Authors: Linda Howard
The identity of his latest target, a major drug trafficker in
The assassin had carefully considered all the angles and possibilities, and devised a way to find out what he wanted to know. If the answer was “yes,” then
He was a solitary man by nature, but he wasn’t a monk. He liked women and he liked sex, though he regarded both much as he regarded his own physical comfort: something he could do without if necessary. Normally he stayed far away from other men’s women, because the situation could get sticky and he didn’t want that much attention drawn to himself. But something about Drea had caught his interest the first time he’d seen her.
It wasn’t her looks. He didn’t have a particular type that he liked, but at the same time he’d never gone for the skinny, overly sexual, big-haired bimbos. Yet the attraction he’d felt for her had been instant and strong. He supposed skin chemistry outweighed all the negative factors, and led him to take a second look, which was when he’d realized that, regardless of how she looked and acted, she was far from dumb.
What had given her away wasn’t anything she’d done, really. He had to admit, her act was flawless. Rather, it was his own heightened awareness of her. He’d always been, by nature and by practice, a skilled observer; the predator instinct in him accurately read minute changes in expression, in body language. He couldn’t pinpoint what had alerted him, only that he abruptly knew there was a sharp brain under all that hair, that she was playing
Realizing that had only increased both his attraction and his admiration for her acting ability. She wasn’t running a con, he had no doubt
The assassin respected survivors, and Drea was that. When he saw a way to have her, he didn’t hesitate.
He’d been faintly surprised by her initial reaction. Women like her, who traded on their looks and bodies to get what they could from men like
When she ran out on the balcony he’d started to leave, but an unusual impulse had sent him after her. She looked terrified enough to jump, and he didn’t want that. Going out there had been risky—hell, the feds had to have
He liked taking his time with sex, but today had been unusual. Once Drea had gotten over being so scared, she’d turned hot enough to scorch him. In the intensity of her response, he’d read how starved she was for attention, for being seen as she truly was, seen how much she needed to be stroked instead of being the one doing the stroking.
As enjoyable as the afternoon had been, the assassin didn’t plan a repeat. As he’d told her, once was enough. Now he would disappear until
Forty minutes later, an elderly gentleman with stooped shoulders and a slightly tottering gait left by the front entrance. He used a cane to steady himself as he made his way to the curb and waited for the doorman to hail a cab.
High above the street, Xavier Jackson and Rick Cotton noted the old man’s exit, but they’d seen him coming and going several times before and a cursory investigation had revealed he was a tenant in the building, so their interest promptly moved on.
HE WAS RIGHT, THE BASTARD; RAFAEL WOULD BE EARLY.
Drea forced herself out of bed; her legs were heavy and uncooperative, and her insides felt tender. She swayed, holding to the bed for support, her teeth chattering from a bone-deep cold. Ice had congealed in her veins, a coldness that permeated all the cells in her body and froze her from the inside out.
She had never before been so cold, but she couldn’t allow herself the luxury of huddling under the covers. She had to do something to ward off disaster, and the only idea that came to mind was a long shot. Laboriously she smoothed the sheets and pillows, then hobbled to the kitchen and grabbed a can of Febreze. Returning to her bedroom, she sprayed the bed linens before tucking everything in tight and drawing the silk duvet in place. She stacked her decorative pillows on the bed in their usual order, then sprayed the air deodorizer around the bedroom and in the bathroom. Maybe she was just imagining it, but she would have sworn she could smell him.
Why was she so cold? The air felt freezing, but she couldn’t take the time to stop and adjust the thermostat. After replacing the Febreze in the kitchen, she gathered her scattered clothing and took the garments into the bathroom with her, where she carelessly dropped them on the floor the way she normally did. Then she turned on the water in the shower, made it as hot as she could stand it, got in and swiftly soaped herself, cleaning away the stink and stickiness. At least the water lent her some of its warmth.
Think! She had to think.
She couldn’t. Rage bubbled in her like a thick tar, coating her brain in icy blackness. How could she have been so damned stupid? Stupid, stupid, stupid! She was disgusted with herself. She knew better than to believe in that happily-ever-after fairy-tale bullshit, but let her spend a few hours with some guy who knew how to use his dick and she was all but begging him to take her with him. No, not just “some guy,” but a man who killed as easily as most people brushed their teeth.
Self-ridicule clogged her chest until she felt as if she were suffocating. What had she thought? That because he’d been slow and easy and made sure she came he’d fallen in love with her? Yeah, right. His technique was different, that was all. Like every other man she’d been with, once he got his rocks off, he lost interest.
