Sure as Hell (10 page)

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

T
he 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.

Maybe she loved him.

The last thought came unbidden, and he pushed it away. She was an assassin. She’d come to Monte Carlo with one purpose: to kill his father. She didn’t love him. She’d used him.

Damn her to hell for breaking his heart. And, he thought, swinging the necklace that no professional would ever leave behind, damn her for laughing at him now.

She was waiting for him
when he arrived. Tucked away in her suite, registered in her own name.

She’d known he would find her, and she was impressed that it had taken him barely half an hour.

“Why?” he demanded.

“Why what?” she asked, desperate for him to ask the right question, but so afraid that he wouldn’t.

“Why did you try to kill my father? Why did you use me? Why are you here?”

She closed her eyes. Those were the wrong questions, but at least she had her answer. And, soon, she’d be gone. Out of his life forever.

What she would do then, though, she didn’t know.

“Damn it, Lucia, answer me! And while you’re at it, tell me who the hell you are!”

“You’re close with that one,” she said, unable to keep the hard edge out of her voice.

He must have heard the truth, though, because he took a step back, his eyes wary. “What are you talking about?”

“Hell, Dante. It’s just a little slice of home.”

“I . . . what?”

“The devil’s daughter.” She laughed. She couldn’t help it. “And you thought your dad was bad.”

“Lucia, you can’t be serious. You—”

“Haven’t aged. The pictures that Thomas sent you. Didn’t you wonder?”

“Of course, but . . .” He frowned. “That can’t be. It’s—”

“It’s true,” she said, never taking her eyes off his, and silently willing him to believe.

He cocked his head, studying her. “How do you know about the pictures? Do you have some sort of powers?”

She shook her head. She did have a few, but they were hardly worth mentioning. “I have money and resources. And I’m good at getting information.”

She saw him file that tidbit away. A leak in his perfect security. But there were always leaks. He knew that. For that matter, his entire business with Thomas depended on it.

“I’m good at what I do, Dante. And I’ve been doing it for a long time. A very long time.”

“A long time,” he repeated, his voice soft. He was, she knew, starting to believe.

She waited for him to ask the one question. The one question that could open the door to a future and whisk them beyond her past. But there was no future. She could see that in his eyes. He was too stunned, too baffled. And certainly not willing to bring the devil’s daughter into his life, or his heart.

“Go away, Dante,” she finally said, standing up and using her most regal glare. “Your father’s alive. You’ve got nothing on me.”

“I have proof you were there,” he said. “I have the necklace.”

“Then arrest me,” she said.

He didn’t, though. He simply looked through her, his face pale with pain. And then he left.

He still didn’t know the answer, though, and the question hung unasked in the still air of the room. Why? Why had she missed?

But it didn’t matter now. He was gone.

And, with him, hope.

Three weeks had passed
. Three long weeks. And Dante had slogged through them, trying to bury himself in work. In the thrum of daily life in Manhattan. In the search for little Megan Anders.

None of it was working. His sources had dried up. And, for that matter, so had his heart.

Part of him didn’t want to believe Lucia was who she said she was. And another part of him didn’t give a damn. He should give a damn, of course. But then he had to ask himself why. She had no control over who her father was. And she obviously wanted out. Hadn’t they spent hours commiserating over their paternal situations?

True, she’d come to kill his father, but she hadn’t managed to do that.

He frowned, that one fact still bugging him. He’d followed up on Thomas’s information, and from what he could tell, Lucia was an expert. If she missed, it was because she wanted to miss.

He held the necklace in front of him, the seashell moving back and forth like a hypnotist’s watch. Even now, he could picture it so clearly on her neck. She’d never once taken it off. She’d stroked it after they’d made love. And she’d worn it instead of diamonds or pearls when they’d dressed for dinner.

She’d left it for him that day as a message, but all this time, he’d misunderstood the text. Now, with time away from anger and shock, he saw it all so clearly: she’d missed because she loved him.

And he’d been too much of a fool to believe that at the time.

Now he was even more the fool, because he was in love with her as well. He was in love with a damned assassin. Him. A man who’d dedicated his life to finding missing children. Him . . . with an assassin.

Could the universe really be so cruel as to fill his heart with the one woman he could never truly be with?

No.

He couldn’t believe it. He was too full up on her. She’d been his everything since the moment they’d met. They’d laughed over stupid things and bonded over their miserable fathers.

He fought a laugh. As for that she really did win the prize. But it was more than just having the father from, literally, hell. He could remember now so clearly the way she’d clung desperately to the fact that she was there for one last job. One final job, and then she’d be free of a job that had bound her.

His father had been that job.

Which meant that she’d defied the devil. And she’d done it for him.

Dear God, he really had been a fool. She’d done everything but shout from the rooftop that she wanted to be free—wanted to be with him—and didn’t want to be an assassin anymore. He hadn’t heard her, though. All he’d seen was the gun and the bullet, the message lost in the packaging.

He’d pushed her away, and in doing that, he’d screwed things up for both of them. Because how did you go about finding a woman who didn’t want to be found?

He drew in a determined breath. This wasn’t over. Not yet. Because fortunately for Dante, that was the business he was in. And he intended to put all his effort into the task.

Lucia paced on the beach
in front of her father, trying to ignore his glare.

“I had hoped this would be my permanent situation by now,” he said, holding a drink topped by a little umbrella. “How disappointing.”

“Just tell me, Daddy.”

“Tell you? Tell you that you failed me?”

“No,” she said. “
That
you’ve been telling me for weeks.”

“Perhaps I still can’t believe it’s true.” He cocked his head. “It doesn’t have to be. Go back and finish the job and my kingdom is yours. You can’t honestly want it to go to Jessie.”

“She can have it with my compliments.”

Her father put a hand to his heart. “You wound me.” She closed her eyes, counted to ten. She needed to get what she wanted from the old goat, but she needed to do it without arousing that famous temper. Fortunately, the fruity beverage seemed to be helping in that regard.