Death Angel

her tongue and smiled and gone along with him no matter what he wanted, and for what? For him to treat her as if she were a common whore? She trembled with a primitive need to hurt him, to see his blood, to physically beat him and bite him and tear at him with her nails.

She couldn’t; she knew that. His goons would either shoot her on the spot or drag her off to be disposed of at their leisure. Admitting her own helplessness against him was even more galling.

The ruthlessly logical part of her brain ordered her to pull herself together and just deal with this, but she couldn’t seem to shove all these turbulent emotions away. They were like giant waves that kept crashing over her protective walls, and she was going under for the third time.

Rafael had to pay. She didn’t know how, but she had to make him pay. She couldn’t live if she let him get away with grinding her into the dirt the way he had. No matter how low life had pushed her, she’d always managed to reassure herself that at least she hadn’t been reduced to prostitution. She’d seen herself as Rafael’s mistress, not his whore, which maybe was splitting hairs but to her way of thinking it was a damned important hair.

She no longer had the comfort of that illusion. To him, she was nothing more than goods to be traded for a service, and the mirror she held up to herself reflected back only what he saw. Her entire body shuddered from the force of her sobs, her throat under such strain that she began gagging, but her stomach was empty and the spasm produced only dry heaves.

Finally she heard him enter, closing the door more loudly than he usually did, as if to emphasize his lack of remorse. He’d wanted to retain the assassin’s services more than he’d wanted to keep her, and-

The bitter thought stuttered to a halt, and for a moment she felt her brain almost freeze in a sudden burst of comprehension. He’d wanted to retain the assassin’s services… There was someone else he wanted dead, wanted it desperately enough that he’d swallowed his pride and given-loaned-his mistress to another man. Maybe that meant he valued her more than his actions said; maybe this gave her an advantage.

Her brain felt as if it were gummed with molasses; before she had time to work through her thoughts, Rafael stepped through the open sliding doors onto the balcony, halting when he saw her. “Why are you out here?”

His tone was so casual that the thick, sulfurous rage surged again inside her, and she had to clench her fists on the folds of her robe to keep from launching herself at him and tearing at his eyes with her nails. She gulped in huge breaths of air, fighting for control, fighting to think. She had to do something, say something.

She lifted her head and he flinched, his eyes widening with shock. Drea was acutely aware of how she looked, with her swollen eyes and ravaged face. She’d never before let Rafael see her looking anything less than perfect, but this time she didn’t care how she looked.

In another sudden burst of clarity, this one even more stunning than the first, she suddenly knew exactly what she was going to do, what she had to say. The enormity of the plan was so stunning that if she let herself hesitate she might chicken out. Rafael had to pay, and she knew exactly how she would make him do it.

She sucked in a deep, shuddering breath, bracing herself. “I’m sorry,” she choked out, tears streaming down her face again from the effort it took to apologize to the bastard. “I didn’t know…I didn’t know you were t-tired of me-” Her voice broke and she covered her face with her hands, her shoulders heaving from the force of her sobs.

She heard the scrape of his shoes on the tiles as he moved closer. Then there was a hesitation, as if he either didn’t know what to do, or knew but didn’t want to do it. Finally his hand settled on her shoulder. “Drea…” he began.

Drea jerked away from him, unable to stand even a casual touch from him. “No, don’t,” she said raggedly. She wiped her face with the sleeve of her robe. “I don’t want your pity.” More tears slid down to take the place of the ones she’d removed. “I knew you didn’t love me,” she whispered, “but I-I thought I had a chance, I thought one day you might. I guess now I know better, huh?” Her lips and chin quivered as she stared out into the distance, though most of the view was blocked by the wall. She didn’t dare look directly at him, afraid he would see in her eyes the utter loathing she felt for him. Thank God for these damn stupid tears that wouldn’t stop, even if she had to make Rafael believe she was crying because of him, instead of-

No. She was not crying because of that damned killer. She didn’t know why she was crying, but it definitely wasn’t because of him. Maybe she’d gone crazy, or something. But crazy or not, she’d play it for all she was worth. She was banking on Rafael’s ego, banking that he’d be so flattered that she’d actually fallen in love with him that he’d be willing to buy the line of bullshit she was handing him.

