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I separate the veil from her head, roll down my window, and let the wind snag the filmy white fabric. It blows away, dancing in the car’s wake like a ghost. “Better?”
“Much.”
I shift closer, taking up more than my fair share of the bench seat. She glares at me. I raise my chin, daring her to comment.
For a long moment, electricity crackles between us. I want to push her back onto the seat and claim her now. Only years of reigning in my basest impulses allows me to deny the animal attraction that’s making my heart pump faster in her presence.
Judging by the goosebumps breaking out over the mounds of her delicious breasts in the tight, white bodice, she’s feeling something similar. Perhaps it’s simply fear, but as someone who trades in death, terror is a useful tool. It can make a person love or hate you. Or both at the same time. Best of all, the symptoms of fear—the shortening of breath and elevated pulse—are easily confused by the body as arousal.
“What is your name?” I ask.
She presses her lips together before answering. “Vera. Yours?”
I cock my head to the side, deciding if I should tell her. “Do you really want to know?”
I let her think through the implications. Common sense says if a kidnapper lets you know his face and name, he does not intend for you to live long.
She knows this. She hesitates, and licks her lips as she thinks things through. The sight of her tongue sends a stab of arousal through my core. I shift in the seat, needing to adjust myself to relieve the pressure of my pants on my rapidly swelling cock.
“Yes,” she says, and so seals her fate. My arousal is a red haze, rising like the blood lust I usually feel when I kill my quarry.
I can’t stop the cruel smile twisting my lips as I tell her, “Victor.”
She gives the slightest nod. Still so careful, so controlled, just like she was at the altar, where she first caught my attention. Her groom was dead, the wedding guests had fled, and she faced me silently. No screaming, no crying. No emotion. But I could sense her mind working under the veil.
If only I could slice her open, reveal her thoughts. But now is not the time for the knife. I’ll have to use other weapons at my disposal to prize her apart. My words, my lips. My cock.
“You still haven’t told me why you killed him.”
“Your betrothed? That’s between him and Stephanos. I’m just the messenger.”
“Did it have to be in the middle of the wedding?”
“I was told to make it public. A spectacle. A warning not to embezzle from the Greek mob.”
“Idiot,” she mutters, and I know she’s not talking about me. Only a fool would siphon money from Stephanos.
“Is that any way to speak of your intended?”
She bites one red lip. Makes a decision. “We weren’t together that long.”
That explains her lack of grief. My challenge to seduce her just became a million times easier. “Then you’re welcome. For the rescue. You know what they say. . . ‘Marry in haste. . . ’”
She avoids my gaze, shaking her head.
“This dress doesn’t suit you.” I take liberties, grazing a finger over her bodice, letting it swirl over her breast. She glares like she wants to bite me.
I wish she would.
“Are you always so well armed?” I tap the necklace charm and smirk.
“Always.”
I continue my exploration of her body, testing her reactions. The dress really is awful. It must have been a hand-me-down, something old, because why would she choose to wear such a thing? She would look better in armor. Something sleek and silvery. Modern.
Something worthy of the dagger at her throat.
The car reaches a stop sign and, with the barest pause, rolls through. The most important rule of leaving a crime scene is not to break any laws. I’ll have to speak with Stephanos about his getaway protocol. He’s not the most disciplined of leaders. It’s a wonder he’s hung onto his turf for so long.
