Sure as Hell Page 7

  Whatever the reason, she asked the question: “You never did tell me. What does your dad have to do with your business rescuing kids? Is one of the kids here?” She almost hoped the answer was yes. That insidious beast of compassion was working on her, and she would happily help Dante look for the child. Penance, she thought, for the life she’d led and the kingdom she would inherit.

  “He doesn’t have a thing to do with it,” Dante said. “I used to work for him, but I cut myself loose.”

  “But you said—”

  “I know. I’m temporarily working for him again. He found the one way to bring me back.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He hesitated, and for a moment, she thought he wouldn’t say. Then he propped himself up on his elbow. “My father is Jacques Moreau. And someone is out to kill him.”

  ‡

  Chapter Eight

  Jacques Moreau. Hell and damnation, Lucia still couldn’t believe it. The man she’d fallen in love with was the son of her target.

  Her father had well and truly screwed her this time.

  She paced, agitated, back and forth in her suite. She’d managed to hold it together in the room with Dante, centuries of acting and self-control coming to her rescue in the face of a horrific snowfall of information. But he had to know something was up. Not only had she never told him that she loved him, but as soon as he’d spoken of his father, she’d started easing away. His words were the harshest reminder of what she was here for. Of who she was.

  And of what she had to do.

  Except, damn it all, she didn’t know what to do.

  “I like the approach you’re taking.”

  Startled, she whirled around, finding her father standing beside her, his Armani suit crisp and perfect.

  “It’s brilliant.” He stepped closer and kissed her cheek. “I always knew you were the cleverest of my children.”

  She knew he was lying, but it was a nice lie, and she wanted to cry on his shoulder, but her father had never been that kind of a father. So instead, she stood a bit taller, held her chin high, and looked him in the eye. “I’ve been researching Moreau,” she said. “I can’t imagine why he’s important to you.”

  “Hmmm.” Her father tapped his fingers together. “Yes, I’ve been keeping tabs on your progress. Your days have been productive, though the nights less so than I would have hoped.”

  “He’s not here,” she spat. “I can hardly assassinate an absent man.”

  “And yet you haven’t run off to find him elsewhere.”

  No, she thought. I haven’t.

  “No matter,” he said. “As I said, your reason is clear. Get close to the son, get close to the father.”

  “I’m not using Dante for this.” The idea was unthinkable.

  “No?” Her father’s voice rose, the epitome of innocent curiosity. “Then you have a plan?”

  She let out a slow breath, then nodded. “The roof of the main casino tower. It overlooks the west wing garden. He’s coming in tomorrow for a dedication ceremony. I’ll have a direct shot. A single bullet. And then I’m done.”

  Her voice broke a bit on the last. Because being done in Monte Carlo meant being done with Dante, too. But she couldn’t dwell on that. Couldn’t let her father see weakness in her eyes.

  And she wasn’t weak. She was simply bound by the inevitable. There was no future with Dante. Even if she weren’t about to kill his father, there could be no future. It wasn’t as if she could be with him forever. She was immortal. He was not.

  This was a fling. An interlude. A delicious vacation before she got down to the serious business of running her father’s very vast empire.

  And she was fine with that.

  Really.

  In front of her, her father smiled. “Good. Very good. I’m glad to see that my darling Lucia hasn’t lost her touch.”

  “Tell me why, Daddy.” She had to know. There had to be a reason. Something large that she could cling to and say, yes, this was worth losing out on love.

  But he waved the question away as if it were nothing. “Competition. I told you. I’m looking to expand my gaming interests. And Moreau has always been a thorn in my side.” A gentle caress to her cheek. “But what does it matter to you? Once he’s gone, you’re in the catbird seat. And I would think you would do anything to get there, now wouldn’t you, my dear?”

  She hesitated, wishing she could deny it. But she couldn’t. She was desperate to leave her life as an assassin, and this was her way out. Her one last job, and then freedom.

  Freedom. That had a price, too. Because once she was free of the shackles of her profession, then what was she if she didn’t take her father’s offer? Simply some immortal girl spinning her wheels. She could have Dante, true, but to what end? To watch him grow old, then die? She couldn’t even bear the thought.

  She was who she was, and that was a sad fact that she had to live with. More than that, she had to live with it for eternity.

  She was the devil’s firstborn. And his kingdom was hers to inherit.

  She straightened her shoulders and drew in a breath. “Yes, Daddy,” she said, the words so simple and yet meaning so much.

  “Good girl.” And then he was gone in a puff of smoke. And Lucia could do nothing except fall on her bed and cry, just as she had when her mother had died and, like now, her entire world had been lost.

  Dante held her close, the night tight around them, and his body trembling with the aftershocks of a powerful orgasm. He’d been well and truly sated . . . and yet that wasn’t enough. Something wasn’t quite right, and as he traced his fingers up and down on Lucia’s bare arm, he wondered if he had a right to ask. Especially since he feared that he already knew the answer. After all, he’d confessed to loving her. But she hadn’t spoken the words back to him.

