The Doctor and the Assassin

By L. R. Wards

Nick Castile had his hands full protecting his brother's crime syndicate and working for the government as a trained assassin. However, that was before he met the gorgeous young Doctor Jordan Calloway.
He thought he'd shut himself off from feeling for others besides family, but her spirited assertiveness and beauty started waking things up in him he never knew he possessed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L. R. Wards
• Release date: Feb 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301021512

L. R. Wards

L. R. Wards was born in Germany on a Canadian air force base. After travelling all over Europe, her family settled in Canada. First on the West Coast, and then on the East Coast. She now resides in Northern Canada with her husband and spends her days reading, writing and looking after her animals on her farm.

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The Doctor and the Assassin

By

L. R. Wards

Ebook Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only, and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

Copyright © 2011, 2014 L. R. Wards

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Prologue

Jimmy thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He’d nearly missed spotting her because he’d been busy helping a customer when she walked past the window outside the florist shop where he worked. His jaw literally dropped. If he hadn’t been facing the window, he would have missed her completely and that wouldn’t have been acceptable. She was perfect.

The elderly woman he was helping peered at him over her spectacles when he got distracted by the bombshell outside the window. Up until then, she was going on about her grandchildren and how they liked carnations. He couldn’t care less. Old people disgusted him. They were all wrinkly and worn out and they either smelled like Ben Gay or cats. The more the woman talked, the more he thought about shoving her under a bus. The image brought a smile to his face. Unfortunately, she thought her stories had pleased him and she continued to talk fervently until she finally noticed that she didn’t have his attention anymore.

Young man? she snapped with obvious displeasure in her voice.

He directed his dark gaze back to her. It was cool and soulless, but his voice was charming nonetheless. I’m sorry, ma’am, I’m on a break. It pleased him to see how put out she was. Old coot, he thought as he turned away from her to tell his supervisor that he was taking a break. Like she’d care.

She looked like something out of a Goth magazine—dyed black hair, piled-on makeup, and at least a dozen piercings hanging out of her face, not to mention she had tattoos. She was rather repulsive to him—nothing compared to that gorgeous specimen he’d seen a minute ago.

The Goth shrugged, telling him it was fine. She obviously hadn’t noticed the customer he’d left over in the corner of the shop with a scowl on her face. He quickly rushed out the door, hoping he could catch up to the auburn-haired woman.

Scanning the crowd on the sidewalk, his eyes settled on the auburn hair; it made it easy to spot her. He quickly weaved through the crowd, trying to close the distance while removing his apron and folding it in his left hand as he walked. The auburn curls had attracted him first, and they cascaded halfway down her back. It was an unusual but gorgeous color, the likes of which he’d never seen, and it evoked an ache in him to touch her. Then he got a glimpse of the rest of her as the crowd momentarily parted.

She was meant for him.

Her walk was a self-assured, natural feminine swaying of the hips, and she couldn’t have been aware of how alluring it was to the man behind her. He did his best to try to stay about twenty feet away from her, but every cell in his body wanted to approach and accidently brush against that delicious female perfection.

Suddenly, the woman stopped and looked in a shop window, brushing a tendril of hair behind her ear as she examined a dress through the glass. If she knew how desirable and enthralling that simple gesture was to the men who stopped to stare at her, she probably wouldn’t have done it. He smirked. She didn’t notice that she had a male audience and seemed completely unaware of her own beauty. How perfect. It was the ideal opportunity to study her lovely profile and exquisite body, and he took advantage of it. His eyes slowly soaked up every living inch of her.

He watched her smile as she stood in front of the window. She was probably imagining what the dress would look like on her; at least, that was how he interpreted it, and he couldn’t help but smile too. Then to his surprise, she turned directly toward him instead of continuing on her way. What happened next nearly made him fall over—she actually saw him. He was usually more cautious, but God, she was distracting.

Maybe because he was still wearing a smile when she looked at him that caused her to smile back as she walked by. He felt his stomach leap. He was a complete stranger, and she’d acknowledged him. It was only for a second, but it made up his mind. He had to have her.

He would do what he did with Anna May Wagner, but he would take his time and woo this woman first. He’d thought Anna May was perfect too until he’d found out that she had cheated on him with another man. He felt his rage rise at the memory, but he’d taken care of her so she could never do it again. He shook his head to disperse the memory and snapping himself back to the present, he noticed that the auburn hair had almost disappeared from his view so he quickly caught up to her again, but still kept his distance. He would follow her and see where she lived—and then he would keep following her so he could figure out her patterns.

