Sure as Hell (3 page)

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

H
er 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?”

There was a question in her voice, but he couldn’t quite interpret the query. She had to know, though, that he wasn’t interested in anything more than the one night. That was, after all, only fair. “I’d offer you breakfast as well,” he said, “but I have a plane to catch in the morning.”

Relief flashed in her eyes, and he congratulated himself for saying the right thing. This woman wanted the same thing he did, and that was perfectly fine with Dante.

“All right,” she said. “Dinner if you win. But if you lose?”

“I lose and you can tell me to go jump off a cliff.”

She lifted a brow. “You realize that we’re in Monte Carlo. There are a lot of cliffs in the vicinity to choose from.”

“Believe me,” he said, after letting his hot gaze sweep all the way from her toes to her eyes, “I know exactly what’s at stake.”

His luscious mouth twitched at the corner, and as it did, she shifted in her seat, the warm tingle between her legs evidence of the way she wanted this wager to go. She didn’t normally mix business with pleasure, but in this case she’d decided to make an exception the moment she’d first seen him.

After all, her quarry had yet to arrive, and she did have some time to kill . . . .

Dante waited
, his breath caught in his chest, as he watched the woman’s face. He was certain he was reading her right, certain that their banter was a casual flirting with a not-so-casual intent raging just beneath the surface.

Still, though, that tiny glimmer of doubt remained. The fear that everything he saw in her was fueled by his own desire. A lust-induced fantasy, complete with a willing woman and a few hours to kill before his plane took off in the morning.

The situation truly teetered on the precipice of unbelievability, and he wasn’t sure what kept it from tumbling over. The interest in her eyes, perhaps. Or the way her body leaned toward his with a purposeful casualness, as if she was as attuned to him as he was to her.

He didn’t know. All he knew was that he hoped his certainty that their attraction was mutual wasn’t imaginary. Because if this woman didn’t accompany him to the gaming floor—and, ultimately, to his bed—he was going to be one very unhappy man come morning.

He managed a slow smile, and hoped that no edge of apprehension crept into his voice. “Is it that hard to make a decision?”

“I’m just contemplating whether you play fair.”

“Never,” he said, and saw immediately that he’d said the right thing.

She slipped off the stool, her silk skirt clinging to her thighs, then hooked her arm through his. “Then by all means,” she said. “Let’s wager.”

He signaled to Marcel to put her bill on his tab, and was relieved when she didn’t protest. So many women refused to let a man buy them a drink. The fact that this woman did not only pleased him, it seemed to hone some primitive urge within him.

Nothing about her indicated a need to be protected, and yet he couldn’t help but feel that there was a vulnerability in her. And coupled with the smoldering sensuality that had set his senses on fire . . . well, the woman needed only to smile if she wanted to wrap him around her little finger. Or around anywhere else, for that matter.