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  “Why him?”

  “Such a curious mind,” her father said with a dismissive wave. “Let’s just say that his business interests conflict with mine. He’s a nuisance. And I want him eliminated.”

  “Business interests?” She couldn’t keep the hint of amusement from her voice. Her father was forever dabbling in mortal business, and his failures often prompted larger consequences. October 1929 came to mind as one of the more vivid examples of her father’s financial wrath.

  If this final job could prevent another of her father’s meltdowns, well, then surely the world would thank her for taking on the task, no matter how tired she might be of the devilish business.

  That, of course, was a shallow excuse, hardly worth the energy to think it up. The truth was she was simply tired of her job. Bone tired. And this gray-haired man was her way out. Yes, he had to die in order for her to get what she wanted, but he would die eventually anyway, whereas she would go on and on and on.

  Might as well ensure that her eternity was spent in comfort. Ideally with a position of power to lord over her sisters. And, of course, her brothers.

  “All right,” she said with a quick nod. “I accept.”

  “Of course you do,” her father replied. “Of you, my dear Lucia, I expect nothing less.”

  ‡

  Chapter Two

  Monte Carlo. The epitome of wealth and elegance, and Moreau’s Sur la Mer hotel and casino stood like an ambassador. Her sleek lines rising toward the sky. Her liveried staff practically prostrating themselves to the clientele. And the guests shone with as much vibrancy as the diamonds they locked away each night in the hotel’s vault.

  Anyone who was anyone would give his right arm for a week in Monte at the Moreau. And if that week included a stay in one of the premier suites—if that stay included casino privileges at the most exclusive tables—well, then anyone who was anyone would surely give more than one measly limb.

  Dante Moreau, however, would have preferred to be anywhere but where he was. And he would have preferred to be doing anything but what he was doing.

  He’d come to Monte Carlo for one reason only—his father.

  And because of that, he couldn’t just simply leave.

  And because of that, he was currently suffering under the headache to end all headaches.

  “You look like a man with a lot on his mind.” With great effort, Dante lifted his head and looked through the red migraine haze into Marcel’s chiseled face. The words were in flawless English, but the accent—like that of most Monte Carlo inhabitants—was pure French.

  “Oui,” Dante replied to the bartender. “That’s because I am.” He’d known Marcel for years, and he braced himself for a lecture. A rundown of his blessings. Of how not every man was so fortunate as to be the sole heir to the Moreau fortune.

  Of how most men, upon entering the bar in one of Monte Carlo’s most elegant hotels, would at least be expected to pay the tab at the end of a drinking binge. Instead, Marcel said none of that. He simply poured two fingers of scotch into a glass and slid it across the polished bar toward Dante.

  “I must look even worse than I feel,” Dante said. “You’ve never once taken pity on me.”

  “Things change,” Marcel said. “And the prodigal son returns even under protest, n’est pas?”

  Dante sighed. He hadn’t realized that the casino staff knew the details of his business. He should have realized, of course. Rumors and gossip passed through the staff even faster than through the intelligence community. So the fact that Marcel knew that Dante had reluctantly returned to the glitter of Monte Carlo from his new home in Manhattan should come as no surprise.

  “Your father needs you.”

  Dante slammed back the drink, his eyes never leaving Marcel’s.

  “So he says.”

  At that, Marcel almost smiled. “Jacques Moreau is a man of few words. If he says so, it must be true.”

  True enough, Dante supposed, but considering he’d been summoned at three in the morning two days ago, then rushed over on his father’s private jet with no explanation other than “your father says so,” he was hardly in the mood to be altruistic about his father’s motives. He shoved the glass forward, his brows raised in silent demand. Marcel took the hint and poured.

  “You don’t know what the emergency is?” Marcel asked.

  “I’m not even certain there is an emergency.”

  Jacques Moreau had money, power, and wealth. He also had a rather inflated sense of self-worth, and an absolute certainty that he knew best for his only son. That certainty had only increased after Jacques had divorced Dante’s British mother when Dante had been barely out of diapers. He’d insisted on funding Dante’s schooling, then urged his only son to follow through with military and intelligence training. Not bad work, all things considered. With the exception that it wasn’t the work Dante wanted.

  Still, he’d plodded through the system, ending up doing a stint with British Intelligence before his father crooked his little finger and played the family debt card. In retrospect, Dante supposed that he could have declined, citing his love for his work and the growing respect he’d earned within the intelligence community.

  Except, of course, that wouldn’t be true.

  Oh, the respect was true, all right. He’d never once stepped on a toe that didn’t need stepping on. He’d been the epitome of polite Eton upbringing, just as his parents would have wanted. But to stay because he loved his work . . . that would have been a blatant lie.

  The truth was Dante had never craved a life in intelligence circles. He’d gone that route because he hadn’t known what life he craved, and as jobs landed in his lap because of his skills and family background, he’d accepted them graciously. After all, work was work. And absent passion, a paycheck would easily suffice.

