Dangerous Desire

5

“She tell you that?”

When I thin my lips and don’t respond, Connor drops his hand from my shoulder and folds his arms over his chest.

“Okay. I just want you to be prepared for the possibility that she might not be all that happy to see you if we find her.”

“When we find her. And you’re the one who suggested it was probably Dimitri she called.”

“The odds are good, considering the situation. But she could’ve also called a handler. Someone who moves her money. Someone who helped her get away the first time. There’s no way to know. We know virtually nothing about this woman except that she was with Dimitri for seven years—”

“Against her will!”

“—and then she was with you, briefly, and now she’s gone.”

I take a moment to check my anger before I speak. I know he’s only trying to help, and I know what he’s suggesting is reasonable.

Just as I know he’s 100 percent wrong.

“I hear you. And I respect your opinion. And now I’m gonna ask you this: If the shoe was on the other foot, and it was you standing here listening to me call Tabby’s motives into question, how would you feel about that?”

His face darkens. His eyes, black as the bottom of the ocean at midnight, begin to burn.

“Yeah, I thought so. And now if you don’t mind, I’m gonna go find my woman.”

I stalk down the hallway in the direction Tabby went. The sound of Connor’s low chuckle follows behind me all the way.

THREE

EVA

When I’m finally able to sit up and open my eyes, I feel like a person returning from the dead.

Everything hurts. My head, my body, my ridiculous pride.

It takes only a few moments of tentatively stretching my limbs and testing the limits of my pain tolerance before I come to the conclusion that nothing is broken. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed I’ve been curled in since Killian threw me into it and take an inventory of my injuries.

A big ugly bruise darkens my left wrist. My bare knees are red and raw with rug burn. That metallic taste in my mouth is blood, and my throat aches. I’m sure it’s mottled with ugly bruises, too.

Killian is nothing if not dedicated to his work.

Stupid. I should’ve known that a man with the word kill right there in his first name would take my little “you can’t break me” speech as a challenge.

Wincing, I rise unsteadily to my feet and look around. I’m in a large, elegant stateroom decorated in soothing shades of cream and gray. Through three round portholes in the opposite wall I see blue ocean and clear sky, though the gentle rocking motion of the ship is all I need to determine we’ve left the docks behind us. The digital clock on the nightstand tells me it’s still early in the morning, just after dawn.

I make my way, gingerly, to the door. It’s locked. I do a quick inspection of the room, checking the closet, bathroom, and dresser drawers for anything I can use as a weapon. I already know I won’t find anything, but it never hurts to be thorough.

I return to the bathroom, use the toilet, wash my hands, and gulp water from the faucet, then brace myself for a moment before I face my reflection in the mirror.

My stomach drops when I do.

My lower lip is split and swollen. My left cheek is swollen, too, and turning an interesting shade of purple. Also, I was right about my neck. I trace the perfect outline of Killian’s thumb over my trachea. Then I touch the painful raised knot on the back of my head and curse the day that son of a b***h was born in four different languages.

At least my hair still looks good.

It’s the old, familiar gallows humor that helped me survive a life of horrors, back again when I need it most. My mother used to say she could forgive anyone anything except not having a sense of humor. That was before she became acquainted with Dimitri and discovered firsthand there were far more terrible shortcomings a man could have than not being able to make her laugh.

A pang of sorrow grips my heart when I think of my mother, but I quickly smother it. Grief won’t help me. The only thing that’s useful to me now is clear, cold resolve.

I’ve already killed two men. Shoved a gun under the first one’s jaw and blew his brains out without a hair of hesitation. Shot the second one in the chest. There was a time when I would’ve sworn I wasn’t capable of such a thing, but necessity is a ruthless teacher. And although I know it’s a sin to take a human life and the only way the stain can be removed from my soul is if I repent and pray for forgiveness . . .

I’m not sorry for what I did. Therefore, I can never be forgiven.

Bottom line? I’m damned.

On the bright side, however, that means a little more blood on my hands won’t matter.

Ready or not, Dimitri, here I come.

A flash of brilliance catches my eye. On the dresser across from the bed, the facets of a crystal vase fracture a sunbeam into a prism. Slices of gold, red, blue, and green illuminate the room in blinding washes of color that vanish as quickly as they appeared when the ship rocks in a different direction.

I stride over to the vase, pick it up, and throw it as hard as I can against the opposite wall.

With a loud crash, it smashes into a million satisfying pieces. I instinctively raise my arm to protect my eyes, then find a big chunk on the floor and head back into the bathroom.

I grab a handful of my hair. Using the jagged edge of the broken vase, I saw off a hunk at the base of my neck.