Chapter One: Nick

NICK STEPPED OVER the large, lifeless body, carefully avoiding the blood spatter as he wiped the gun clean and placed it in the dead man’s hand. He then walked to the door, took one final look over his shoulder at the scene, and decided he was satisfied with his work. Even to him, it looked like a suicide.

He’d skillfully injected the man with a paralytic when he’d foolishly opened the door for him. Of course, he’d had to use a larger dose than usual because the man was excessively obese. The stupid look on the man’s ruddy face almost amused him. In the man’s defense, he really wasn’t aware that Nick had been sent to kill him. The drug wasn’t meant to knock him unconscious, just render him helpless so Nick could question him. Despite the man’s size, he’d eased him down to the floor with a fluid grace, just as he’d done a hundred times before.

Terry had obviously let his health slide by spending years sitting behind a desk. It helped that Nick was built for the job. He was six-foot-four, had a hard-earned body, and was well trained to handle physical confrontations.

Where are the books, Terry? Nick crouched down next to him while dispassionately recapping and pocketing the syringe. He spoke casually, as if the scene before him was a normal, everyday occurrence.

Terry ran numbers as a bookie for his boss, but couldn’t help skimming a little for himself and gambling it away. Soon he was in deep to Frank Castile and the only way out was to turn evidence and go into a witness protection program. However, Nick had some people on the inside who were loyal to him and received a heads-up on Terry’s recent confession to the feds. As far as Terry knew, their boss was unaware that he’d snitched. Nick passed the information on to Frank and that’s when Frank sent him in. Everyone in the organization knew that when Nick showed up at your door, someone was going to die.

Terry was only able to let out a rush of air and his words were very slurred.

Hmm, maybe I overdid it, he thought. Regardless, Nick stared down at him, unfazed. Your eyes still work. Look in the direction of your safe. Now, before you try to delay, know this: the drug doesn’t dull pain, Terry. Don’t make me prove it to you.

Terry’s normally ruddy cheeks paled in fear as he turned his eyes towards a distasteful framed print of ‘Dogs Playing Poker’.

Nick walked over to it and lifted it off the wall, examining it for a moment as if he had all the time in the world.

People didn’t realize that these paintings were done to advertise cigars. He smirked at the dogs sitting around a table, playing cards. They were meant to symbolize the working class man in the early part of the twentieth century. He’d never much liked this series of paintings from Coolidge, they were rather tacky.

Nick set the painting on the floor. Sure enough, there was a safe behind the painting. He went back over to Terry and crouched down beside him again. I’m going to start saying numbers. You blink when I hit the combination. Blink once that you understand. When Terry didn’t respond, Nick gave him a sharp slap on the cheek. Don’t waste my time, Terry. I can take all night to kill you, and you are going to die. Nick started counting by tens. When Terry blinked, he started on the second digit of the number until he had the combination.

Although the drug kept Terry from moving, it didn’t block out the terror that flooded through him. He knew that if his boss sent Nick, he was going to die. No broken knees, fingers, or teeth—only the certainty of death. Terry also knew that Nick would take his time as promised if he didn’t do what he said. The man’s reputation was well known in the organization, and as he crouched over him with eerie calmness, and an unemotional, icy look in his dark eyes, Terry knew the stories were true. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.

After he opened the safe, Nick retrieved the books and took his time looking through them, showing no concern for the helpless and terrified man lying on the floor a short distance away. When he was satisfied that they were the originals, he tucked them inside his coat, closed the safe, and replaced the repulsive painting. Then as promised, he placed the gun in the man’s hand with the barrel against his temple and fired. The gunpowder residue would be on Terry’s hand if there were any question of who pulled the trigger. Nick doubted they would find the needle prick in his neck. They never had before.

Carefully avoiding the blood splatter and brain matter, he stepped around the body and left, shutting the door quietly behind him. It wasn’t personal for him and he never got involved with his targets. He’d been trained by the best to remain detached and be skilled at his job.

