The Hitman's Mistake (Love Thrives in Emma Springs Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  THE HITMAN’S MISTAKE

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  THE HITMAN’S MISTAKE

  Love Thrives in Emma Springs, Book 1

  SALLY BRANDLE

  SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

  New York

  THE HITMAN’S MISTAKE

  Copyright©2018

  SALLY BRANDLE

  Cover Design by Syneca Featherstone

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published in the United States of America by

  Soul Mate Publishing

  P.O. Box 24

  Macedon, New York, 14502

  ISBN: 978-1-68291-714-5

  www.SoulMatePublishing.com

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  To Brian, Mark, Neil, and my little buddy, Iris,

  who believe in my writing success.

  Thank you for the faithful encouragement.

  Love, Sally

  Acknowledgments

  Anne Mitchell, my mom, was a reader. Romance novels, magazines, newspapers, and cereal boxes came under her scrutiny and often succumbed to a pair of sharp scissors if an article pertained to her offspring. Her willingness to dive into any adventure nurtured my love of reading and the confidence to give writing a try. We all need a support team growing up, and I was fortunate to have a bevy of tenderhearted but strong-minded women, along with patient brothers and a tenacious dad.

  Writing has been a journey of meeting new friends and welcoming their constructive criticism. Many thanks to my critique partners and talented authors Jodi Ashland, Susan Wachtman, Becky Oosting, C.B. Williams, Kent and Lynette Allen, Alix Adamson, Jen Hilt, Kathleen Ekstrand, and others whose comments improved the story.

  Special indebtedness to By Your Side editor Dana Delamar, editor CJ Obray, editor Shannon Kennedy and Soul Mate Publishing editor Sharon Roe for her patience and dedication to bring this project to completion.

  Chapter 1

  Frissons of apprehension raised the fine hairs on her forearms. A shadow moved near the stairwell.

  Stepping inside the elevator car, she hit the button for the lobby with her fist, refusing to allow the reminder of her heartbreaking mistake to take hold in her head. Must be weird evening lights playing tricks in the empty building.

  The car bumped to a stop on the ground level of Seattle’s Justice Building. Taking a deep breath, she stepped from the elevator onto the slate floor. The energy that normally pulsed from harried workers and pre-jailed patrons had dissipated into an eerie void.

  Hesitation inched over her skin. She’d sworn she’d never ignore that warning again. Her gaze passed over the unattended metal detector and scanner tables, then flitted to the dark interior of the tiny Coffee Klatch snack shop. Stuffing her pruning shears in her apron pocket, she shook her head and chided herself. Serene Interiors Plant Care is yours. Be thankful, and quit moping about working late.

  She pressed her palm into the embroidered purple stalk of lavender on her apron bib and looked out front.

  Hazy bulletproof windows allowed a view of the dwindling stream of pedestrians in their typical Friday night exodus to their families.

  No open arms would greet her tonight. Her stomach tightened while a bleak, wintry pall settled into her heart. She tugged on her ball cap. It restrained her braided auburn hair while she worked, but more importantly, it provided a lifeline.

  Time to start pruning. Her hand brushed against a branch of her oldest bonsai, a Douglas fir. The bark had cracked and split for the tree to grow in diameter. If only a shattered heart did the same.

  She studied her collection of potted, six foot tall green sentries jutting out in a perpendicular row from the elevator doors. They neatly concealed the ugly wall behind them and farther down, the corner stairwell holding her storage closet.

  “Live shrubs produce a calming effect on visitors” was the pitch she’d given to GSA’s building manager to get the contract. She’d repeated the phrase today at noon to the Regal Hotel’s upper management. And they’d bought it, ensuring a few more dollars each month toward owning a wooded lot of her own, where she could build a fire pit and pitch a tent on weekends.

  A hollow chant of regrets beat in her chest at the thought of watching a campfire fade to dull gray, all alone. Her hand touched her brother’s Mariner’s cap. The smoky scents had faded, but images of smudged faces and starry nights stayed woven into its threads.

  She plodded across sunbeams of September’s golden light, walking beside knee-high pots containing her ten foot indoor hedge. Her gaze swept heavenwards, up to the atrium ceiling. She blinked. Streaks across the glass distorted the brilliance of the setting sun.

  Geeze. Wasn’t anyone proud of their work? The creepy window washer on the scaffold last week should’ve been working harder instead of staring at her.

  Her breaths of still air quickened. He’d watched her working.

  Big deal. Maybe he had a sicko mommy-thing for women in aprons.

  A trowel and her spritzer rattled in her tote while she rounded the end flower pot and moved to the backside of her overgrown fourth plant. Dim light flickered through the leaves, casting shadows onto the brick wall, barely illuminating the narrow aisle leading to the stairwell door.

