by Jackie Ivie
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER ONE
Leaders of Bedouin Tribes shouldn’t be despotic as well as rich. That generated enemies. They should have more than one legitimate son, too. And they’d be well-advised to keep said son under lock and key, rather than let him roam freely about the world, or settled like some potentate in a club in New York where it was so very easy to die.
Game on.
Sasha eyed the five burly gentlemen grouped on either side of the prince. Distractions, and they weren’t even good ones. A few moments would see them dispatched, despite the guns beneath their loose coats, numerous blades, and at least one had a high voltage stunner. He called himself a prince. Right now, he looked more court fool. Sasha blinked slowly and tipped her chin, eyeing her target with the same fascination he appeared to have for her, before she changed it subtly. A little slide farther down her stool opened the slit in her skirt just a bit more, revealing more leg that ended with a stiletto designed to show off every curve. Short men were always fascinated by statuesque women. Always.
She tilted her head slightly as she focused, feeling her hair slide like black silk along her bare back and arms. The prince nodded and licked fairly plumped lips, before gesturing one of his boys over to her. As if she’d be an easy addition to his cadre of women.
Sasha pursed her lips.
The man bowed before her, blocking her view for a few moments with six-and-a-half feet of brawn. The .38 hidden in his left armpit was completely superfluous to what the man was capable of doing with bare hands.
“Prince Hussein Ada Majin would be pleased to meet with you, Miss.”
“A…prince?” Sasha asked, with just a hint of awe staining it.
The man nodded.
“Oh. My.”
Sasha slid from her stool, doing a fair impression of intoxication, to stand next to Burly Guard Number One, looking slightly up at him. In these heels, he had her by two inches, max.
Strategize .
The closer they got to the prince and his posse, the easier they all looked. Burly Guard Number One was getting the heel of her left hand to the nose. Quick. Clean. Brutal. Number Two would get a right elbow to his windpipe. Number Three was eyeing her with dark eyes glinting with intent. It wasn’t for a fight. Sasha lifted an eyebrow at him. He was getting a pointed toe right to the cojones . Number Four didn’t turn until she was close. He didn’t have any extra bulk on him. He was maybe a six on the BMI scale, all lean muscle and taut strength. She’d seen his type before, ready for action and annoyed when it failed to materialize. He’d be fast. Lethal. It would be her pleasure to slam her right fist – flat-knuckled – right into that six-pack.
She doubted Number Five would stick around for the finale. But a stiletto heel in his forehead would probably do the trick – and if not, she didn’t wear a steel cuffed bracelet for jewelry. That piece turned into razor-honed blades with a flick. Then there’d be just her and Prince Hussein.
Sasha leaned on one hip in her model pose, making certain the Prince’s eyes followed every curve all the way to her face. He looked even shorter as he reclined, sprawled into a thick leather chair, showing flabby muscles and soft skin in every line. He looked exactly like his photo.
“May I offer you refreshment?”
He waved an arm, granting her anything on the table. Even the thick lines of white powder that probably cost him more than it was worth. He had the sing-song diction of his culture in his words. Sasha smiled slightly. He wasn’t getting it easy. She would make him beg.
“Not what I came over here for,” she replied.
He nodded. “I wanted to tell you I think you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”
Sasha smiled and pulled up enough fluid for a blush. “Thank you,” she finally replied.
“My name is John. And you are?”
“Eve.”
She gave a slight nod, felt a brush of motion past her cheek, and then watched the prince fall back into the pillows, a slim handled blade embedded in his chest. Sasha spun, using the second of time to open her senses; caught a flash of black-clad legs and coat as a hand slapped at the light and sound system controls, a waitress dropping her tray of drinks, a gasp of air from the prince as well as one from Burly Guard Number Two as he groped at the hilt projecting from his own chest. Stupid man. Pulling it out would just open the wound, allowing blood a quick path to an even quicker death. Sasha continued her observation, watching the lean guard pivot back to his feet the instant he landed. She’d been right. Number Four was quick and agile, and observant. He’d missed the killer’s projectile by a fraction of an inch.
The scene darkened, lit now by the little candles that flickered from atop each table, while a puff of cocaine powder filtered up from the table. The floor throbbed with two beats from the bass-driven sound system before it got silenced. The guard had pulled the knife out, going to his knees as the blood spurted with every dying heartbeat, and that, added to the stain spreading over the prince’s khaki toned silk shirt, stirred the very beast Sasha was holding back.
Rage consumed her, overriding every effort to stay it. Not because someone had taken her kill. Sasha dismissed that. But there wasn’t much that could stay the lust brought on by blood smell. It overwhelmed her, changing her and making her fight it. Drums of need hit her head, pumping pain behind her eyes, stricture through her throat, and a high-pitched buzz to her ears. She barely heard the screams from behind her. She couldn’t stop the need to feed. Her nails grew into claws and her canines lengthened in anticipation. Then some fool tipped over a table, sending what had been a little flicker of candle into a long stream of hot wax that, combined with the spilled drink mess, turned the slate-colored laminate into an instant conflagration.
