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    Not Done Living
    Not Done Living
    Not Done Living
    Ebook115 pages1 hour

    Not Done Living

    By Suzanne D. Williams

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Contemporary Version

    "You will kill me, Mason Thornhill," she whispered.

    "I don't want you dead," he replied. "I want you alive and free. I want you mine."

    -----

    Casey Hearn was told to kill Mason Thornhill, and that would be simple enough except what begins as another assassination, ends with an attraction she can't deny and her heart placed in his hands.

    He's not who she expected at all. He's stronger and smarter and one step ahead of her at all times.

    But there's a world of secrets between them, and now, someone is out to silence everyone involved. Unless, of course, she gets to them first.

    A page-turning romantic suspense, alpha male meets girl with a gun, from best-selling author, SUZANNE D. WILLIAMS. 25,000 words.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSuzanne D. Williams
    Release dateMay 27, 2016
    ISBN9781533778444
    Not Done Living
    Author

    Suzanne D. Williams

    Best-selling author, Suzanne D. Williams, is a native Floridian, wife, mother, and photographer. She is the author of both nonfiction and fiction books. She writes a monthly column for Steves-Digicams.com on the subject of digital photography, as well as devotionals and instructional articles for various blogs. She also does graphic design for self-publishing authors. She is co-founder of THE EDGE. To learn more about what she’s doing and check out her extensive catalogue of stories, visit http://suzanne-williams-photography.blogspot.com/ or link with her on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/suzannedwilliamsauthor.

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      Book preview

      Not Done Living - Suzanne D. Williams

      CHAPTER 1

      A slight breeze furled the flags strung across the tents below, bringing with it the sweet smell of fried dough and a vivid protest from the girl’s stomach. She ignored it and concentrated instead on the location sighted at the end of her rifle. Second tent, eastern view. Time, twelve fifteen. All was in place for the kill shot.

      Flattening herself further against the sun-warmed earth, she lay stone-still, biding her time. Any minute now he’d appear. Yet he didn’t, and a certain amount of anxiousness built.

      C’mon. C’mon, she mumbled to herself. Where was he?

      The collection of tents snapped and popped in the breeze, a noisy backdrop to the distant crowd of fairgoers, all oblivious to the drama unfolding above. She held her breath. Hopefully, it’d stay that way, and she’d be in and out and miles away, before anyone knew what happened.

      Another minute passed, then the flap of the tent she’d been watching for days swept back and a male figure emerged. She smiled broad. "There you are Tall, Dark, and Handsome."

      Too bad a pretty one had to die, because he was an eyeful.

      He stepped right, and she pressed her finger to the trigger, inhaling to steady herself. This was the moment. One, two, she counted, tightening her grip. Three. No.

      Not kids. She would not shoot a man in front of children. He wasn’t supposed to work today. She’d planned this angle and location for that very reason. But he’d circled around and entered one of the carnival games. Young faces, brimming with eagerness, stepped up to counter, waving dollars in their hands.

      She reversed from the gun and sat up on her knees. She couldn’t do it this way. She’d have to go in close. Not what she wanted, but there was so much at stake. They expected word of his death tomorrow, and she either provided it or her life was at risk and a whole lot of cash went down the drain.

      She concealed the sniper rifle with a camouflage tarp and reached to the side for her handgun. Curling it in her palm, she dashed off the slight rise and through a gap in the chain link fence, then across the asphalt into the mesh of tents.

      More stomach-churning odors assaulted her. Greasy fried sausage mixed in with sautéed onions, horse manure, and sweaty vendors. Merchants hawked their wares, selling everything from cookware to truck tires. Overtop, the tunes of a half dozen styles of music fought against the cackle of chickens and bleating of sheep.

      She wandered down the narrow, cacophonous passageways, halting outside his tent, then, two fingers on the canvas, pulled it back and peered inside. He bent forward, his back to her, and dropped three white balls into the hand of a preteen youth. The boy, his face flushed, puckered his lips and, one eye squinched, took aim.

      She released the canvas.

