An Assassin’s Holiday (4 page)

“Why on earth would anyone do that to a nice guy like you?” I shake my head as I step away and go back into the living room.

Before I sit, I open the cabinet against the wall and take out a bottle of fine Bourbon—sipping whiskey—and a couple of crystal glasses. I pour myself a portion and sit, gazing out the windows at the lights of the city. Everything is lit for the holidays, with buildings in red and green, trees on roofs and balconies. All of New York seems ready and poised for a celebration. For years I’ve ignored it all and gone about my business.

“Isn’t it pretty?” Robin says as he comes into the room and wanders over to the windows, staring out for a while. “Why don’t you have a tree?”

“I haven’t celebrated the holidays for a long time.”

“Can I ask why?” Robin asks without turning around. “For me it was one of the best times of the year. At the home there were candy canes, and the nuns let us stay up later so we could watch Christmas movies and shows on television. There was even a Christmas party. That’s where I got Stewart. Then a few years later, it was Christmas when I was officially adopted and found a home for good. Mom and Dad were good to me. They still are, and I work hard to make them proud.” Robin turns toward me, biting his lower lip. “I still want to do that, because I never want them to regret adopting me.”

“Would they be proud of you now?”

Robin hesitates. “I think they’d be disappointed that I’d allowed myself to be duped, but I swear my mom would fly to New York and rip his balls off if she knew what he did to me. My mom is fierce. Always has been.” The pride and warmth, combined with latent fear, is almost too much to resist. “Can I ask if you ever had someone stick up for you?”

I think about not answering. How could someone I’d met just a few hours ago know exactly the questions to ask to get to the heart of me? The answer is obvious: because Robin is me, or he could have been me if circumstances had been different in his life. He was among the lucky ones; I wasn’t. “I did once.”

Robin watches me with his deep blue eyes. “Is that why you do what you do? Because you think no one cares?”

At first I want to lash out, because pity is the last thing I want from anyone. But I realize it’s understanding that I’m seeing—and maybe concern.

I growl slightly. “You mean kill people? You think I don’t feel, or that I’ve turned my feelings off so I can do this? I have feelings just like the next person. But I’m also pragmatic enough to know that if I don’t take a job, someone else will. So I take life and I’m paid for it. There isn’t some grand psychological system at work here, and I’m not a psychopath or mentally ill. It’s my work and I don’t think too hard about it. Do you think about the implications of your job, or just go to work?”

“My job isn’t killing people.”

“It’s still a job,” I counter at the self-righteous tone. “And you can’t tell me that being an accountant isn’t without its disappointments. How many times have you had to tell someone that their financial life is over?” I take another sip from my glass and ask Robin if he wants one.

“I suppose. I mean, this whole night has been too strange for words. Maybe a little heat will help me think.” Robin takes the glass, and I pour him a tot. He sips and shivers, making a face like this was the first time he’s ever had anything this strong.

“I have something else. You don’t need to put up a front on my part.” It would also be a rotten shame to waste high-quality whiskey on someone who doesn’t appreciate it. I expect him to demur, but Robin takes another sip and settles back in the chair.

“Man, it feels warm.”

“Dutch courage, they used to call it. It makes you feel warm, but it’s only the alcohol close to the skin. People used to freeze to death with only this to drink because it forces blood to the skin where it can cool quickly. So I never have more than a single glass, no matter how much the siren calls.” I close the bottle and put it away, out of temptation’s reach.

“Does the bottle call to you often?” Robin asks.

“Sometimes,” I answer truthfully. Telling lies and weaving stories is part of my profession and my talent. But lying to Robin seems wrong. “The bottle will occasionally let you forget, but that’s temporary, and everything you want to forget will be waiting for you once the alcohol is gone. It’s better to remember and deal with it.”

“So that’s how you manage.” Robin’s gaze flicks over his glass just before a dollop of the amber nectar of the gods slides into his mouth.