  When his father offered him the opportunity to run the security detail for the extensive chain of Moreau hotels . . . well, that was a paycheck, too. And considering the Moreau Corporation paycheck was higher than the British government’s, Dante had easily made the decision to move. Why not? Trading one job for another equally passionless job was simple.

  The job had been simple, too. Yes, his father had built an empire. But unlike the British Empire, the need for intelligence resources extended not much further than security cameras in the gift shops and private gaming rooms. In other words, a dull job, though a well-paying one.

  Still, he couldn’t knock it. Because Thomas Murchison would never have approached him while Dante was with the government. And once Thomas did lay out the offer, Dante realized what he’d been waiting for. A chance to use his training to make a difference. To help people in impossible situations. And, most of all, to help children.

  He’d spent two months wrapping up his business with Moreau Corp., and then he’d flown to Manhattan and the nascent headquarters of M&M Security. The name was dry, but they weren’t looking to be flashy. Their clientele was exclusive, and consisted of people who—if they needed Thomas and Dante’s particular services—would know where to look.

  Their specialty was the recovery of kidnapped children, particularly those taken out of the country. And in the last nine months, Dante had been instrumental in returning two little girls to their mothers. The satisfaction was immense, and the job itself was heaven. Moreover, it took every bit of his skill. From the mercenary arts he’d learned in the intelligence world to the contacts he’d made in that same shadowy forum to the administrative skills he’d honed working for his father.

  It had all come together.

  Somehow, in all those years that he’d floundered, he’d known that eventually it would. Eventually, he’d find his purpose. And, once he did, nothing could sway him.

  So why the hell was he now back in Monte Carlo, when at least two files were on his desk, waiting for his review and input?

  He slammed back his drink, wanting to dull his mind with more scotch as the reality hit him dead-on: his father.

  �
��I have a situation,” his father had said. “I need you back here.”

  Dante had protested, of course, but in the end he had come. Even had his father not oh-so-subtly reminded him that Jacques Moreau had essentially paved the way for Dante’s current job, Dante still would have come. That was the reality, after all. His father had supported his education. His father had utilized his contacts to get Dante a foot in the intelligence door. And his father had paid him a steep enough salary to allow Dante to save enough to live in comfort in Manhattan while the first M&M assignments rolled in.

  In other words, even absent the demand, Dante knew that he owed his father. And since Dante didn’t shirk his debts, here he was.

  Besides, the man was his father. And wasn’t that reason enough?

  Too bad his father was nowhere to be seen.

  He lifted a finger to signal Marcel. “Any word as to when my father will be back?” If anyone would have the latest gossip, it would be Marcel.

  “Not even a trickle of a rumor.”

  “Damn.” Dante’s instinct was to let loose with a much louder curse, but he managed to rein it in. It was one thing to drop everything and come back to help his father. It was another thing altogether to have his father not be here despite his having demanded Dante’s presence.

  He half considered going home. He could leave a note for his father, then catch the next plane to New York. If Jacques needed him that badly, then Jacques could damn well fire up the Lear jet and aim it toward Manhattan.

  Not a bad idea, actually, and it was becoming more and more appealing as he mulled it over. So appealing, in fact, that he pulled out his cell phone and called his secretary. Nadine was a whirlwind of efficiency, and she quickly got him booked on a flight leaving in the morning.

  Perfect.

  He turned, intending to go to his room and catch up on reading and paperwork. He never made it that far. Instead, he simply froze, every nerve in his body tingling from the mere sensation of viewing the woman standing in the doorway. Dark and slender, with a bearing of both grace and strength. She assessed the room with a glance, her expression giving nothing away.

  For just a hint of an instant, though, her eyes landed on him, and he swore he saw a spark there. A tiny hint of awareness. Of interest.

  Lord knew he was interested, and it was that primal tug that kept him in his seat. Because the truth was, he’d been working too damn hard for too damn long.

  And he could think of no better salve for his frustrated psyche than buying a drink for a beautiful woman.

  ‡

  Chapter Three

  Her target wasn’t on the premises.

  A frustrating reality, but reality nonetheless, and one that Lucia would simply have to face. Since facing it would be easier with a glass of cabernet, she eased toward the bar and slid onto one of the empty stools. The bartender seemed to materialize in front of her, and she ordered her wine, then sat back with her eyes closed, hoping that Jacques Moreau’s absence wasn’t a portent that her assignment was doomed. Monaco had never been a good place for her, and just being back sent a wash of bad memories flooding over her.

  Stop it.

  This was not a mission she could—or would—fail. Monaco meant nothing to her. Centuries had passed. The place had changed.

  Moreau’s absence meant nothing either. Not even a delay. After all, it wasn’t as if she was going to stroll into the casino, guns blazing, and take him out.

  No, her work was always much more refined. She had to plan. To prepare.

  But part of that planning and preparation involved observing the target, and his absence was definitely an inconvenience in that respect.

  Didn’t matter. He’d come eventually. She’d get close. She’d do the deed. And it would be over. Her father had given her a week to succeed at her task, after all. And Moreau never stayed away from his signature property for more than four days at a time.

  So even if she did have to come out, guns blazing, well, she could do that. To ensure that this was her last assassination, she’d do it in a second.

