It started like normal. Making eyes across the crowded beach hut bar at the guy in the half-unbuttoned white cotton shirt that fits like he owns the brand. Approach. Smalltalk. Banter. Innocent brushes. A drink on his dime. Shots on mine.

He's wearing tinted designer shades, because Bali. I don't discover his eye colour until we're doing the vertical mambo against the back of my rented apartment door, tearing at clothes and skin like wolves on an elk. He even smells expensive. Thousand-dollar cologne made from the tears of Nepalese virgins, probably.

Everything hurts afterwards. In a good way. A throbbing reminder. Dust jackets in airport bookstores would describe ours a whirlwind romance. Pffft. Not even close. More like tsunami. Or hurricane. Or volcanic fucking magma. And all from the chick who wrote the book on one-night stands, sold the rights to Oliver Stone and starred in the movie. Director’s cut.

Speaking of which, I'm not your classic Hollywood hitwoman… hitmanwoman… hitperson? Assassin. Whatevs. They're all svelte and kickass with black belts in daddy issues and Ninjutsu. I'm curvy, my dad's awesome—Mum, less so—and the only black belt I have is the one Piers slithered from my sundress and thrashed across my ass on our second island date.

Fine, fuckfest. Whatevs.

I begged for more, because clearly I'm broken and need the reminder of his touches, his scent, his goddamn… manliness when I sit the following day. Lounging under nature’s endless aquamarine canopy is more an exercise in control than relaxation. I squirm each time I move. Relive every kiss. Every stroke.

The worrying thing? I want more. Crave it. And that's not me. I'm Miss Single-Shot, in more ways than one. In. Boom. Out.

It's unusual I spend more than a week in one place. My job takes me all over the globe. Bars. Beaches. Mansions. Clubs. I’m sent a photo and dossier to my burner phone. Study it. Stake out the target. Choose my moment.

Bang.

When payment and a 10-digit PIN arrive, I boot up the next phone, text the PIN to my handler and destroy the first device. Await the next location and photo. Mexico. Bahrain. China. Anywhere.

In this case, it's here. Again.

I'm not sure what the collective noun for bad guys is. A clutch? A moxie? But it seems Bali is suddenly Baddie HQ. A drug cartel. The second hit is some well-heeled type, Salvatore Cortez. Boss of the guy I took out yesterday. Slicked back hair, suit jacket and sneer. Straight off the shelf of Tossers R Us, alongside the action figures of Pol Pot. I've been given a three-day window. Easy. He can wait. Piers can't.

I seek him out, perched at the bar end, animatedly talking into his phone. He holds a finger up to wait, so I order. Orange juice. Gotta stay sharp for recon.

Joining Piers as he holsters his phone, I slip onto the bar stool, sarong and mousey blonde mane flitting in the tropical breeze. “Busy?”

“Work work work. Business troubles.” He takes a hit from a tumbler of amber liquid. “You never told me what you do.”

Shoot people for cash is what I want to say, but I stick to the legend. “Travel writer.”

Roving me up and down in the burgundy bikini, he hovers at my hips. “Right. You're not the type.”

I seductively trace hands down my curves. “What can I say? Food likes me.”

He glances at the babes playing beach volleyball, all thongs and no tits. Makes eye contact, blue catching the sunlight. Smiles. “You look… unbreakable.”

Don't blush. It's embarrassing. Oh God, it's hot in here. Stop. Just… stop. It's pathetic. Walk away. You'll be gone in a few days. This isn't you. Run!

My mouth doesn't get the memo, pulse thumping. “You wanna try?”

He finishes his drink. “I do.”

Staking out Cortez a few hours later, my concentration is shot. The unbreakable? Broken. Or, at least, dented. Every part of me throbs or aches, including parts that shouldn't. I keep grinning. Blushing at my behaviour. I've never crawled for anyone. But he made me do it, somehow. Made me want it. And rewarded me in the most liberating, depraved way.

I try to stay detached. Focused. It can't last… can it? I don't know a thing about him, yet my mind's fawning. Scrambled. So much that I take a stupid risk.

I spot an opportunity. Cortez climbing in his Jaguar alone and heading my way, sun dipping behind his clifftop mansion.

Stepping out, I pop the bonnet of the rental. Feign engine trouble, wiggling my rump.

Predictable. Man helps damsel. Damsel whirls, and the last thing he sees are my curves. Damsel drags body to his car. Points it off the road—not easy in heels—and presses his foot to the accelerator.

Textbook. Done.

I drive back. Sleep soundly, at peace with my profession.

It wasn't always that way.

Awaking to another day in paradise, I shower, eat and tell myself to ignore Piers. Sunbathe. Stew. Squirm.

Cold turkey lasts till lunch. I'm a jittery mess like a kitten in a bath, and it pisses me off, so I stalk to the bar. He's in the same spot as yesterday, on the phone. Aggravated.

I breathe. Switch to sashaying and catch the tail end. ”Just get it done, we can't afford more setbacks.” He hangs up, and I slip my hand in his. Stroke his thumb.

“Everything okay?”

He exhales. “Just business.”

We talk. Actual conversation, which I never knew I missed, because I've never done it. But it comes easy. Natural. And I begin to feel real rather than just a hired gun. Start imagining, maybe a future. An escape. Settling down.

It's pathetic. But… nice. We agree to meet later before I leave.

Back in my room, I reflect, stomach fluttering. The phone pings. Payment. PIN. New device. Then another ping.

I double take. Go cold.

Location: Bali.

Target: Piers Leyland.