Chapter 17
The first I saw of Honey was a hand.
It was small, the skin milky white, the fingers long, dexterous, prettily tapered to long, narrow nails perfectly manicured and polished to a deep and decadent red.
It slid beneath the dark curtain, a movement both simple and sensual, and her fingers flicked the window’s catch open.
Then it was gone.
I waited for a moment but the hand didn’t reappear. I picked up the fallen goon’s gun, the latest addition to my growing collection, and slipped it in my jacket’s outside pocket. Honey might need it to defend herself.
If, I thought, she even knows how to use one.
I decided that her hand’s brief appearance was the only invitation I was going to get, and pressed both hands against the glass of her window. It slid up easily just a whisper of