He casually made his way out of the building and down to the sidewalk in front of the apartment complex, then paused for a moment to pull up his coat collar to block out the fall New York chill. There was a slight breeze and he could smell winter in the air. Sounds of sirens in the distance reached his ears. Someone might have alerted the police after hearing the gunshot. He hadn’t used a silencer for that exact purpose, but he knew he hadn’t been seen leaving that particular apartment. He’d been very careful—he always was. He turned and walked in the direction of his stolen Mercedes, parked a few blocks down.

Normally, Nick would have Mario pick him up as he left, but he didn’t want to involve the kid so closely in a murder. He was still young, after all, and eager. So very eager. In contrast, Nick was seasoned at this. Emotionally, he was indifferent and it showed on his face—calm and emotionless. This was his job. He never got involved in a kill. It would be a sign of weakness, something he never displayed. He also considered himself one of the best at what he did and concern for his targets would interfere with his job, maybe even cause him to hesitate. He was trained to kill with assertion and confidence, not to doubt his marks or wonder why he’d been told to eliminate them. According to his superiors, that made him perfect.

He got in the car, flipped open his cell phone, and called a familiar number. The blue light from the screen reflected off his muscular jaw. When the man on the other end answered, he said, It’s done. Send Mario for a pick up. He then hung up and drove toward the dock.

***

Nick wiped the wheel and door handle clean before he got out of the car. Mario arrived in a black Hummer and was able to help him push the car off the pier. He got in the passenger side of vehicle while Mario assumed his regular seat as the driver.

How did it go? Mario asked as he started the engine.

Nick spared him an indifferent glance. Fine.

Mario groaned inwardly. He’d been driving for Nick for two years now and the man still spoke only rarely to him, but he thought the sun rose and set on him. He found everything about Nick fascinating.

He’d tried his best to get acquainted with him, but Nick remained a mystery. He knew about as much about him today as he did on the first day he’d started driving for him. Even though Mario usually talked non-stop around him, Nick never had anything to say, not even shut up. Although Nick wasn’t rude, he only gave the simplest responses when asked a question and his facial expressions were always indecipherable.

Mario thought the silence was disturbing and talked constantly to avoid the tension. Originally, he thought he could gain the man’s trust and he might confide or speak to him a little more. That had never happened. Nick wasn’t the type of person to invite someone out for a drink after work. If he did, they wouldn’t go because they’d be afraid something else was planned besides a drink at a bar—like a drive through Jersey, where the body wouldn’t be found for months —or at all.

Although he felt apprehension around Nick, he didn’t have any real reason to be afraid and despite his nervousness, he actually admired the man’s steel composure and rare talents.

Initially, Mario was hired by Frank Castile—and he’d given him the job driving for his brother, Nick. He used to drive a taxi until he’d met Frank on an otherwise uneventful day.

Dispatch called him to pick up a fare one night at La Grenouille, a famous French restaurant. A well-dressed, handsome, distinguished man with salt and pepper hair got in the back seat with two beautiful women that could’ve come right out of Playboy magazine: a voluptuous blond and a sexy brunette. Frank told him to head to a popular nightclub on the Upper East Side. Mario had only been driving a taxi for a few months, but he’d learned how to drive well on the streets of New York in such a short time. Although Frank had been drinking, which Mario could tell from the stench of strong whiskey radiating from the back seat through the perforated Plexiglas divider, his eyes and voice were steady when he spoke to Mario.

Mario Puzzo? Frank read the driver’s identification posted in the back seat.

Mario glanced in the rearview mirror at the sound of his name, seeing Frank staring steadily back at him. Yes, sir.

You are Italian. The man’s eyes didn’t waver from his in the mirror.

Mario smiled. One hundred percent.

How old are you?

I’ll be twenty this fall.

You are young. You should be ambitious and be in college. He moved his arm in an explanatory gesture. Not driving cab.

Mario stared at him for a moment in the mirror, wondering if the man was just making small talk or if he really was interested in his life. You have to finish high school. My father died when I was young and I had to help my mother. I quit school at sixteen.

Mario had told the story many times when he was asked that question about his age and it didn’t bother him to repeat it. He actually liked to talk to his fares. His mother told him time and time again that he’d received the gift of gab and that he could charm just about anyone with his boyish good looks.

You don’t say. A boy who loves his mama, Frank chuckled, "is ammirevole." Admirable.

"Grazi," Mario replied, thanking him.

Frank was surprised. And you speak Italian!