“I never said I managed. Time dulls the memories and pain until it becomes a part of you. I’m sure you know that. You went through much of what I did, if only for a blessedly shorter time. The good and bad level out, and what’s left is an amalgamation of everything.” I stand and carry my glass into the kitchen and place it on the granite countertop next to the sink. “I’m going to go to bed. The apartment is alarmed to the hilt, so don’t touch any windows or exterior doors in the night.” I need some rest and time alone to work through all this.

“What am I going to do about this contract stuff? I don’t think I can count on two people suddenly developing a conscience.”

“Tomorrow is Friday. We’ll pay a visit to your boss and get him to straighten things out.” I approach Robin very slowly, like a cat stalking its prey. “I can be very persuasive.”

“Do I want to know how?”

“I don’t think so.” I curl my lips in my best approximation of an evil grin. “But I will take care of it.”

“Why?” Robin asks for the millionth time.

“I’m starting to think you’re actually a three-year-old.” I stand still, gazing deeply into Robin’s eyes. “Maybe someday I’ll tell you everything. But I can’t now. I haven’t told anyone, and there are places I don’t think I’m ready to go. Memories that are best left bottled up and out of sight.” I find I can’t move, and Robin’s eyes are shining up at me. I want to let myself wish that my Christmas present this year could be a single taste of his lips. I haven’t made a Christmas wish in years, decades. I never allow myself to wish for anything since the last one I made was so utterly ignored. But I make one anyway and then step away just enough so my record of unfulfilled wishes can remain complete and unblemished. “Good night,” I whisper and turn away before I do something I’ll regret.

I feel Robin watching me the few steps to my room. I know heat when I encounter it, and Robin is practically burning with it—at least, I think so. He seems to be making me doubt and question many things right now. When it comes to matters that don’t involve guns or other forms of lethal force, my judgment is probably severely flawed, so it’s best to walk away in case what I’m thinking is heat for me is simply anger at the situation he’s been in.

As soon as I close my door, I release the breath I’ve been holding and stand stock-still. After a few minutes I hear Robin go to his room and close the door. Then I get undressed, clean up in my private bathroom, and climb into bed, knowing I should get to sleep but figuring that would be the one thing I would get very little of in the coming hours.

I
T
SEEMS
Robin didn’t get much sleep either. I must have eventually dropped off because I wake when I hear Robin moving around. The windows are still mostly dark, and snow has begun to fall once again. I push back the covers and pull on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt before leaving my room.

“What are you doing?” I ask Robin when I get into the living room.

“I thought you could use a little holiday cheer. I couldn’t find any decorations—surprise, surprise—so I made some.”

“You strung lights on my fake plant.” Damn, I have to suppress a smile. It really does look cute and rather Charlie Brownish, but Robin is smiling, so that makes it worth it. “And moved it in front of the window.”

“Yeah. So now it’s part of the cityscape, just like everyone else’s decorations.” He motions toward the window. Robin’s wearing some sort of night pants and a loose shirt. They look more like something out of Arabian Nights than anything else, but I can’t take my eyes off him.

“Where did you find the lights?” I ask, sure I didn’t have any.

“They were in my case. I was taking them in to work tomorrow so I could decorate my bleak little cubicle. But I figured you need them more. I cut some snowflakes and used them for decorations.”

I shake my head slightly, staring at the makeshift Christmas tree. It sparkles, and the bits of paper shine with holiday cheer that seems out of place with my apartment, and even with me. But with Robin standing near it, the tree is perfect. It’s a reflection of him and the undimmable holiday spirit that seems to radiate from inside him. “How can you do this? After all you’ve been through, how can you be so cheerful? Someone wants you dead and is willing to pay to make it happen.” This situation is becoming more and more surreal by the second.

“First thing, you can let your past and the bad things that happened to you define your life. Or, like me, you can look at the good things that happened and relish those. I was given a family that loves me, and I’m thankful for them every day. Yeah, I could focus on the fact that my sister was born sick and died, but we had her for two very happy years.” Robin steps closer, his eyes sparkling in the reflected glow of the tree with its twinkle lights. “I could concentrate on the fact that someone wants me dead, or be glad that the man who was supposed to do it had an attack of conscience and asked why.”