  That was her only way out, after all. Assassinate Moreau and be free of this life. Take charge of her father’s empire . . . and never have to answer to his demands again.

  She couldn’t prevent the smile that eased across her face. Because as ironic as it might be, that situation sounded like a little bit of heaven.

  “Nice to see that,” a rich voice commented. “I was afraid you had serious things on your mind.”

  She jerked her head up, surprised. And more than a little unnerved that someone could have eased so close to her without her well-honed wariness kicking in. She opened her mouth to tell the interfering bastard off, but instead found herself holding her tongue, her breath caught fast in her throat.

  The man was perfect.

  There was, quite simply, no other way to say it.

  And, honestly, for Lucia, that was saying a lot. After all, she’d been in a position to be up close and very personal with some of the most attractive men in the world. She’d dined with playboys, danced with film stars, and had wild, passionate affairs with men so beautiful they’d posed for the likes of Da Vinci and Botticelli. Men handpicked to model for sculptors commissioned to chisel likenesses of the gods themselves. Men who were, without question, absolutely beautiful.

  She’d brought those men into her bed. Some for pleasure . . . and some for business.

  With each of them, she’d enjoyed herself. And with each of them, she’d always felt in control.

  Right now, though, control escaped her. And, honestly, she wasn’t even sure why.

  This man standing in front of her wasn’t beautiful. If anything, he was a little too rugged, his lord of the manor European features softened by a day’s worth of beard that she longed to reach out and stroke. His brows were thick and dark, and seemed to perfectly frame his ice blue eyes. And his mouth . . . wide and firm.

  Perfect.

  She shivered a little, because empirically, the man really wasn’t perfect. And yet there he was, standing in front of her. And there she was, sitting on her hand so she wouldn’t reach out and brush her thumb over the curve of his lower lip.

  “Or, perhaps I spoke too soon?” he said.

  She shook her head, trying to make sense of his words. “What?”

  “You smiled, and I thought that you’d resolved whatever put that serious expression on your face. But now it’s returned, and so I have to wonder . . . what could be causing such consternation in a woman as beautiful as you?”

  “Beautiful,” she repeated, determined to pull herself together. “Hmmm.”

  “Hmmm, good?” he asked, his voice laced with amusement. “Or hmmm, bad?”

  “I’m just a little shocked, I think,” she said, working to keep her expression completely deadpan.

  She watched his eyes widen. “Are you?” he asked. “Why?”

  “I guess I hoped you’d be more original.”

  “Ah, yes. Well, perhaps I hoped you’d take pity on me.”

  “Pity?” she repeated, enjoying the banter. “Trust me. Pity really isn’t my style.”

  “No? Then how about charity? Can I buy you a drink?”

  She sighed, putting her whole body into the deep expression of woe.

  “Still not original enough for you?” he asked, his voice overflowing with concern.

  “Not in the least.”

  “Damn. And I usually do so well with the ladies.”

  “Really? With that material?” She was having a hard time not smiling, but she was also having too much fun to break the mood now. And the fact was it had been a long time since she’d really had fun with a man. Especially one so delicious to look at.

  “Nah, I haven’t pulled out the tried-and-true stuff on you yet.”

  “Maybe you should,” she said with mock seriousness. “I think you’re getting down to the wire.”

  “Am I?” he said. “I usually have such a good sense of when I’m crashing and burning
.”

  “Trust me,” she said. “I’ve got the inside scoop on how you’re doing.”

  “Good point. All right, then. Time for the big guns.” He pulled out the stool next to her, then sat down. He turned to face her, his eyes deadly serious. “So,” he finally said, “I have to know.” He paused, and she held her breath, curious what wonder he’d come up with now. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

  She burst out laughing. She couldn’t help it. The campy line was just too funny. Too unexpected.

  And, frankly, way too false. “I think you’ve got it backwards.”

  “Have I?”

  “The question is, what’s a girl like me doing in a nice place like this.”

  “Ah.” He leaned back, his hands together, his fingers steepled. “Interesting.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve managed to hook up with a bad girl.”

  “Trust me,” she said, looking straight into his eyes. “You don’t know the half of it.”

  His gaze didn’t waver, and she felt herself being sucked in. “Why don’t you show me?” he asked, his voice holding all sorts of decadent possibilities.

  “Is that a proposition?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She leaned back in her seat, a fingertip pressed to the side of her mouth as she made a show of looking him up and down. The view was quite delightful, and she fought the smile that tugged at her lips.

  Finally, she met his eyes, and the heat she saw there was almost enough to make her drop the pretense altogether and simply lose herself in his arms. “Convince me.”

  “This is a casino,” he said. “Perhaps you’d fancy a wager?”

  “A wager,” she repeated. “Like what?”

  “Nothing unreasonable,” he said. “Roulette. A game of pure chance. I win, you have dinner with me.”

  “Dinner?”

  “That’s a metaphor,” he said. “But don’t ask me for what. That, I have to show you.”

  “I see.” She licked her lips, reveling in the way her body tingled from the sensual promise in his voice. “Only dinner?”