  “Sweetheart,” he whispered, “you’re so far away.”

  She rolled over to face him, a smile on her face, but something distant in her eyes. “I’m right here.”

  “You are. And you’re not.” He pushed a lock of hair away from her eyes. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

  She flashed a sad smile, then got out of bed and started pulling on her clothes. “I’m just tired. That’s all. Really. And now’s not the time to talk about it. Your father will be here soon. You have work to do.”

  His heart twisted, but he had to ask. “Are you upset because of what I said? That I love you? I would never try to—”

  “No.” She whipped around to face him, her words spoken with such ferocity, that he had no doubt as to their veracity. “No, please don’t take it back. You have no idea how much that means to me.”

  He waited, hoping that she’d say the words back to him, but all she did was stand there, her lips together and her eyes sad. But she held her body rigid and proud, her fingers stroking the shell necklace he’d given her. That one fact gave him hope. Since that day on the rocks overlooking the ocean, she’d never taken it off. He hoped she never would.

  A second passed, then another. “I . . . I have to go.”

  She bent down then and kissed him quick, before he could get out a protest. And then she was gone, ducking out the door and disappearing down the hallway.

  Dante stood, frustrated. He had no idea what he’d done wrong. He’d had a few serious relationships, of course, but the workings of the female mind baffled him. She’d said his confession of love hadn’t bothered her, but he didn’t know if he should believe her.

  Something was bothering her, and he hated the impotent feeling of not knowing how to make it better for her.

  His cell phone rang, and he realized that he’d been pacing, trying to find the answers in some sort of rhythmic trance. With a curse, he snatched the phone up, then barked out a curt “What?”

  “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

  Thomas. “What have you got for me?” Dante demanded. He’d struck out on getting wind of any plot to kill his father, but he knew that something had to be in the works.
And if someone were going to pull off an assassination, this evening at the dedication of the new wing would be the perfect opportunity. He’d tried to get his father to cancel the damn ceremony, or at least move it inside, but the man was deaf to rational suggestions.

  Instead, Dante had upped the security force for the property, ensured that his father was under guard at all times, including during his flight to Monaco from Paris, and overseen the installation of video cameras on the grounds.

  Still, that wasn’t enough. Somehow, he just knew it wasn’t enough.

  “If I were there,” Thomas said, “you’d kiss me.”

  “Tell me why,” Dante said. All hotel guests were required to have their passports scanned upon arrival, pursuant to a procedure Dante had implemented years ago. He’d had Linus send Thomas all of the images—an unreasonable amount of data—along with a request that Thomas see what kind of magic their connections in the States could work on the facial images.

  It had been a hell of a long shot, and not one that Dante had expected to pay off. Not unless hell froze over, anyway.

  Apparently, today was pretty damn chilly.

  “I got one hit,” Thomas said. “And it was a doozy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s weird, man. This gal’s never been implicated in any crime, but she’s been nearby when a lot of society folks have bought it.”

  “Sounds like a good lead,” he said as the fax machine in the suite started to ring. “What’s odd?”

  “We cross-referenced with a new project. One of the universities is inputting older photographic material.”

  “And?”

  “And the same gal showed up.”

  “Not following you.”

  “The photo is fifteen years old, Dante. And she’s right there. Looking exactly the same, like she hadn’t aged a day.”

  “So she was thirty-five in one photo, then fifty in the next. Some women age well. You should see some of the women who come here to my dad’s casin—” He cut himself off, because the fax had finished. He’d grabbed the paper, and found himself looking at a crystal clear image of Lucia—just as she looked that morning. Impossible.

  “Fifteen years ago she would have been only ten years old,” he said softly, the picture he was holding baffling him. “Twelve or thirteen at the most.”

  “That’s what I’m saying,” Thomas said. “Hinky. But one thing isn’t hinky.”

  “What’s that?” Dante asked, amazed his voice still worked.

  “She’s your gal, buddy. She’s got to be.”

  The flu.

  That had to be why Lucia felt so hot. So nauseous. And so completely miserable.

  The flu. The plague. Some hideous malady. That was, of course, the only explanation.

  Except, of course, that she’d never been sick a day in her very long life. And except, of course, that she knew exactly what her problem was.

  She was sick all right. She was lovesick.

  Get a grip, Lucia.

  She concentrated on setting up the scope on her rifle. She’d done it well over a thousand times, on assignments and during the drills she’d forced on herself, just so she could stay in practice. Hell, she could assemble a rifle in her sleep.

  Today, though, she would have been better off playing with Tinkertoys. Her concentration was all shot to, well, hell.

  She needed to do the job, finish the job, and leave. There really was no other way. She already knew that she’d lost her edge, so continuing in her current profession wasn’t an option.

  And while Dante may have been serious when he’d said she could come work for him, she knew he’d retract that offer in a heartbeat if he knew who she really was. He didn’t love her. He loved an illusion. An imaginary woman who hadn’t been sired by the devil himself. A mortal woman he could grow old with.