“Your favorite question,” I retort without taking my gaze from his. Electricity arcs between us, and I take a deep breath and hold it, licking my lips in anticipation of a kiss I’m sure isn’t going to happen. His pink tongue makes an appearance, sliding along his upper lip with its adorable little cleft that I want to suck on so bad it makes my head spin. “What I don’t understand is how you can accept all of this so easily. Most people would be shaking with fear or yelling about how unfair it was.”

“I’ve seen unfair plenty of times, and I believe the world sorts things out in its own time, and that fate has a sense of justice. Why else would she have sent you as the assassin, the only one who was willing to question what he was seeing?” Robin steps closer to me.

“Robin.” My voice is rough and deep, my throat desert dry.
This is a bad idea
, my head screams, while my body grows hotter and more anxious by the seconds. I’m a guy who likes to be in control, but everything feels completely out of my control right now. Robin stretches, and I know the little minx is trying to wind me up as a strip of skin—warm, tanned, and luscious—opens up just above the top of his ballooning night pants. Hell, I can see he’s as excited as I am, and he’s not afraid to show it. Over the years I’ve had plenty of experience with sex, but I’ve never felt this level of mind-numbing, world-narrowing excitement. My breath hitches, and it takes me a second to realize it’s because my cock is throbbing in my pants so much that I’m afraid I’m going to embarrass myself, and I haven’t done that since I was a teenager trying to hide nocturnal emissions from the nuns.

“I think it’s an amazing idea,” Robin purrs softly. “I think you’re the sexiest man I have ever met in my life. If you fix this… thing with my boss, then I suspect I will never see you again. So in my mind, I would be a fool not to sample the buffet of intensity that you radiate in every direction.”

“The what?” I glare at him.

Robin shudders. “That… right there. Your gaze could burn a hole in steel. I bet you never do anything by halves. When you have a job, you throw yourself into it and don’t let go until it’s done. I want to be the center of that attention, if only for a little while, because it’s fucking hot.”

He steps even closer, and my brain tells me to turn and go back to my room. If I allow this to continue, I know things will turn out badly.

Before I can decide what I want to do—and dithering is so not like me—Robin puts his arms around my neck and pulls me down to him. Like a fool, I actually think about pulling away, but then his lips touch mine with an electric spark that damn near stops my heart.

His lips taste like strawberries, and I wonder if he’s wearing lip gloss. I deepen the kiss and realize it’s Chapstick. Not that I care in the least, because even beneath that he tastes sweet and hot, like chocolate mixed with chilies. And as soon as I encircle him in my arms, he presses close, vibrating against me. No one in my life has ever felt so alive to me. He’s right there, shaking with energy and desire… for me. I was the quintessential kid no one wanted, and Robin’s doing just that. He more than wants me, and I suddenly need him more than I need air.

Robin melts in my arms for a few seconds, letting me have my way. Then, with a sudden rigidity, he pulls back, glaring at me in the fucking best way possible. Without a word, he tugs at the base of his shirt and pulls it over his head.

I gasp at the beauty of his lithe, willowy body and at the angry-looking scar across his left side. I want to ask what happened, to know what the story is, but that single blemish on otherwise perfection changes my perception of him yet again. Why is it that every time I turn a corner with Robin, I discover something new that only brings into relief just how much we have in common?

I swallow hard and go to pull him close again. Robin is quick; I have to give him that. He takes hold of the loose tail of my T-shirt with grabby hands and pulls it upward. I raise my arms without thinking, and when my shirt goes too high for his reach, I pull it off the rest of the way myself.

Robin reaches out and touches me, caressing his hands over my chest and stomach with almost tickling gentleness. “Man, I knew you were….” He swallows and rests his hands over the center of my chest. “Are they sensitive?” he asks, gliding his fingers over my nipples. I shake my head, and he grins. “Mine really are.”

Hell, I have to see what that means, so I take my turn, stroking over smooth, silky skin. When I roll my thumb around one of his small nipples, he lolls his head back and shivers. He’s gorgeous, and I have to taste, so I slide my hands around his back and tug him closer, leaning forward. I flick my tongue over and around his nipple. It hardens under my tongue, and he shakes once again, moaning from deep in his throat.