  She took a swig of coffee, sat with her back to the stairwell, and set her drink on a cold slate tile. Facing the front windows did little to help. The lighting in the corner sucked. After stuffing a clean cloth for polishing leaves into a side pocket of her cargo pants, she tugged on gardening gloves.

  Squeaks from her mom’s old pruning shears echoed in the large, vacant room. She pulled another uneven limb of the Chinese Elm closer to her face and squinted. While she clipped, a peppery fragrance released from the wood.

  A twig grazed her cheek, making her flinch. She b
rushed the neckline of her purple T-shirt with the back of her hand.

  The place threw off the vibes of an abandoned morgue. Chill. She released the limb, let out a long breath, and grabbed a lop-sided branch from overhead. Tonight, even a rude prosecutor’s voice rupturing the tranquility would be welcome.

  Not happening this late, but Ike would be descending in the elevator any minute. Hopefully in a better mood than when she’d watered the jade plant in his judge’s chambers earlier. He’d been tense, without the fatherly banter he doled out when she visited him and his wife, Shirley.

  Soft taps came from a few feet behind her. She tilted her head.

  Footsteps? From the stairwell? Miranda released her grip, and the tree limb sprang free. She swung her head and watched the branch skim the fly of the trousers on the man now towering over her right shoulder.

  Not Ike. She froze.

  “What in the hell? Oh, didn’t see you there—” he sidestepped, and her cup scrunched in protest under his big boot. The lid popped off and the double shot of Kona glugged into a mocha-scented pool.

  He jumped to avoid the puddle. “Damn energy conservation put you in the shadows. Sorry, I nailed your coffee.” His swinging backpack missed her nose by inches.

  She twisted her body and scooted her butt until her shoulder jammed against a carved pot.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “It’s okay,” she mumbled, keeping her head lowered to avoid further contact with the bag-wielding klutz wearing black trousers. Must’ve been him she’d glimpsed a few minutes ago, while the elevator doors had closed on the floor below Ike’s.

  “I’ve never been attacked by a branch. Must say, you deployed it well,” the deep voice announced. He stopped directly in front of her.

  His hiking boots made her size-nine high-tops appear dainty.

  Not the shoes of a snobby lawyer or a lost, post-trial pimp trying to find his way out of the building. Still, the flailing branch served him right for sneaking up on her. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “And I shouldn’t text and walk,” he said in a lighter, almost sexy tone. “I’m Grant.” He dropped his pack and stuck out his hand.

  An FBI tag printed ‘GRANT MORLEY’ hung from the bag.

  She peered from under her cap’s brim and gulped.

  Him.

  Agent of Interest. Her heart took off at a gallop.

  His brawny physique had inspired nasty daydreams while she’d snipped plants and snuck peeks while he pumped the coffee dispenser in the lobby café. “Nice to, ah . . . meet you.” The last words squeaked out while she raised her hand. His warm grip sent an unfamiliar humming deep, deep down.

  He released her hand and smiled, transforming his no-nonsense face to attentive. “You’re—?”

  “Aware you didn’t plan the assault on my coffee,” she blurted out like an idiot. She fumbled the clippers, her palms sweating worse than windows in a greenhouse.

  “Size fourteen assault,” he quipped. “I’ll wipe the floor and get you another cup. Glad to hear I’m absolved.”

  Absolved? Her thoughts dipped well below religious. A snicker escaped. “I’ve got paper towels. The clean-up’s no biggy.”

  Agent of Interest now stood close enough to get his precisely creased pant legs pruned. She thumbed the handle on her trimmers while he glanced at the Coffee Klatch Cafe. “Then my mission’s to get your caffeine replaced.” He sheepishly grinned at her, and a single dimple appeared in his cheek.

  She closed her gaping mouth and inhaled his faint scent of woodsy cologne.

  Hazel eyes . . . she’d guessed the color correctly. “There’s an espresso shop in the next block.”

  Outside, a car horn honked in bumper-to-bumper traffic.

  He checked his phone, and the dimple disappeared into a frown. “You’ll have coffee pronto. Give me three minutes at the Coffee Klatch.”

  Grant Morley’s smooth, measured steps echoed across the vacant rotunda. FBI, CIA, they all strode with poised determination, and this man personified the confidence of an alphabet agency’s elite.

  There ended the similarity in stature to the other bureau boys. Linebacker shoulders to long legs, every inch of this agent was perfectly proportioned male.

  Anticipation thrummed in her veins. She’d imagined those well-muscled arms wrapped around her during a dance, or more.

  She tossed a wad of towels onto the puddle, and sprang up, doing a fist pump. Her dream hunk had smiled. At her. She bent to corral the spill and then pitched the wet mess into a trashcan.

