The Hunter (7 page)

She was an expert at this subterfuge, he realized. At making every person in her scope feel as though they were singular to her, all the while treating them with abject equality. She never lingered for too long. Never said too much. Never touched more than was appropriate.

Except for him. Among her entire bevy of admirers, some handsome, others titled, and rich, she’d allowed
him
to lure her into the darkness. Allowed his hands to sample her soft flesh and softer lips. Why him? What draw had he over her that those others didn’t?

While she radiated warmth, each move was as calculated as his own. She was as unattainable as a beloved goddess. Remote as a tropical island.

And he was as dark and cold as the denizens of hell. Had to be. So whatever this mothlike fascination he had with her light and warmth, it was past time he snuff it out and return to the darkness that was his domain.

Millie LeCour had to die.

Tonight.

His cold musings had taken too long. Argent surmised that if anyone was in the tub, and they stayed below water that long, they’d be dead. So either way he could make his move.

Unsheathing a long, thin dagger from his boot, he shimmied it between the crack in the windows and ran it up the middle softly until he felt it brush against the latch. Angling it forward, he felt it give and pulled the window out. Turning his body sideways, he slid into the room and stepped down onto the flat of his foot, lowering his bulk onto the washroom carpet. Simultaneously, he pulled the window mostly closed and resheathed his knife. One of the many secrets to a successful assassination was economy of movement.

Now that he was inside, humid, aromatic warmth suffused his lungs and spread a bewildering heat along his frigid limbs. His shirt, made of the finest, softest linen, abraded his tingling nerves.

It would have been disturbing, if he was capable of being disturbed.

Everything about this contract had been a little skewed from the very beginning, and the need to have it done with was becoming more and more imperative.

Two doors mirrored each other in the southwest corner of the room. One on the west wall stood open, while its companion on the south wall was latched shut. Through dim lamps flickering on the other side of the open door, Argent could see a hallway stretching toward a parlor. Three doors stood closed in the hallway, two on the south wall, and one on the north. Argent guessed that the southern doors belonged to bedrooms, and the northern door to the stairs leading to the top floor.

Her staff lived up there. A married couple. Middle-aged, overweight, and slow moving. They wouldn’t be a problem.

A floorboard creaked in a distant room, having as much effect on the silence as a cannon blast. Argent ducked behind the silk screen, his ears straining for more noise.

A soft hum. A whisper. But nothing close.

Argent stood, again using the flats of his feet to walk lightly across the room and ensconce himself behind the hallway door.

This room was a small annex to a master suite. Many women would use it for a salon, or for entertaining visitors. Millie LeCour had decorated hers with dress mannequins, costumes, gowns, wigs, memorabilia, the large copper tub, obviously, and a vanity with a confounding amount of bottles and baubles strewn across every possible surface.

Argent was glad that only the lone oil lamp flickered in the room—which he’d dimmed further on his way to his current hiding spot—or the glitter and brilliance of it all would surely have blinded him.

After a few eternal minutes, a hall door opened and closed and the shuffle of feminine footsteps angled in his direction.

His timing must be flawless. One strike. One quick, decisive turn of the neck upon a gentle exhale.

And she’d be gone.

His chest constricted, but he ruthlessly ignored it, taking a few centering breaths.

He was like water, ready for death to flow from his hands.

Her scent drifted into the room before she did. Vanilla and lavender, like the heady, fragrant oils from the bath. A flash of an ebony braid against a pale nightgown crossed the thin thread of light coming from the crack created by the door hinges. Five more steps and she’d turn the corner of the door and be within his reach. Three more heartbeats. Two. One.

He lunged for her, reaching for her throat. One twist. One snap. He’d done it dozens of times. Hundreds.

But … his hands. They weren’t obeying. Instead of twisting they were grasping. Instead of dropping they were pulling. Instead of killing, they were—holding?

What?

She struggled against him, a shocked cry tearing from her as he gripped her tightly to him from behind. Perplexed as he was, he subdued her easily, locking her arms to her sides with one arm and banding his other beneath her throat. He tried not to notice how lush and soft she felt. How clean and sweet-smelling she was, or how her round backside pressed intimately against his thigh.