A bit, my mother insisted. Mario pulled up to the curb in front of Frank’s destination. A crowd was just starting to form in front of the club. Two big bouncers stood at the entrance, picking the privileged guests who were allowed to enter.

Frank told the women to go ahead and they got out of the car. He then turned back to Mario and leaned forward in the seat. Listen, kid, how much money you make a night?

Pushing a lock of his thick ebony hair out of his face, Mario turned around in his seat to look at his fare. He studied the man for a moment, wondering if he should tell him. He was a handsome man, richly dressed in a black Armani cashmere overcoat and grey slacks and appeared to be in his mid-forties. It was obvious that the man was wealthy, and Mario was surprised that a man with such privilege was interested in his life. It was the first time anyone of that caliber had asked anything about him. He shrugged and thought, What difference does it make? Sixty or seventy bucks.

Frank tsked. Not much of an income. What is that? About twenty grand a year?

Around there.

Frank paused for a moment before speaking. I have a proposition for you.

Mario’s eyebrows went up. A proposition?

I’ll pay your shift wages for today, just to accompany me for the rest of the night. Frank was impressed more than he thought he would be with this kid. He knew he could use him, and in turn, the boy would be loyal because he answered every question with an honest answer. Frank even knew exactly where he could employ him.

Mario studied the man’s expression. He seemed genuine enough, but this was New York—anything was possible. Why?

I might have a job for you that would pay three times what you make now.

This statement made Mario’s eyes narrow in suspicion.

Frank laughed uproariously at the boy’s obvious distrust and held up his hands in defense. Nothing kinky, I promise.

Mario smiled, almost embarrassed that he’d let the thought cross his mind. I’m sorry, sir, he said sheepishly. "This is New York."

Frank nodded toward the two beautiful women waiting patiently outside the car without taking his eyes off Mario. As you can see, I don’t play that way. Normally, he would take offense at someone thinking that about him, but he was moving fast on this kid and he could understand why he’d got that idea.

Mario grinned while looking at the women before he returned his dark gaze back to his fare, tilting his head questioningly. —And you’ll pay my wages for today?

Yes.

Why?

You’re a good kid. You work hard, you’re Italian, and you love your mother. For me, that’s all I need in an employee. Frank smiled. I have a job in mind for you. You only have to drive and maybe run a few errands. Nothing else. However, I like to get to know a new employee before I decide if the job suits them—and I’m not the only one that needs to be impressed. You come with me for the rest of the night, and I’ll let you know before the night is over whether I want you to work for me or not.

Mario’s mother always told him that if it something seemed too good to be true, it probably was. However, something deep within him told him to trust this man. He went with his instincts. All right.

"Eccellente. The man pushed a small roll of bills through the slot in the divider. My name is Frank Castile."

Mario took the money and looked back up at him. This is too much.

Frank laughed, not the least bit surprised by the kid’s honesty. It’s okay, kid, I can afford it. Buy something nice for your mother. Now come, I have two beautiful women waiting.

Mario looked at the busy club entrance. Mr. Castile, I’m only twenty.

Frank got out of the car and opened the door for Mario. It’s all right. There won’t be a problem.

Mario got out of the cab. How do you know?

I own the club. He shut the door behind him.

***

That had been two years ago and now Mario drove for Nick, Frank’s most trusted employee. Mario knew Nick was good at what he did—and not just because of the rumors he’d heard. He believed most of those rumors because he’d seen the man in action.

The gossip among Frank’s men was that Nick had been Special Forces and then was recruited for the CIA or some scary shit like that. Mario believed the gossip somewhat because Nick was built like a brick shithouse. He was lean, yet muscular, and didn’t have the kind of body someone got from steroids—it was definitely naturally developed, the kind of body developed by triathlon competitors. He’d seen Nick change his shirt one day when he accidently spilled some blood on his suit after he’d done an errand for their boss. It had been one of those errands where Mario wasn’t allowed to accompany him to handle whatever Frank had asked Nick to do. Although Mario was always available to pick him up afterwards, Nick preferred to work certain jobs alone.

During that moment in Nick’s room, Mario observed the man’s 240 pounds, give or take, and his six-foot-four athletic build. He guessed the height easily because he was six feet exactly and Nick was slightly taller than he was. Mario was more slender, though, and weighed about 190 pounds. He thought that Nick had at least 50 pounds more muscle on him. Mario would have loved to achieve that build, but between this job and taking care of his mother, he didn’t have enough spare time to do it.