She couldn’t stay the blood-lust. Nothing staunched the absolute need to feed. That’s why she’d taken this hit. The prince may be a foolish, spoiled, playboy – but he was in excellent health. She’d read the report. He rarely drank, never used the drug so carelessly offered at his table, and hadn’t developed a taste for the hookah pipe, either. As fresh and clean as he kept his blood, is would be a pleasure to drain it. But the killer had taken her prize, leaving her target dead with the accuracy of his throw, and that was a pure waste of fluid. These stilettos weren’t worth the money she’d paid, either. Sasha slammed each heel into the flooring, knocking both spikes off as noise and smoke, interspersed with grunts and cursing and then coughing, filled the nightclub. The next moment she was crouched at the dying guard’s side, feasting on what was left of his fluid before death took him and ruined the pleasure. And then she pulled back, spitting out an acidic tang that came from years of anabolic steroid use.
Ugh . She should’ve known.
Sasha narrowed her eyes on the form of the prince, gauging any signs of life, and at that exact moment the lean guard spotted her and registered what she was. She snarled to give him an even better view, thoroughly enjoying the abject horror and fear on his face before deciding it really was a pleasure to ram a fist into his six-pack and watch him go down. The sprinkling system kicked in as he fell, drenching the entire scene, obliterating anything the forensics department could use for evidence, and ruining what had been a four hundred dollar dress.
Sasha was off and racing around the fire-enhanced scene, her heelless shoes allowing a slide of movement without sound. And while she didn’t enjoy a cold shower, the fire sprinklers worked well at c
ooling what had been an insatiable burning need. Or perhaps it was the infusion of the burly guard’s blood already sending odd flicks of energy through her limbs, along with a fizz of mirth that always came from feeding off athletes. Regardless of denials, they almost all used muscle enhancers, and that almost always caused her fits of laughter brought on by effervescent bubbling through her veins, which would then lead to hours of annoyance and aggravation.
She was laughing before she reached the elevator, in tear-causing chortles by the time she reached her limo, clutching her belly to halt the idiocy of them as Vaughn turned on the engine. The evening was a disaster. Not for having the assignment stolen. Not for the ruination of a very expensive and elegant ensemble. Not for making her look like a drowned alley cat at a dog fight. No. The assassin had cursed her to a night of giggles that had even her chauffeur raising his brows.
And for the last, the bastard was paying.
CHAPTER TWO
“Hold my calls, Miss Barclay.”
“Yes, Doctor Findlay.”
Stuart turned off the intercom, looked across the solid ecru-shaded carpeting to the richly-grained mahogany door separating his office from the hall leading to other suites of offices, the foyer, and Miss Barclay’s receptionist desk. It was all so empty. Dead. Hollow.
He sighed. Heavily. Then he opened the bottom right hand drawer on the late Baroque-style desk, pulled out a bottle of excellent Scotch and an etched crystal tumbler. All of it remnants of his station in life. None of it satisfactory.
Nor was the Chicago skyline outside his office, a view extending out onto Lake Michigan on most days. Today wasn’t one of those days. Nothing save darkness and his reflection met his gaze. It pretty much matched his mood. Two days and a night had passed. That Hussein fellow was dead and still no word from the man about final payment. That was no way to run a business. Stuart would be lucky if he wasn’t blackmailed. He lifted his glass in silent homage to his image before downing the contents. He took a deep breath, felt the warmth spread from where it hit his belly, and waited for a hint of oblivion. It wasn’t working. If anyone had told him that draining his estuary account to pay for an assassination wouldn’t change the hollow feeling he lived with anymore, he wouldn’t have believed it.
A throat cleared behind him and Stuart twirled his black leather chair back to the desk.
“Hello Doctor.”
He was dreaming, and he wasn’t even asleep. The most stunning woman he’d ever seen faced him, sitting in one of his upholstered chairs. She was dressed in a black silk suit of impeccable taste, with one leg crossed atop the other, showing not only perfectly toned calves and thighs, but a penchant for high heels. She was regarding him with unblinking dark eyes. Stuart narrowed his own. Her eyes weren’t just dark. They looked to be charcoal-hued, a near match to her hair. She was exquisite. And if that dating site had sent him a woman one-tenth the version of this one, he wouldn’t still be searching for Mrs. Findlay when he had time.
“I often wondered what men do when they refuse to take calls,” she informed him.
“How did you get in here?”
“Door.” She accompanied the word with a nod in that direction, as if he needed clarification.
“The door is locked.”
She moved her hands apart and twirled a long nail-file thing at him, catching the light with the motion. Stuart would’ve refilled his tumbler, but his hand might shake. That was unacceptable, given the circumstances.
“You picked it.”
It wasn’t a question. She nodded anyway.
“All right. I’ll bite. Why would you pick my lock?”
He didn’t know what brought the slight smile to her lips, he just enjoyed the reaction of his heart as it kicked into a faster beat.
“To meet you.”
Of course she had. All the advice was wrong. The future Mrs. Findlay hadn’t needed flowers and verse and walks on moonlit beaches. No. All he had to do was lock his door and get drunk.