He could feel her ribs inflate with a deep breath, readying for a scream.

“Make a noise and I slaughter whoever else comes through that door,” he threatened in a low voice. “I don’t leave witnesses.”

Her lungs deflated in a quiet whimper.

Argent did his best to analyze the situation, but something in his mind was refusing to work. He struggled to search his subconscious for a solution to the problem he’d just created for himself. This lovely, soft creature was trembling in his arms, toying with his senses and muddling his thoughts.

What in the bloody hell did he do now?

She still hadn’t seen him, he could tighten the arm about her neck and she’d be out in a matter of seconds. The job would be finished with only this minor hiccup.

You could take her first, right here on the plush carpets
. The soulless evil that had been with him for fifteen years whispered the vile thought in his ear.
Be the last to taste her.

Argent squeezed his eyes shut against the idea.
Never.
He’d taken lives, but he’d never in his entire existence considered taking what a woman hadn’t offered him freely.

Or charged him for.

He clenched his teeth in helpless frustration as his cock swelled against her back.

What was happening to him? What was
she
doing to him?

The woman whimpered again, a powerful tremor of fear coursing down her body as her breath sped to short bursts of terror.

Argent didn’t want her to be afraid. Didn’t want to be doing this to her. He wanted those whimpers to stop. His arm tightened on her throat slightly. No matter what she’d done, a woman didn’t deserve to be terrorized. Not by an unfeeling killer like him. So why couldn’t he just squeeze? Why wasn’t she dead yet?

Because earlier her dark eyes had shimmered with life. Her smile had held the kind of joy that life tended to smother out of most adults. Because … though he was a godless man, something whispered to him from the ether that he didn’t have the right to take such light from the world.

Because she’d kissed him, and in this moment he had to admit that he’d never again be the same. She’d awakened something he’d thought he’d live without.

A hallway door opened.
“Mama?”
a small voice called into the darkness.

They both froze.

The hallway floor creaked twice with little steps. One more time and the boy would be moments from discovering them.

Fuck
.

“Please,” she breathed, softer even than a desperate whisper. “Do what you want with me, but—
please—don’t hurt my son.”

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

Millie couldn’t breathe. She’d never prayed so hard in her life. If only her son had stayed in bed. If only …

“Follow my lead, and I’ll leave you both unharmed,” he growled into her ear.

She didn’t know how she was suddenly facing him, or why, until he grabbed a fistful of her braid, wrenched her neck back, and slanted his lips over hers.
Oh God
. She
knew
who he was. Would recognize the feel of those lips anywhere.

She’d kissed them only hours ago.

Suddenly his hands were cupping both sides of her jaw, his thumbs pressing her lips apart so his tongue could make its wet sweep into her mouth.

She should bite him. Claw his eyes out. Knee him between the legs, grab Jakub, and run screaming from the house.

But this man was someone you never escaped from. She could tell by the way he kissed, by the unmitigated power in his arms when he’d seized her.

This was no gentle, questing probe she’d received from gentlemen. Or soft, seductive kisses that she’d allowed from exciting men who had no idea what the word “gentleman” meant. It wasn’t the hungry, thrilling kiss they’d shared before.

There was something wild in his lips. Something dark and desperate that, it seemed, astounded even him. Even if she’d allowed this kiss in regular circumstances, Millie didn’t think she’d be ready for the overwhelming intensity of it. It felt like something had shattered inside her attacker. Almost as certainly as if she’d heard it.

He made a sound in his throat. A sound of pleasure. A sound of agony.

“
Matka?
Mama?” The door moved. “Ew!”

When Millie pulled away, it surprised her that her assailant allowed it.

Jakub stood gripping the door handle, his honey-fair hair sticking up in wild disarray, and an openmouthed expression of childlike disgust frozen on his beautiful little face.

“Kochanie,”
she gasped, her heart pounding loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. Though whether it was from fear or from the kiss, she couldn’t honestly say.

“I heard a noise,” her son said by way of embarrassed explanation.

