Sure as Hell (2 page)

“A change,” he confirmed. “And a whole new set of priorities.”

She cocked her head, intrigued by the tone of his voice. “You have something in mind. You didn’t come here to slap my hand for screwing up the baron’s assassination. You came for something completely different.”

He stroked her cheek. “Such a perceptive woman.”

“Come on, Daddy,” she crooned, easing closer, “tell me.”

The music stopped, and they paused long enough to applaud the orchestra. He held out his hand, and she put her fingertips on his palm. “Have I ever failed to treat you like royalty?”

She considered answering in the affirmative, but decided that now wasn’t the time to discuss his parenting skills in detail. “No,” she said as he led her off the dance floor. “I’ve always been a princess to you.”

“And now you have the opportunity to be queen.”

“I’m listening.”

“You say that you are growing weary of your current position. That is a sentiment I am very familiar with, as I have grown weary of mine.”

“You’ve . . . what?” Surely she’d heard wrong. Her father, the Prince of Darkness, had grown tired of lording over his subjects? That couldn’t be right.

He waved the question away. “It was inevitable. The job pressure. The daily demands of the workplace. I used to have so much free time to enjoy myself. Now I have duties to attend to.”

“You make the job sound so appealing,” she said, dryly.

“Jack certainly thought it was.”

Her head cocked at that. “You offered the position to Jack first. Of course. How foolish of me not to assume so right away.”

“I offered,” he said, with a slight bow of his head.

“And?”

“And he accepted the challenge. Then he failed.”

“And now you’ve come to me?”

“Essentially.”

She fought the urge to roll her eyes by turning to pluck a champagne flute from the tray of a passing waiter. “In other words, you approached Nick, as well. And Marcus, too. I assume they both failed as well, or else you wouldn’t be here talking to me.” She took a sip of wine to cool her rising temper. “Did you approach the sons I don’t know about, too? Surely in all these millennia you have sired more than six children.”

“My darling Lucia, you wound me.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

“As a prince myself, of course I sought a prince to fill my shoes. But after the abysmal performance of your three half-brothers, I realized that my thinking was far too narrow. I needed to look for a queen. Regal, beautiful, and able to bear the weight of the position.”

“Mmmm.” She wasn’t about to say more. Her brothers may have been her father’s first choice, but they’d failed. And now that she was being handed the opportunity, she wasn’t about to risk losing it by criticizing her father’s approach. After all, she had two younger sisters. She’d be damned if he’d skip over her and go straight to Jessie. Or, even more humiliating, her baby sister, Lola.

“Are you interested?”

“You know that I am. When do I start?”

“There are a few details that must be attended to first,” he said.

She looked at him through narrowed eyes. “I see.”

He waved a hand in the air. “Ah, Lucia. Don’t fret. It’s nothing. A trifle. A task you could handle in your sleep. But I would be remiss if I handed over the keys to my kingdom without requiring a demonstration of your worthiness, don’t you think?”

“I think that I’ve been displaying how worthy I am ever since I slipped the poison to the pharaoh.”

“Ah, yes,” he said wistfully. “Your first assignment. How young and eager you were.”

“And how old and jaded I am now.”

“Nonsense. You are as beautiful now as you were then.”

“I have good genes,” she said, unable to stop her smile.

“Indeed. And I would think you would want to keep them.”

She forced herself not to react to that tidbit of information. Her beauty came from both father and mother, but her immortality . . . well, that was from her father alone. And he was in a position to take that gift away.

“What is the task?”

“A simple assassination,” he said. “No different from what you have been doing for years.”

“That’s all?” Surely, it couldn’t be so simple.

“That is all.”

She licked her lips, both tempted and confident.

Still . . .

She couldn’t deny the fact that she’d failed in that very task just moments ago. If she accepted her father’s challenge and failed again . . .

She closed her eyes, banishing the thought. This evening on the balcony had been an aberration. One that she could certainly have overcome had the incentive been enough.

She wouldn’t fail. Not again. Not with stakes this high.

“Who?”

Her father smiled, and Lucia knew that it was all over. She’d shown curiosity; she’d shown weakness. And now the ball was in her father’s court.

To his credit, he didn’t gloat. Simply held out a hand and allowed her to take the picture that materialized there in a puff of smoke. A distinguished-looking man with a full head of gray hair and a hint of mischief in his eyes. Under other circumstances, Lucia might suspect that she would enjoy dining with the older fellow. As it was, she steeled her heart. This man was her ticket to freedom. She’d do what she had to do.

“Why him?”

“Such a curious mind,” her father said with a dismissive wave. “Let’s just say that his business interests conflict with mine. He’s a nuisance. And I want him eliminated.”

“Business interests?” She couldn’t keep the hint of amusement from her voice. Her father was forever dabbling in mortal business, and his failures often prompted larger consequences. October 1929 came to mind as one of the more vivid examples of her father’s financial wrath.

If this final job could prevent another of her father’s meltdowns, well, then surely the world would thank her for taking on the task, no matter how tired she might be of the devilish business.

That, of course, was a shallow excuse, hardly worth the energy to think it up. The truth was she was simply tired of her job. Bone tired. And this gray-haired man was her way out. Yes, he had to die in order for her to get what she wanted, but he would die eventually anyway, whereas she would go on and on and on.

Might as well ensure that her eternity was spent in comfort. Ideally with a position of power to lord over her sisters. And, of course, her brothers.

“All right,” she said with a quick nod. “I accept.”

“Of course you do,” her father replied. “Of you, my dear Lucia, I expect nothing less.”

