn’t require the thick makeup so many women he’d been with did. He pulled his gaze back to the road.
“How much was the policy worth?” she asked.
“Enough to provide for the owner’s family for a very long time, especially if invested.”
“And you know who this person is.”
“Of course.” Moreau’s sponsor wanted him dead and had gone to extreme measures to see that done. However, Lars had thrown a wrench into the workings, and when Lillian recognized the shooter, she’d drawn the attention of those who worked with the hitman. They didn’t want to be identified.
Lars couldn’t put it past the sponsor not to put out a hit on her too.
“I don’t understand why I’m being chased,” she said.
“Simply put, you’re involved with the wrong man.”
She splayed her long fingers over her face, concealing her features he found himself far too interested in studying, if only to make out what it was that intrigued him. “Pierre pays me to do this work. We aren’t friends.”
“That doesn’t matter. Look, maybe you should rest. We have a bit of a drive to reach our destination.”
“Then you actually have a destination?”
He eyed her in surprise. “What would give you the impression I don’t?”
“I thought you were randomly driving just to get away from those men.”
He tried not to take that as an insult. After all, she didn’t know him or what he was capable of.
“I know where I’m going,” he assured her.
After that, she twisted in her seat to stare out the side window. He couldn’t tell if she’d closed her eyes, but she wasn’t asleep. He took the time to study her. He prided himself on reading people in the blink of an eye, though he hadn’t figured out Lillian just yet. To do her job, she would be an organized person and probably worked long hours, weekends and nights. To talk up her client, she needed the gift of gab, which accounted for her flood of questions.
Some people gathered information about the world by silent observation, like him. Others needed to talk it through. If he had to make an educated guess about his ward, he’d say she was the latter type.
Now that he had her somewhat placed into a box and labeled, he could focus his attention on keeping her alive. Then why did he find himself glancing from the road to study her again?
He forced his attention away from the woman. He’d deal with her later—right now, he needed to figure some shit out.
The hitman and those in his circle were some of the more dangerous men known to The Guard. Years back, Roman had dealt with the same crew, and he’d taken out six of the fuckers before they finally backed off. They were like a bad gang, though, always recruiting, and now Lars knew the group of mercenaries numbered in the triple digits and were spread all over several continents.
They took pay for any kill, and nothing seemed out of their reach. Not even a fiery crash on a racetrack.
The driver of the car that slammed him also walked away. He’d seen the man gun his car down the