Just A Hint - Clint. Lori Foster
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jeans.
For a man who commanded such an exorbitant fee, Clint Evans didn’t dress very well. His black T-shirt had faded to a dull gray, his Levis had to be ten years old, and his black lace-up boots had scuffed toes.
In fact, if it weren’t for the large, lethally honed body beneath those clothes and those dead eyes, Evans wouldn’t seem so imposing at all. He was an older man, probably nearing forty. His unkempt black hair had grayed at his temples and a timeworn weariness etched his unhandsome face.
But those eyes…
When Clint turned toward him, Robert shrank back, then shrank some more when he kept coming until Robert was forced to lean back awkwardly over his desk. Chest to chest, hands flat on the desktop and thick arms rippling with muscle, Clint Evans caged him in. He was bigger, harder, stronger, and Robert smelled his own fear.
This man would kill for money.
Robert wondered if he’d kill for pleasure, too.
That awful thought pinned him to the spot, making his lungs burn and his stomach clench.
Clint’s small smile held such a look of malice, Robert felt faint.
“Yeah, I’m capable of killing.” The hushed whisper of his words only made them more menacing.
“I…I see.” Robert hated him in that moment, and he hated himself. He’d be so glad when this was all over. “That’s…good.”
“I also know a liar when I see one.” Clint’s eyes narrowed more, pinpoints of green fire.
“Call it a sixth sense, intuition, but I always know when someone is bullshitting me.”
A warning? No. He couldn’t know, Robert tried to convince himself. But the tension built and Robert thought he’d made a horrible mistake, that Evans would kill him on the spot and no one would know who had done it, because no one knew he’d hired him. No one.
Sick defeat washed over him.
Then Evans leaned back, his smile crooked, smug. “That’s something you might want to remember, Bobby-boy.” He turned and walked toward the door, saying at last, “I’ve got everything I need. I’ll check your lead right now.”
“Now?” Just the thought of Clint Evans getting near Asa filled Robert with anxiety. If Asa found out that Robert had hired Clint, he’d be dead before nightfall. “You can’t mention my name, Evans. You can’t let him know I sent you there—”
Clint either ignored his panic, or just didn’t care. “You have my number, but only use it in an emergency.”
“Damn you, Evans.” Clint Evans’s business card listed a phone number, but no name, no address. Robert didn’t like it. Things were too out of control, too unstable. “Listen to me!”
“Sit tight and don’t do a damn thing until you hear from me.” Clint disappeared through the door, his gait relaxed, his attitude more so.
Robert slumped. His heart beat too fast and his knees felt like gelatin. Sweat dampened his brow.
Was Evans really that good? It’d be too perfect if both he and Julie survived this mess.
Robert hadn’t chosen Clint Evans lightly. In rapid order, he’d read the reports, and he knew about Evans’s major fuck-up two years ago. Only the most elite circles were privy to that information, but Robert had influential friends who were good at snooping. Evans walked a very fine line these days.
Since the awful fiasco, Evans hadn’t done much work-for-hire at all. He’d been too busy struggling to keep himself afloat and to pay his heavy legal bills. He’d sunk so low, he worked as a repo man, and by all accounts he was damn good at that job. Just as he used to snatch people back, he now reclaimed planes, yachts, and RVs, with little fanfare or fuss.
But the past was still there, still tainting him.
Clint Evans lived close enough, only a few hours away, so he was expedient. Given his tarnished reputation, he was capable of anything. And best of all, he was desperate. Those traits combined to make him the right man for this particular job.
Robert rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was doing the right thing, for himself and for Julie, he was sure of it. Second guessing himself now would be pointless.
If anyone could bring Julie back safe and sound, and at the same time get the better of Asa, Robert would put his money on Clint. Hell, he had put his money on him. But what Evans would get was a paltry amount in comparison to what Robert would gain—the love of his life, his freedom, a new start.
Dropping into his chair with an enormous sigh, Robert tried to believe his own reassurances.
But he kept seeing those eyes, and he knew stark fear.
The early evening June sun was high in the sky, broiling hot on such a cloudless day. Clint Evans slipped on mirrored sunglasses as he strode away from the enormous, ritzy house in an expensive Cincinnati suburb. He was very aware of that small photo in his back pocket, and very aware of the woman who needed him. He wanted to pull it out and look at her again, but he didn’t. Studying her further wouldn’t help. It’d just make him nuts, and his stomach was already unsettled.
Rage always cramped his guts, made him literally sick, and Robert Burns enraged him.
Clint drew a deep breath and considered what needed to be done in order to save Julie Rose. She wasn’t a beautiful woman. Hell, she wasn’t even all that pretty. But she had looked delicate and very proud.
Burns told him she was a schoolteacher. She fit the stereotype physically: mousy brown, medium-length hair, intelligent brown eyes. That serene, yet taunting half smile that meant she’d have the patience and the wit to deal well with kids—and men.
She was twenty-nine and looked it. Maybe she even looked a bit older.
According to Burns, Julie was a hellion and a sexual tease. Clint smiled. Yeah, it was that more than anything else that intrigued him. A mousy, intelligent schoolteacher—who liked to screw around. He shook his head, indulging in a private chuckle.
Even while distracted with thoughts of Julie Rose, Clint scanned the area. An inbred caution had kept him alive and kicking through a hell of a lot. He lived with a heightened awareness of his surroundings that few people ever experienced for a single moment, much less an eternity.
Appearing casual and relaxed, Clint rounded the block of the old, ostentatious homes. A green minivan, out of place in the upscale neighborhood of luxury cars, pulled alongside him and stopped. Clint opened the door and slid in. There was no one around to pay him any mind. He supposed rich folk didn’t sit on the front porch and wave at neighbors the way they did in his neighborhood.
“So?” Red Carter quirked a blond brow in curiosity, while gently accelerating the vehicle forward.
“I don’t trust him.”
Red nodded. “Me either.”
“No? Why not?” So it wouldn’t get bent, Clint pulled the photo out of his pocket and held it in his hand. He studied Julie Rose once more. Her big brown eyes, glinting with mischief, smiled back at him. Damn. “You haven’t even met him yet.”
“You don’t trust him, so I don’t trust him.” Then with a frown at the photo, “S’that her?”
“Yeah.” Clint held it up so Red could see.
“What a shame,” Red lamented. “She looks awful sweet and sassy.”
His tone squeezed around Clint’s lungs, pissing him off, making him edgier. “She’s not dead yet.”
“No, but probably wishing she was.”
Clint didn’t like that probability at all. Maybe his insight was influenced by his disdain of the wealthy. Who the hell knew? But whatever the reason, he didn’t believe a word of Robert Burns’s story, and that meant Julie Rose