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  To my fabulous editor, Monique. For liking things a little bit crazy.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Once again I’d like to thank my agent, Helen Breitweiser, for all the good work she does. My family for all the work they do in supporting me. The usual suspects for supporting my neuroses. And my readers, for getting on board the Ashenden crazy train.

  PROLOGUE

  Zac stared at the woman sitting in the chair opposite his desk.

  The woman stared back, her amber eyes giving absolutely nothing away.

  Silence gathered in the room.

  “I could have you taken care of for what you did to Eva,” he said after a long moment, when he’d judged the silence to have done its job of making her uncomfortable.

  Except she didn’t look uncomfortable in the slightest. She was sitting back in the chair, one leg crossed over the other, totally at ease, almost as if she was sitting in her own lounge at home. Red curls he was more used to seeing tied up in a prim bun and tucked under a chauffeur’s cap tumbled down over her shoulders, and the black uniform she’d worn while driving for Eva had been replaced by jeans, a T-shirt, and a black denim jacket.

  It was all very nondescript for a notorious assassin.

  She gave him a smile. “Except you haven’t. Which means you won’t.”

  Unfortunately, she did have a point.

  He leaned back in his chair, steepled his hands.

  It had taken him two weeks to track down Temple Cross, Eva’s traitorous chauffeur, which was a good two weeks longer than he’d expected, a fact that was irritating in the extreme. It didn’t usually take him that long to find someone, which said a lot for her skills. And perhaps if she hadn’t delivered Eva to Evelyn Fitzgerald, the man who’d held her as a sex slave for two years, Zac might have been a hell of a lot friendlier.

  Unfortunately, Temple had.

  Equally unfortunately, once it had become clear that Temple was, in fact, a hit woman and not the soldier he’d believed her to be, she’d also become the perfect woman for a certain, highly specialized job.

  Killing a man named Jericho.

  “I suppose you want to know why you’re here?” Zac said at last.

  Temple tilted her head, giving him an almost flirtatious look from underneath coppery lashes. So very different from the upright, obedient woman he’d chosen to be Eva’s driver. “Yeah, that would be great. Time is money after all, Mr. Rutherford.”

  Zac, immune to all female charms except those of one particular woman, pushed a manila folder across the desk toward her. “I have a job for you.”

  She didn’t even glance at the folder. “What kind of job?”

  “An exceptionally dangerous kind.”

  Her amber eyes gleamed. “Sounds promising. Who’s the target?”

  “It’s in the folder.”

  “Tease. Come on, at least give me a name.”

  Zac studied her a moment. There was a feral kind of strength to her and an irreverence that reminded him oddly of Eva, his angel. He almost smiled. “His name is Jericho.”

  Temple went still, like a fox scenting prey. “Jericho,” she echoed slowly, as if tasting the name.

  “You’ve heard of him, I see.”

  She smiled, white and full of teeth. “Oh yes, I’ve heard of him.”

  “Then you’ll understand how dangerous this mission is.”

  Temple leaned forward and picked up the folder. “The danger doesn’t bother me. It’s the money I’m worried about.”

  “The remuneration will be more than adequate, I think you’ll find.”

  She still didn’t look at the folder, though he noted that she was holding it very tightly. “What about a time frame?”

  “You have two weeks.”

  “Not a lot of time to get close to a man like him.”

  “No, but I’ve heard you’re a woman of many talents.”

  She spread her palm over the folder, an unconscious, possessive movement. “I’ll need some up-front cash.”

  “Considering your previous record as an employee, you’ll get nothing up front.” He held her gaze. “In fact, you won’t get a cent until you complete the job.”

  If that bothered her, she didn’t show it. “Not a very attractive package, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  Zac lifted a shoulder. “Then don’t take the job.” He could find someone else. There were always other options.

  Another silence fell.

  Temple looked down at the folder at last, but didn’t open it, nor did she speak.

  Zac let the silence sit there for a couple of minutes. “If you’re not interested I can find—”

  “I’m interested.” Temple raised her gaze from the folder at last. “I’ll kill Jericho for you. In fact, I’d be happy to.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Temple had expected a lot of things about the moment where she’d finally be in the same room as the man she’d been planning to kill ever since she was fifteen years old. Yet now the moment was here and nothing about it was as she’d expected.

  For one thing she hadn’t exactly imagined herself in one of the VIP rooms of the most exclusive and notorious strip club in Paris. Nor had she imagined that she’d be the stripper dressed only in a sparkly thong, a pair of silver star-shaped pasties, and silver eight-inch stilettos. She hadn’t thought there’d be a pole, or a spotlight, or a black-velvet armchair facing that pole, the chair shrouded in darkness.

  Hiding the man seated in it.

  She couldn’t see him because of the spotlight, but she knew he was there. Oh, yes, she knew.

  The music began, filtering through hidden speakers.