  Her poor departed mocha had been five bucks well spent. Tracing his path, she trotted through the back of the unlit body scanner.

  Grant stood at the glass door of the Coffee Klatch. He tapped his key, and then raked a hand through thick hair the color of polished walnut.

  Her fingers tucked strands of her own wayward hair behind her ear while she slowed and then crossed the foyer to him.

  It might’ve been the set of his jaw, or his chiseled face—one scrape short of fierce—which signaled his determination. It wouldn’t matter if he had to trek to Colombia, track down Juan and his donkey, roast the beans, and grind them himself in the back of this shop. He’d make coffee happen.

  “Hey, they’re closed.” She blushed. An ordinary citizen could make that conclusion, much less a G-Man.

  He rapped again. “The owner does bookkeeping Friday nights.” He yanked a wallet from his backpack and let the pack drop to the floor. An Alaska Airlines itinerary stuck halfway out. At the top, “Seattle to Three Falls” stood out in bold print.

  “I think he’s gone,” she said. “The espresso shop stays open late. What time does your plane leave?”

  His head snapped around as if he’d deflected a punch. “How’d you know I’m flying?” His cop’s stare penetrated, colder and darker than burnt tree bark.

  “Observation.” She smiled and pointed to the exposed paperwork. “Going on a tropical vacation?”

  “Not really a vacation. Sorry. The agent in me is always questioning people’s motives,” he said, then pulled out the itinerary and tucked it in his pocket. “Bad timing workwise, but I’m headed to Montana to ride up a mountain.” His relaxed eyes shifted to her worn green apron where bits of tree trimmings clung.

  She brushed off a twig. “Oh, near Yellowstone?”

  “No. Emma Springs, bet you haven’t heard of it.” He glanced at her worn ball cap and at the slight crook in her nose, then turned and tapped the glass again. “The owner’s gotta be in the back. He’ll have coffee.”

  “Fashionable attire isn’t a prerequisite of the espresso shop.” She stepped back and tugged her cap low to hide her flaming red cheeks.

  “You got it wrong. You rock those tactical pants.” He flashed a sexy grin. “I’m just short on time.”

  Before she blushed more, two honks came from an SUV navigating to the curb.

  “There’s my ride.” He straightened his tie, lost on such an expansive chest. “Duty to help my dad calls.”

  “Family isn’t a duty.” Her hand flew to her heart. “Cherish every moment,” she warned, “as if it’s your last together.”

  “Pardon?” His eyebrows pinched together.

  “Nothing. You’ve got a flight, and I can work without coffee.”

  “Okay then, I owe you.” His final assessment consisted of one long pass from her tennis shoes up. Her skin tingled while he checked out every curve on her body. “I’ll make it special,” he promised.

  “Sure.” She gulped.

  “Hey, if you need help trimming an unruly limb, I’m your man.” His dimple reappeared. “Scout’s honor.”

  He issued a two-fingered salute, lifted his pack, and jogged toward the exit. “Quit punishing those shrubs and go home.”


  “Bye,” she whispered, and brushed her lips.

  From deep inside came a longing for strong arms to hold her while she sat in front of her next campfire. A former explorer scout might suffice, if he owned an exquisitely molded butt like the one bounding off to Montana.

  He’d crossed the lobby and reached the revolving doors leading outside. Stepping into the glass chamber, he shouldered his backpack, exposing a holstered gun.

  Frostbites of reality withered her girlish fantasies. Grant Morley carried a weapon.

  All agents did. However, seeing it . . . foolish of her to think her past wouldn’t haunt her. Squeezing her lids shut, her chest tightened.

  Nothing would bring her family back. Damn guns! Damn them to hell! Her fingernails dug into her clenched palm.

  Damn daydreams. One late night at work, and life reverted to an emotional roller coaster. This afternoon she’d endured Ike’s impatience and now the gun-wielding player.

  Muffled honks drew her attention to the street where Agent Grant Morley opened the passenger door of an SUV.

  Better to write his type off. Probably a size two girlfriend at the wheel. Their weekend plans included moonlight kisses and sipping champagne after hiking his stupid mountain. And target practice.

  The car pulled into an empty lane and disappeared.

  Shirley’s right. Find a new man of your dreams, and not one wearing tasseled Italian loafers, gangster Jordan’s, or new hiking boots.

  “Modest and mild, modest and mild,” she whispered. Her perfect dating mantra.

  An old-fashioned wall clock chimed in agreement, alerting her the Number 10 bus home to Capitol Hill had pulled away from the stop.

  Too late. She’d have to catch the next one. She trudged toward her plants while staring at her faded purple tennies. Dull and comfy.