Speaking of…
Stuart looked over at his multi-faceted glass. This was some kick-ass Scotch. He’d have to stock more of it.
“Doctor Stuart Emerson Findlay. The Third.” He cocked his head toward her and waited for the reply. And then decided another drink was in order after all.
“What are you a doctor of?” she asked.
No name exchange. Oddly enough he didn’t care. It was enough, given the view. And if he was going to dream this encounter he might as well have mystery as well.
“You like what you see, Doctor?”
“Philosophy”, he replied.
“You like to argue, do you?”
“Where did you learn of philosophy? Grammar school?”
He got another ghost of a smile from her with the resultant stutter in his heart rate again. He was ready to pay for those.
“You don’t look like you work out very much.”
Damn . Why did every woman have to hold his physique against him? A man of his height couldn’t put much bulk on. No matter how much he ate or how many hours he wasted in a gym, sweating his balls off. He couldn’t change what was six foot five and 210. Add that to the width of his shoulders, and regardless of what he did, he just looked gangly. He usually tried to hide it with loose-fitting jackets and looser trousers.
“I swim.” Damn it to hell . Now, he sounded defensive. It was better to fill his glass and gulp it down.
“A swimmer. Hmmm.”
Stuart choked. And his groin responded, shifting into hard without using any of the first gears. It was that throaty sound she made, combined with the flash of leg as she flew around his desk and somehow managed to be right next to him, her buttocks perched atop the desk, while one stiletto settled onto the open drawer edge. Good thing his mother had passed on and the trustees were far away from this. They’d faint at the abuse of this particular antique.
“You don’t use enhancement drugs?”
She pulled his glasses off and set them on his desk blotter. Her next move was his tie sliding from beneath his vest, using such a sinuous motion it looked better than anything he’d seen in any movie. Felt better, too.
“I’m a doctor.”
“I know. Of philosophy.”
“Yes.” He agreed, so she wouldn’t move her well-manicured fingers from where they were taking the top button from his shirt apart and stretching the collar. Stuart held his breath as she moved to brush his hair back behind his ears. He was overdue on a trim and it probably looked especially stupid, but he didn’t care. She was leaning him backward in the chair and if he didn’t change a thing, she might be atop him next. His heart rate kicked up another notch in anticipation and he was beginning to think his trousers were too tight after all.
“Doctors have access to all kinds of drugs.”
“Vitamin pill. An occasional Glucosamine for joint stress. A rare acetaminophen pill for pain. Rarely.”
“That all?”
“And Scotch.”
Where were his wits? This was ridiculous. And then the future Mrs. Findlay used the hold she had on his head to angle it, lowered perfectly shaped and reddened lips toward him, and started breathing on the exposed skin of his throat. And if he didn’t change something and soon, he was going to cream his pants, just like he had way back in Junior High when Miss Selvig had leaned over him to help him with his math assignment, showing all the bosom an impressionable young male could want.
“You have attention deficit issues, Doctor.”
Damn and Bloody Hell!
His future wife had pulled back and was regarding him from the length of her arms. Fully stretched out. As if to prevent him ravishing her. Which was a complete joke.
“Doesn’t look like a problem to me.”
He licked his lips and watched her eyes widen, while what could be shivers ran her entire frame. Or something. Stuart had the exact same reaction, and felt each one, since he had his hands about a slim waist, wrinkling the silk into a pattern of male fingers. She was right
about the attention thing. He couldn’t even remember reaching for her.
“There’s a call for you on line three, Doctor Findlay.”
The intercom cracked to life, proving everything in this dream was imagination. It had started with the Scotch. And he was buying more of it.
“Doctor Findlay?”
His dream woman stretched onto her belly for the button, putting silk-covered ass and thighs right in his line of vision, and Stuart had a full appreciation of toned female. Especially this one.
“I already informed you to hold my calls, Miss Barclay.”
His voice came out of her, and it wasn’t his pleasant voice. He had to change that. He felt very pleasant. And very sensitive. As if everything on his body got primed the moment she’d touched him. Stuart shoved up onto his feet, the chair glanced off the high glass window at his back, and he leaned into this dream woman, putting engorged male right against that toned ass, giving her full scope of what she’d brought into play and what he expected of it as well.
“Oh. I forgot,” the intercom answered.
“It’s a good thing you’re my cousin, Darcie. A very good thing.”
What the hell? Stuart had both hands spread onto the desk top and his mind fogged but still managed to hear his voice coming out of this female speaking of things only he should know.
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Change of plans, Miss Barclay.”
“Yes, Doctor?”
“I want you to hold all my calls for…a span.”
“A span?”
Darcie Barclay sounded shocked. Stuart should be feeling it as well. He wasn’t. He was trying to rein back full male desire and losing. It must be that attention deficit thing.
“I’ve decided to take a sabbatical.”
The future Mrs. Findlay kept speaking and she just kept using his voice. He’d ponder it later when he woke. Or sobered. Or whatever.
“A what?”
“It’s a vacation. I’ll be gone…some time. And I won’t be taking any calls.”
“Some time?”
“You might want to consider taking the same vacation time, Miss Barclay.”