Humiliation gnawed at her like a hungry animal. Why couldn’t she just have enjoyed the sex stuff and not let her emotions get involved? Instead she’d acted like the naive, idiotic girl she’d been at fifteen, thinking a man would make everything in her world right, instead of screwing things up even more.
At least she’d been young, the first time she’d made a fool of herself for a man and ended up alone and pregnant—and then just alone—so that was some excuse for being stupid. Not now. Not this time.
She rinsed off and got out of the shower, and despite an almost nauseating distaste made herself use the towel the assassin had used. Rafael noticed details, and too many towels would be a dead giveaway.
The blast of air-conditioning was frigid on her damp skin and she began shivering again as she blotted her wet hair with the same towel, which was now too wet to do much good. Tossing the towel aside, she grabbed the thick terry robe hanging on a hook and pulled it around her, then went to the marble vanity to get her comb and drag it through her hair.
As she stared into the mirror, she realized her face was wet, and with distant surprise she realized she was crying. Again. Twice in one day had to be a record for her.
She would not cry over this. Crying didn’t help a damn thing. She all but slapped the tears off her cheeks.
They came back. She stood there, watching the woman in the mirror and the slow trickle of tears down her face, and had the disorienting feeling she was watching someone else, someone who had disappeared a long time ago. Her face was white, the expression in her eyes stark. Without her makeup, and with her long hair slicked back from her face, she was the girl whose baby had died and taken all her dreams with it.
Drea fled the bathroom, choking on bitterness. She should dry her hair and put on makeup, make herself look as pretty and sexy as possible, but she couldn’t do it. Staring at herself in the mirror long enough to do that—no.
Her momentum carried her into the living room, where she faltered to a stop, her head down, like a wind-up toy with a broken spring. What now? What should she do? What could she do?
She was so cold. The death chill seemed to swirl through her and around her, turning her shivering into teeth-rattling shudders. Even though the floor was carpeted her bare feet were icy and bloodless, the magenta polish garish against her colorless skin. She hated the color of that polish, hated the way it had looked as he lifted her feet over his shoulders—
A raw, guttural sound burst from her chest as she shoved the memory away and lurched toward the sliding doors and out onto the balcony, into the warmth it offered.
She barely registered the soothing heat from the stone tiles under her feet. Besides warmth, the balcony also offered memories she didn’t want, couldn’t bear. She avoided looking at the railing where she’d stood earlier, and instead sank down on the tiled floor and leaned her back against the wall. The bright sun had warmed the brick, too, and welcome heat began to leach through to her skin. Whimpering with relief, she drew her legs up to her chest and pulled the robe around her so she was completely covered, and curled forward to rest her forehead on her knees.
Choked sobs tore free, born from a despair so deep she couldn’t understand it, or her own reaction. What was wrong with her? She never just gave up like this; she was always maneuvering, managing, looking for an advantage. She needed to pull herself together, make an effort to seduce Rafael—
No! The word erupted from her subconscious, reverberating through her entire body. The savagery of the instinctive reaction shook her; she never allowed herself to feel that deeply about anything. Then something inside her settled and she felt the utter rightness of it. She and Rafael were over, finished. He’d given her away as if she were nothing to him—as if she were nothing, period.
She hated him, hated him even more than she hated herself. She’d completely subjugated herself to him, bitten her tongue and smiled and gone along with him no matter what he wanted, and for what? For him to treat her as if she were a common whore? She trembled with a primitive need to hurt him, to see his blood, to physically beat him and bite him and tear at him with her nails.
She couldn’t; she knew that. His goons would either shoot her on the spot or drag her off to be disposed of at their leisure. Admitting her own helplessness against him was even more galling.
The ruthlessly logical part of her brain ordered her to pull herself together and just deal with this, but she couldn’t seem to shove all these turbulent emotions away. They were like giant waves that kept crashing over her protective walls, and she was going under for the third time.
Rafael had to pay. She didn’t know how, but she had to make him pay. She couldn’t live if she let him get away with grinding her into the dirt the way he had. No matter how low life had pushed her, she’d always managed to reassure herself that at least she hadn’t been reduced to prostitution. She’d seen herself as Rafael’s mistress, not his whore, which maybe was splitting hairs but to her way of thinking it was a damned important hair.
She no longer had the comfort of that illusion. To him, she was nothing more than goods to be traded for a service, and the mirror she held up to herself reflected back only what he saw. Her entire body shuddered from the force of her sobs, her throat under such strain that she began gagging, but her stomach was empty and the spasm produced only dry heaves.
Finally she heard him enter, closing the door more loudly than he usually did, as if to emphasize his lack of remorse. He’d wanted to retain the assassin’s services more than he’d wanted to keep her, and—