  Temple smiled in the direction of the armchair. The men who’d brought her in had been very clear: dance as if your life depended on it. Mainly because it did.

  The choice was either dancing for the man they called Jericho or being sent straight away to the brothels of Eastern Europe the way they did with most of the other trafficked girls, where you’d be lucky to survive a month let alone a year.

  Only the good ones, the pretty ones, were picked out to dance for Jericho and none of those chose the brothels. Everyone always chose the dancing. Because if you danced and you were good enough, you might get sent to one of the better establishments in Italy or Spain, where they looked after you, gave you nice clothes, made sure you looked good for their expensive clients.

  But that wasn’t why Temple was there. She was there because of the rumors. The ones that said that the notoriously secretive Jericho chose a girl from his latest “shipment” every Saturday night and kept her for the entire night. And if she pleased him, the rumors went, then she might get special treatment.

  Temple wanted to be that girl. She wanted to be the one he chose for the entire night. Because she had some special treatment of her own to deliver.

  She hooked her leg around the pole and arched her
back, bowing her body in a graceful arc. Then she grabbed the cool metal with one hand and pulled herself up it. Keeping one leg curled tight, she leaned out and back again, her ribcage and breasts lifted, her copper red curls tumbling over her shoulders. The only thing keeping her on the pole was the strength of that one leg.

  She wasn’t a stripper. She hadn’t had any practice. But before she’d gotten herself captured by the traffickers a week ago, she’d been to plenty of strip clubs and watched, replaying the moves over and over in her head. With her martial arts training helping her with the strength and balance aspect, it was almost easy.

  Hanging there with her head back, she narrowed her gaze in the direction of the chair, trying to see past the glare of the spotlight to the man seated there. But she couldn’t make anything out. Just his figure, long legs outstretched in front of him and crossed at the ankle.

  He could be doing anything. He could even be fast asleep.

  She knew he wasn’t though. He was looking at her and she knew because she could feel the pressure of his gaze like a physical force. An intense, focused beam of light almost as powerful as that fucking spotlight.

  It made her want to stare back. Stare him down.

  But no, that was a bad idea. That would give her away. She hadn’t worked this hard, for this long only to fuck it up now.

  He was the most guarded, the most secretive, the most notorious crime lord in Europe and she had to be on her guard.

  Gracefully she lifted herself back up, folding herself against the pole then sliding suggestively down it. As her feet touched the floor, she spun around so her back was to him and then she bent over, moving her hips in time with the music.

  Some of the other girls she’d been brought here with had cried when their guards had tossed them the bag of stripper outfits and told them to get changed. Which was understandable given that they weren’t strippers, just a bunch of lost girls who had the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Girls nobody would miss, nobody would search for.

  Girls like Thalia.

  Had this happened to Thalia? Had her sister performed for this man? Wearing this kind of outfit? Her beautiful, intelligent, protective older sister dancing for this … fucking prick?

  Temple whirled gracefully around to face the chair again, keeping her gaze on the shadows and her righteous fury in check. She’d picked up a lot of skills over the years, and teaching herself to be able to sense people even in the dark had come in useful.

  Except it wasn’t so useful now with the spotlight shining directly at her. A deliberate tactic to prevent the girls from seeing his face.

  Jericho’s face.

  She gripped the pole again, moving against it like a lover, doing a bump and grind, letting her breasts sway. She didn’t much care about the fact that she was nearly naked and her body was on show. In fact, she’d long since ceased to see her body as anything more than a tool, a vehicle she needed in order to get herself to this point. A weapon that would help her bring down the man sitting in that chair.

  She didn’t need a gun in order to kill a man. She could do it unarmed, had done so before, and would do it again.

  She’d kill him. She’d get the information she needed from him, and then she’d take his life as he’d taken Thalia’s. And after that? Well, she didn’t much care what happened after that. Her life wasn’t exactly a valuable commodity to anyone let alone herself.

  Temple faced him again, trying to penetrate the darkness as she moved. Fuck. It was next to impossible to see anything. If she wanted to see beyond that damn light she was going to have to get out from under it. Which was going to be tricky. They’d told her to stay near the pole, that she wasn’t to approach him on pain of death.

  They’d probably shoot her if she did. There was no one else in the small room, but she didn’t make the mistake of thinking that meant the man in the chair was unguarded. She could defend herself against most attacks but not from bullets, and certainly not in her current outfit.

  But then she wasn’t aiming to kill him yet, and she wouldn’t be able to here anyway. No, she needed information first. And the only way to get that was to get closer to him, literally and figuratively.

  Perhaps she could fake a stumble? Fall off those stupid heels? It might put at risk her chance of being chosen by him, but then at least she’d be able to see.

  She was weighing up her options when very suddenly the music stopped. Caught in mid-grind, she blinked. Every instinct she had pulled tight, and she straightened, her body subtly tensing. Readying itself to launch into defensive mode.

