Page 67 of Mine

I set dinner up in front of the fireplace in the main room. That’s right, the fireplace. Every mansion in Hollywood has a fireplace, as if we all agreed to reject the reality that Southern California is hot and humid year-round. I lit the fire and adjusted the tablecloth on the small table. No candle, just firelight. Perfect.

When I went to get her, she was sitting on the bed. I wanted to throw her back and ravish her right then. Her eyes sparkled green, the color matching her dress perfectly. She blushed when I told her how beautiful she looked. Everything was stupidly perfect. If I wasn’t supposed to kill her by tomorrow night, I would be utterly relaxed.

“You made me dinner?” she asked. “I don’t think anyone’s made me dinner before.”

“Your mom never made you dinner?”

“She was always working,” Sara said, her face expressionless. I wanted to pull her out from behind that mask, and let her know that she could be her true self around me. Flaws and all.

I guided her to the main room and pulled out the chair for her. A gentleman killer. I poured her a glass of wine and touched my glass to hers.

“To your health,” I said.

“Very funny.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“How can you do this?”

“Excuse me?” I tucked my napkin over my lap.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “How can you kill these people?”

“I told you,” I said, spearing a carrot with my fork. “The people I kill are murderers themselves, or worse. It’s a relief to me and a relief to society.”

“And the police don’t care?”

I couldn’t help but chuckle.

“The Feds sweep it all under the rug. Vale handles his business well.”

“Vale?”

“My boss. Look. It’s my job. That’s all. That’s what happens with a job. You just shut up and do what has to be done.”

“Do what has to be done?”

“They’re murderers, Sara. And they’re cowardly murderers at that.”

“What do you mean, cowardly?”

“Like Mr. Steadhill in there. They murder indirectly. They don’t get their hands dirty. They’re afraid of dirty work.”

“And you’re not.”

“Me, I get the job done.”

“Except this one?”

She stared across the table at me, taunting me with her stare. As though she wouldn’t be dead already if I hadn’t spared her. Her emerald eyes bored a hole through me. I longed to kiss her again, to gaze into her eyes as I brought her to pleasure. And then, as though reading my stare, her eyelashes fluttered downward.

“You’re right,” I said, my voice dark with everything I wanted to say and couldn’t. “Except this one.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Rien

“You have a fireplace,” Sara noted. “That’s strange.”

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