Nick’s body was adorned with several tattoos that set off his physical perfection. One was a tattoo of barbed wire wrapped around his neck, across his left shoulder, then down around his muscled bicep and mid-forearm. The words "All warfare is based on deception" were tattooed on his upper bicep so it followed the contours of the wire. On his right bicep was a Navy Seals tattoo consisting of the name and an eagle holding a trident in front of an anchor surrounded by a circle, which looked a bit like a life preserver. He’d put on his shirt before Mario could look at any more of the designs.

Mario had to bite his tongue not to ask about them, especially the script. He realized this wasn’t the right time. Then again, when was anything the right time with Nick? He was never comfortable around the man, even after two years of working for him. It was because he couldn’t read him. Nick was indecipherable. He sighed and decided to remain envious while remembering that Frank Castile wanted to see Nick. Boss wants to see you.

Nick’s expensive suits hid the tattoos completely. Mario wondered if that was intentional. When Nick was dressed up, he looked a Wall Street billionaire, not what Mario knew him to be.

Fine.

Fine? That’s all you have to say? Mario thought to himself, as his mind wandered back to the first time he’d met Nick.

It was the same night he’d met Frank Castile. Although the nightclub that Frank owned was packed, Nick stood out in the crowd—not because of his height, his expensive suit, or his immaculate good looks, but because he was the only one there not having a good time. He looked sharp in a neatly pressed dark grey pinstriped suit and white shirt with a high mandarin collar, which told Mario this other guy was as wealthy as his new companion. Although he was strikingly handsome and carried himself with radiating self-assurance, his eyes and expression were devoid of emotion. Mario almost shuddered when the man focused his dark eyes on him for the first time.

However, when Frank and Nick embraced in greeting, Mario saw a flicker of emotion from Nick that made him decide he couldn’t be as frightening as he’d previously thought. Frank then pointed to the mirrored windows overlooking the club and Nick nodded and led the way, Mario followed them when Frank waved for him to come along. Once inside, Frank closed the door, causing the loud music to turn into a moderate thumping muffle. At least they could talk without yelling.

In the lit office, Mario could see how handsome the man really was. He looked a lot like his new potential employer, just a younger version of him. Mario figured must be Italian too, not just because of his dark looks, but the conversation in his taxi had informed him that Frank liked to hire Italian men. He watched Nick lean against the walnut desk, crossing his long legs at the ankles and resting the palms of his hands on the top of the glossy surface. He curled his fingers over the edge, looking completely relaxed. His curious eyes focused on Mario, who turned his gaze away, unable to hold that penetrating stare.

Nick, meet your new driver, Mario Puzzo, Frank said out of the blue.

That brought Mario’s gaze back to the man named Nick. Mario felt a chill go through him as the well-dressed man looked him over. Mario chose to remain silent—one of the few times anyone could say that about him. The man frightened him.

In the light of the office, Mario could tell he was not just cold, but dangerous. When Nick spoke, his voice was calm and controlled, just like everything else about him.

What makes you think I need a driver? He raised his eyebrows at Frank, taking his eyes off the kid for a moment.

"Because I said you do. He knows the streets really well. You need that," Frank answered with unmasked authority.

Mr. Castile, Mario interrupted, I never said I’d take the job. He saw Nick smirk out of the corner of his eye and again found himself thinking that the man couldn’t be as cold as he’d originally decided.

Frank turned to Mario. His expression held the same amused look as Nick’s. No?

Mario shook his head with some hesitation. I have to talk to my mother.

Frank laughed at that statement. I see. Well, tell your mother you now have a new job that pays two hundred and fifty a night. Mario had just helped Frank make up his mind about hiring him. If the kid could be outspoken even with Nick in the room, he was hired. There were men more experienced than him that wouldn’t say shit in the presence of a man like Nick. He made that kind of impression on people.

Mario’s jaw dropped.

Frank, Nick warned, the kid doesn’t know what I do—and not only that, there’s nothing holding him loyal to you.

He’s Italian. What more do you need? Frank defended. Anyway, you’re untouchable. What are you worried about? He knew what Nick meant, but he had great pride in his own talent for reading people. It had served him well in the past. The kid didn’t have a father figure and had struggled to help his mother; therefore, he was an honorable man. He knew he could give this kid what he needed, and in exchange, the