  There was a strange silence, full of the sound of her own heartbeat, already slowing in preparation for a fight.

  “You’re not afraid of me.” A deep masculine voice rolled out of the shadows, rich and dark as the blackness around him. A beautiful voice, American, though she couldn’t tell the region.

  For some reason it hit her like a kick to the gut, and she felt herself tense even more. As if that voice was a threat, a ribbon of the deepest, softest black velvet wound around her throat.

  She swallowed, an instinctive reflex. “I-I am,” she murmured, injecting a shake into her voice and a small stammer for effect.

  “No. You’re not.” He didn’t sound annoyed, but there was a slightly harder edge to his tone now, the iron collar concealed beneath that soft, sensual velvet. “Most girls don’t even look in my direction, but you haven’t looked away. Not once.”

  Shit. That had been a rookie move. A thread of concern wound through her. She could not fuck this up. Not now.

  Forcing herself to look away from him, she glanced down at the floor instead. The whole room had been carpeted in thick, expensive, dark-blue carpet, except for the area around the pole, which was wood. “I’m s-sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know.”

  Another silence. Then there came the sound of fabric rustling, the chair creaking as he shifted in it.

  “Oh no, don’t spoil it now.” His voice was a low purr, pure sensuality this time, the iron gone. “You were doing so well.”

  A strange shiver chased over her bared skin. That voice, that goddamned beautiful voice. It was like a spell he cast.

  Anger stirred, because being actually affected by him was the very last thing in the world she wanted, and it was a struggle to fight it down. She had to though. Any sort of emotional reaction wouldn’t help her here.

  “I-I’m telling the truth.” She hunched her shoulders, trying to make herself look frightened and small. Could she squeeze out a tear? Maybe she could. “Why am I here? W-what are you going to do to me? I don’t know—”

  “Let’s dispense with the histrionics, sweetheart. We both know you’re lying.” And now there was the faintest hint of boredom in the words.

  Fuck. Boredom certainly wasn’t what she was after. Okay, so clearly her lack of fear had intrigued him. Perhaps that hadn’t been such a dumb move after all.

  Slowly Temple put her shoulders back and lifted her head, stared through the blinding light of the spotlight to the shadow in the chair. “Okay,” she said in her normal voice. “You got me. No, I’m not afraid of you.”

  Another stretch of silence, longer this time.

  He was watching her, she could feel it. Except his focus had shifted, had become sharper, more intense. She fought not to fidget, something she hadn’t done since she’d been a little kid.

  “Why not?” Curiosity in the words.

  Because I can kill you with my bare hands. And I will.

  “Because I’m not afraid of the dark.” She didn’t bother to hide the fact that she was trying to see him or mask the note of challenge in her tone.

  “You should be.” That voice curled around her, the velvet around her throat pulling tight. “The darkness isn’t kind to little girls.”

  It made no sense at all to feel a small thrill shoot down her spine at the implied threat in those words. Then again, considering how dull the last three or so years had been, maybe it wasn’t any
wonder. Just contract after contract of easy pickings. Dirtbags and assholes who’d needed taking down. All in aid of perfecting her skills for this final showdown.

  The meanest motherfucker of them all. Jericho.

  She’d been working toward this for so long, and getting to this point had been surprisingly easy. Disappointingly so. She was hoping for more. She was hoping for a challenge.

  Perhaps, now, here it was. A man worthy of her skills.

  Temple lowered her eyelashes. “Oh, but I’m not a little girl. And maybe I’m not the one who’s scared either.” She paused and let one corner of her mouth curl up. “Considering you’re the one who’s hiding.”

  It was a calculated risk to be so blatant. To reveal her lack of fear when every girl who came in here must reek of it. It would prompt all kinds of questions. Questions she didn’t want him to ask. But if she wanted to get close to him, then she was going to have to take those risks, throw the dice a few times. It had worked in her favor before. Maybe it would work again.

  More silence. So complete it was as if her hearing had suddenly been taken away.

  She lifted her hand to the pole in a casual pose, keeping her gaze on the shadows, knowing he was studying her. Feeling the intensity of it, as if he was memorizing every part of her.

  Somewhere deep inside her, something she hadn’t felt for a long, long time shivered awake. Fear.

  Then came the sound of movement. Fabric sliding against fabric. The creak of the chair.

  She stilled, internally every sense she had on high alert.

  A man stepped suddenly into the light.

  She’d studied that file Zac Rutherford had given her on him so she’d known who and what Jericho really was.

  He was Theodore Fitzgerald, the son of Evelyn, a well-known New York high-society figure who’d been murdered a month ago, apparently by a business rival. Theodore, who’d faked his own death sixteen years earlier, had infiltrated the crime syndicate his father had secretly been hoping to take over.