He crouched beside her, his dark eyes searching her face. Drea kept staring straight ahead and once more wiped her face. Maybe she couldn’t handle anything else that had happened today, but she would damn sure handle Rafael Salinas, or die trying.

“Did he hurt you?” Rafael finally asked, his voice quiet, the tone deadly and underlaid with something unlike anything she’d ever heard from him before.

She didn’t take the time to analyze it, just went with her instincts. “He didn’t touch me. I was upset and he got-He said I wasn’t worth the trouble, and left.” She gave a short, bitter laugh. “I guess you still owe him the hundred thou. Sorry ’bout that.” Rafael was Latino; knowing the assassin had had sex with her would lessen her value in his eyes, maybe even so much he wouldn’t try to keep her. She wasn’t ready to go, not yet, so she had to make him think nothing had happened.

“He didn’t touch you?” Rafael’s tone now held pure shock.

“That makes the two of you, huh? He didn’t want me, either.” She hadn’t meant to say that, the bitterness was too sharp and violent, but the words burst out of her. She regretted giving him even that much of a window onto her true feelings, though the emotion was genuine and that would carry some weight.

Once was enough.

Well, damn him to hell and back, once was more than enough for her. She knew now what he’d been doing: playing some kind of game with Rafael, one so subtle Rafael didn’t have a fucking clue he was even supposed to have been on the field. It was a game of sexual one-upmanship, and the assassin had won, giving her such an overdose of pleasure that she’d lost her mind and actually begged him to take her with him. She’d been fucked straight into stupidity, and she still didn’t have her brains back or she’d be able to stop this stupid crying.

Anguish washed over her again, still fresh and powerful, and she buried her face against her drawn-up knees as she wept.

Rafael hovered beside her, as if he couldn’t decide what to do. Nothing in their relationship had prepared him for this; Drea had always been accommodating, smiling, shallow and ornamental. He’d never seen her upset, or even annoyed. She would be willing to take bets that he thought she was interested in nothing except shopping and getting her hair and nails done, but then, she’d gone to extraordinary lengths to make him think that.

Finally he said, “I’ll get you some water,” and disappeared inside.

Water! As if a drink of water was going to comfort her. She was upset, not thirsty. Still, the gesture said something, because Rafael didn’t fetch anything for anyone; it was always the other way around, with others catering to him.

He was gone far longer than simply getting a glass of water would take, and she knew he was looking through the penthouse, searching for signs that she’d lied to him. Mentally she ran through everything she’d done, wondering if she’d overlooked anything.

He stepped back out onto the balcony and crouched beside her once more. “Here,” he said. “Drink some water.”

The tears had subsided enough that she thought she could talk, so Drea lifted her head and wiped her face before reaching for the glass and taking an obligatory sip. “I was going to pack,” she said wretchedly, her throat so clogged she was barely intelligible. “But I don’t have a-anywhere to go. I’ll start looking for a place, if you’ll let me s-stay here for a couple of days.”

“You don’t have to go,” he said, putting his hand on her shoulder again. “I don’t want you to go.”

“You don’t want me,” she said, shaking her head and finally daring to look at him, or at least look in his direction; her vision was so blurred with tears he was just an undefined shape. Her voice wobbled, but she swallowed hard and managed to keep going. “You g-gave me to him. You could have just told me to go, you didn’t have to do that. Maybe I should have seen you were getting tired of me but I guess I hoped so much you might love me that I-” She interrupted herself, shaking her head. “Never mind.”

“I don’t want you to go,” Rafael insisted. “I would never have-Look, he had me over a barrel and he knew it.” He looked around, as if assessing their vulnerability to electronic eavesdropping, and said