  Not a woman who would stay twenty-eight for the rest of eternity. Not a woman who would stand there as he grew older and, eventually, died.

  The thought of losing Dante that way ripped her heart out. The truth was, she wanted to grow old with him. Wanted a normal, mortal life with him. Wanted children, a picket fence, and the whole sappy, ridiculous life.

  She couldn’t have it, though. She knew that.

  The simple, painful truth was that she couldn’t have the life she wanted, and she didn’t want the life she had. There was only one way out for her—her father’s offer. Take over his kingdom and then, maybe, she could find some kind of peace.

  Determined, she focused again on her task, this time completing the assembly of the rifle. She’d poked around enough that she’d heard what Dante had done to beef up security, and she had to commend him on his thoroughness. But she was thorough, too. She was also a hell of a shot, and could hit a stationary target from almost a mile away.

  Comparatively speaking, this time would be easy.

  True, she’d abandoned her plan to camp on the casino’s roof.

  But Monte Carlo was crowded, and filled with hotels. The competition had proved quite accommodating, the balcony of a nearby penthouse providing a perfect angle into the garden of the new wing. And the penthouse’s occupant, Charles Wellington, the retired film star, had been easily subdued by a kind word and an extra-strong sleeping pill slipped into his cocktail.

  She had the balcony all to herself. Now all she had to do was wait. And try not to think about Dante.

  “Eagle’s Nest to command: all clear.”

  The voice crackled into Dante’s earpiece, and he answered into the microphone wired into his sleeve. “Copy.”

  That was the final check-in. Everything was ready. Nothing was amiss.

  Perhaps it had all been rumor. A horrible coincidence.

  A sick joke that Thomas was playing on him, making him think that Lucia was out to kill his father. Making him think that she’d gotten close to him only because it was part of a job.

  You’re the one who saw her that first day. You sought her out.

  Maybe so, but that was slim consolation.

  Damn it! He’d fallen in love with a woman who wanted nothing—and everything—from him. In truth, he had no doubt that she was the assassin, and for that he hated himself. Now that he bothered to think about it, all the clues were there. Her refusal to tell him her name. The way she carried herself. Her intense examination of the casino catwalk that first day they’d walked the floor together.

  She’d played him for a fool and, like a fool, he’d fallen for her.

  God, she must be having a big laugh now.

  The only question was where. Where was she laughing?

  Because this wasn’t the time to bemoan his own stupidity. No, he could do that when his father was off the premises. Now was the time to find her.

  Now was the time to stop her.

  Once he had her in custody—once it was over—then he could look into her eyes. See the flatness there. And know that she had never really loved him. No matter how much he’d wanted to believe.

  The Rolls-Royce pulled up in front of Moreau Sur la Mer, and from her angle, Lucia could see the doors open. Bellmen and security guards quickly surrounded Jacques Moreau, ushering him into the casino and away from her view.

  No matter. She knew what would happen next. Despite all of Dante’s urging, Jacques would do exactly what he wanted. Because that was what fathers did. They didn’t listen to their children, they just moved forward, fulfilling their own needs.

  And Jacques Moreau needed the press. Needed the spectacle.

  Dante might want the ceremony to take place inside, but at a cost of over one million American dollars, Jacques wasn’t going to ignore the fabulous garden that was the jewel of the new west wing. The ceremony had been scheduled to take place there, and it would.

  Lucia was betting her future on it.

  Sure enough, minutes later he emerged in the garden, the press entourage and invited guests following at heel. The security was still tight, but by necessity they had to loosen the noose. How else
could the camera crews get good footage? And how else could Lucia get a shot?

  Except . . .

  Except she couldn’t get a shot.

  Her finger wouldn’t pull the trigger no matter how much her head told it to.

  Damn it, damn it, damn it!

  No. This wasn’t happening. She wasn’t going to lose this time. She didn’t know exactly how this would play out, but she did know one thing—she was going to fire that damn rifle.

  The heat in her blood had long since faded, replaced with ice. She positioned herself, checked the scope, calculated the distance, factored in the wind, and then—when there were no more preparations to be made—she pulled the trigger.

  ‡

  Chapter Nine

  The bullet slammed into the brick just shy of a second-story window, sending everyone at the ceremony crashing to the ground in terror, but injuring no one. The security team scurried to action, all but Dante. He merely stood there, his mind replaying the incident, trying to calculate from where the shot had come.

  He turned toward the east, and looked up, noting the penthouse balcony of the reclusive Charles Wellington and the slim figure standing there.

  And then the assassin was gone, and Dante was racing that direction, his heart desperate to believe it wasn’t her. His head just as sure that it was.

  By the time he reached the balcony, it was empty. The gun was long gone as well, though the marks it had made on the marble flooring made it clear that forensics could figure out the exact type and weight. Dante knew they’d be up soon to do just that.

  And that’s why he reached down and pocketed the necklace. A single seashell on a golden chain.

  He’d been right. Lucia was the assassin.

  He didn’t know why she’d missed, though. Maybe she’d been surprised by something that fouled her aim. Maybe she was toying with his father.