‡
Chapter Two

M
onte Carlo.
The epitome of wealth and elegance, and Moreau’s Sur la Mer hotel and casino stood like an ambassador. Her sleek lines rising toward the sky. Her liveried staff practically prostrating themselves to the clientele. And the guests shone with as much vibrancy as the diamonds they locked away each night in the hotel’s vault.

Anyone who was anyone would give his right arm for a week in Monte at the Moreau. And if that week included a stay in one of the premier suites—if that stay included casino privileges at the most exclusive tables—well, then anyone who was anyone would surely give more than one measly limb.

Dante Moreau, however, would have preferred to be anywhere but where he was. And he would have preferred to be doing anything but what he was doing.

He’d come to Monte Carlo for one reason only—his father.

And because of that, he couldn’t just simply leave.

And because of that, he was currently suffering under the headache to end all headaches.

“You look like a man with a lot on his mind.” With great effort, Dante lifted his head and looked through the red migraine haze into Marcel’s chiseled face. The words were in flawless English, but the accent—like that of most Monte Carlo inhabitants—was pure French.

“
Oui
,” Dante replied to the bartender. “That’s because I am.” He’d known Marcel for years, and he braced himself for a lecture. A rundown of his blessings. Of how not every man was so fortunate as to be the sole heir to the Moreau fortune.

Of how most men, upon entering the bar in one of Monte Carlo’s most elegant hotels, would at least be expected to pay the tab at the end of a drinking binge. Instead, Marcel said none of that. He simply poured two fingers of scotch into a glass and slid it across the polished bar toward Dante.

“I must look even worse than I feel,” Dante said. “You’ve never once taken pity on me.”

“Things change,” Marcel said. “And the prodigal son returns even under protest,
n’est pas
?”

Dante sighed. He hadn’t realized that the casino staff knew the details of his business. He should have realized, of course. Rumors and gossip passed through the staff even faster than through the intelligence community. So the fact that Marcel knew that Dante had reluctantly returned to the glitter of Monte Carlo from his new home in Manhattan should come as no surprise.

“Your father needs you.”

Dante slammed back the drink, his eyes never leaving Marcel’s.

“So he says.”

At that, Marcel almost smiled. “Jacques Moreau is a man of few words. If he says so, it must be true.”

True enough, Dante supposed, but considering he’d been summoned at three in the morning two days ago, then rushed over on his father’s private jet with no explanation other than “your father says so,” he was hardly in the mood to be altruistic about his father’s motives. He shoved the glass forward, his brows raised in silent demand. Marcel took the hint and poured.

“You don’t know what the emergency is?” Marcel asked.

“I’m not even certain there is an emergency.”

Jacques Moreau had money, power, and wealth. He also had a rather inflated sense of self-worth, and an absolute certainty that he knew best for his only son. That certainty had only increased after Jacques had divorced Dante’s British mother when Dante had been barely out of diapers. He’d insisted on funding Dante’s schooling, then urged his only son to follow through with military and intelligence training. Not bad work, all things considered. With the exception that it wasn’t the work Dante wanted.

Still, he’d plodded through the system, ending up doing a stint with British Intelligence before his father crooked his little finger and played the family debt card. In retrospect, Dante supposed that he could have declined, citing his love for his work and the growing respect he’d earned within the intelligence community.

Except, of course, that wouldn’t be true.

Oh, the respect was true, all right. He’d never once stepped on a toe that didn’t need stepping on. He’d been the epitome of polite Eton upbringing, just as his parents would have wanted. But to stay because he loved his work . . . that would have been a blatant lie.

The truth was Dante had never craved a life in intelligence circles. He’d gone that route because he hadn’t known what life he craved, and as jobs landed in his lap because of his skills and family background, he’d accepted them graciously. After all, work was work. And absent passion, a paycheck would easily suffice.

When his father offered him the opportunity to run the security detail for the extensive chain of Moreau hotels . . . well, that was a paycheck, too. And considering the Moreau Corporation paycheck was higher than the British government’s, Dante had easily made the decision to move. Why not? Trading one job for another equally passionless job was simple.

The job had been simple, too. Yes, his father had built an empire. But unlike the British Empire, the need for intelligence resources extended not much further than security cameras in the gift shops and private gaming rooms. In other words, a dull job, though a well-paying one.

Still, he couldn’t knock it. Because Thomas Murchison would never have approached him while Dante was with the government. And once Thomas did lay out the offer, Dante realized what he’d been waiting for. A chance to use his training to make a difference. To help people in impossible situations. And, most of all, to help children.

He’d spent two months wrapping up his business with Moreau Corp., and then he’d flown to Manhattan and the nascent headquarters of M&M Security. The name was dry, but they weren’t looking to be flashy. Their clientele was exclusive, and consisted of people who—if they needed Thomas and Dante’s particular services—would know where to look.

Their specialty was the recovery of kidnapped children, particularly those taken out of the country. And in the last nine months, Dante had been instrumental in returning two little girls to their mothers. The satisfaction was immense, and the job itself was heaven. Moreover, it took every bit of his skill. From the mercenary arts he’d learned in the intelligence world to the contacts he’d made in that same shadowy forum to the administrative skills he’d honed working for his father.

It had all come together.

Somehow, in all those years that he’d floundered, he’d known that eventually it would. Eventually, he’d find his purpose. And, once he did, nothing could sway him.

So why the hell was he now back in Monte Carlo, when at least two files were on his desk, waiting for his review and input?