      She needed to draw him away from this area to somewhere quieter, and for that she needed a disturbance. She glanced left and right then wended her way back in the direction she’d come.

      She turned a corner and discovered a young woman bent over a bucket. A green water hose aimed toward the top, sudsy water frothed over the rim.

      She’d do.

      Raising her gun, the girl brought the barrel in contact with the back of the woman’s head. Don’t move and don’t scream, she said.

      The woman drew in a shuddering breath.

      Keep your hands where I can see them and walk backwards.

      Hands trembling, legs shaking, the woman did as she was told. At the edge of the passageway, she bumped her in the shoulder. Turn left, but don’t look at me.

      They revolved in tandem until both faced outward. She shoved the woman forward.

      Returning to the carnival game, she came to a halt, the gun pressed hard to the woman’s back. Here’s how this is going to work. When I say so, you’ll scream, and make it good. Sound like you’re dying. Okay?

      The woman jerked her head up and down. O-okay. Just don’t hurt me.

      One, the girl counted, tension building.

      Two, she continued. Three.

      She jabbed the woman in the shoulder, and the woman let out a terrified scream.

      Chaos ensued, fairgoers shrieking alongside the heavy stomp of running feet. The sides of the tent flexed and shivered, and the canvas flap shot back.

      She smashed the woman in the head with the butt of her gun, sending her crumpling to the ground, and raised the barrel to his face. His eyes widened.

      Up with the hands, turn around, and march.

      He obeyed, and she steered him away from the scene, her senses keen to any approaching feet and the bedlam created in her wake.

      It quieted the deeper she pushed, the tents giving way to a corrugated metal building and a sea of RVs. Carnival workers’ temporary homes.

      What’s this about? he asked.

      She thumped him with the gun. Shut up.

      Rounding the building, she forced him into a cavity out of sight of the fair. Here, the wind died down, and the odor of animals and machines hung thick.

      Face the wall.

      He complied, and she brought the gun to his head. No hard feelings.

      A laugh shook him, and her anger flared. I fail to see what’s so funny.

      ‘No hard feelings,’ he quoted. Like I’m going to feel anything once you shoot me. He paused. Answer me this. Why here?

      The gun warmed in her hand, the feel of it comfortable, and she relaxed. I do what I’m told, she said.

      And what were you told?

      To kill Mason Thornhill at the fair before it leaves town.

      He leaned his hands on the metal wall, an almost casual stance. It doesn’t bother you to take someone’s life like this?

      She tossed her head, sending her dark brown locks swirling around her head. Obviously not. I’m here, aren’t I? They wanted the best, so they hired the best.

      And you’re the best? he asked.

      She snorted. I’m done talking. Readying her hand, she made to squeeze the trigger.

      But in one swift motion, he spun around, twisting her wrist, and wrenched the gun away. He smashed her backwards toward the wall, and she flew sideways, smacking the building with a thump.

      He aimed the gun at her heart. I’m not done living.

      The lines of his face were hard, his eyes black as midnight, but somehow that enhanced his appeal. She stared into their depths, an itch coming over her, a flash of heat and desire.

      She moistened her lips. You going to kill me now?

      He tilted his head. I’m not the assassin, you are.

      So what? We stand here like this? You turn me in? They’ll only come after you again.

      We should talk then, he replied.

      Talk? You want to talk? She laughed. The only talking I’ll ever do with you is flat on my back.

      A smile crooked his lips. That can be arranged.

      Her senses heightened again, the slight pressure of his fingers, the muscular planes of his chest, his heady masculine scent rushing in. Overcome, she placed one hand behind his head and dragged his mouth to hers.

      A fire lit between them, uncontrollable, and it burnt a path through her mind, claiming her next few breaths. She pulled back with a gasp to see his features changed and a spark flared in his eyes.

      Arrange it then, she said.

      He lowered the gun and stuffed it in the back of his pants. Taking her by the arm, he yanked her out of the nook and across the pavement toward the RVs. The metal gate clanged open and shut behind them, and she stumbled along haphazardly through the maze, halting at his insistence outside the door of one in particular.

      He banged hard

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