Her attacker stood absolutely still as Millie lunged for Jakub, and she sent a silent prayer of gratitude that he’d let her go. “I know. I’m sorry. L-let’s get you back to bed.” Desperate to get him away from the intruder, she scooped little Jakub up and ran for his room. Once inside, she set him down and locked the door, leaning back against it and trying to slow her panicked breaths.

“Who was that?” Jakub’s eyes remained as large and round as an owl’s.

How did she answer that question? He was a dangerous man. One she’d allowed to kiss her earlier that night, one who’d followed her home for Lord-knew-what nefarious purpose. Her behavior had brought this on them, she’d acted like a wanton and put her child in danger.

“Why was he kissing you?” Her son didn’t wait for an answer to his first question before pressing forward.

Millie opened her mouth to answer, distressed that she could still taste the masculine flavor of his lips on her own. Had he broken in to molest her? To finish what they’d started in that nook beneath the stairs? Had he intended to rape her?

“Is that my father?”

Millie’s hand flew to her chest. “What in God’s name would make you think that?” she puffed, reaching for the bell-pull in Jakub’s room and tugging on it twice, with a pause and then once more.

The signal to George Brimtree of danger. He would bring his gun, and this would all be over.

Jakub followed her around as she checked the lock on the door, paced away, checked it again.

“At school Rodney Beaton said that mothers had to kiss fathers whenever they were told.”

“Rodney Beaton is a half-wit,” Millie muttered without thinking, before taking Jakub into her arms and holding him tight. “That man … he’s not your father,” she said more gently. “He’s…”

She heard the attic door burst open and George Brimtree’s heavy footfalls pounded toward the locked door.

“An intruder, George, in my rooms,” she called through the heavy wood.

“I’ll get ’im with old Francesca, ’ere,” George bellowed back. Francesca, of course, being the name of his rifle.

Millie could hear him charging her rooms. “Be careful!” she called belatedly. George was a big man. He’d been a foot soldier for years, and worked his way up into a rifle brigade. But somehow she knew that, even with the weapon, he wasn’t going to stand a chance against the profligate who’d followed her home.

Praying for his survival, Millie didn’t breathe again until she heard her butler limping back down the hallway. “All clear, Miss Millie. Inn’t no one there. I checked every crack and cranny.”

Hesitantly, Millie unlocked the door and peeked into the dimly lit hallway, shaking more now than when she’d actually been in the clutches of the brute. She would have laughed at the sight of portly George in his nightshirt and hat, clutching the ancient rifle to his chest, if she wasn’t so shaken.

“Are you ’urt, Miss Millie?” he asked. “Is wee Jakub all right?”

“We’re fine, George,” she said, hating the tremor in her voice.

“Must’ve lit out the window. Though I can’t see ’ow he’d do it without breaking ’is legs.” The old man looked stymied.

“Best send for Scotland Yard, George,” Millie said, shutting the door and turning back to poor wide-eyed Jakub, gathering him into her arms again.

That’s it, tomorrow she was installing bars on all the windows, or she’d never sleep again.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

Please—don’t hurt my son.
The words echoed through the cold, biting February rain as it whipped through the narrow streets of the East End. Argent couldn’t tell whose voice roared against the storm rolling down from the north. Millie LeCour’s? Or his mother’s?

Numbness stole the dexterity from his limbs, though whether the culprit was the freezing temperature or the pounding in his head, he couldn’t be certain. Suddenly he felt as though he’d run several leagues. His ribs tightened around his lungs, inhibiting his breath. His heart tossed itself against its cage, throbbing in his ears, through his muscles, and in the very marrow of his bones.

Was it truly so cold outside? Or could it be the startling contrast between the chill of the evening and the warmth of the flesh he’d had pressed against him only moments ago?

Trying to remember how long he’d been running, he plunged into darker streets, down the most dangerous alleys, with names like Cutthroat Corner or Hang Tree Row. He couldn’t seem to stop. If he stood still his skin might peel away from his body. And with nothing to shield his awareness, he might blow away in the storm.