Forever and a Day (2 page)

He shot her an odd look. “But you like to gamble.”

You only think I do.
“Something we had for supper didn’t quite settle. Would you mind if I sat somewhere?” She swayed a bit on her feet to make her statement more realistic and sent a weak smile his way. In truth, she was a bit nauseated. Between sweat and greed, the air in the casino stank of humanity’s darker side. Expensive colognes added a queer edge, their rich scents intensifying as their owners’ anxiety rose. If she hadn’t been a shifter, she might not have noticed, at least not as much. So far, she’d done a decent job hiding what she was from Jaret. She aimed to keep things that way.

He ran a thick index finger down the bare skin between her breasts. “We could return to our rooms.”

She crinkled her face in what she hoped looked like an apology and did her best to ooze regret. “Better wait until my tummy settles.” He was arrogant enough he had no idea how repulsive she found him. Thank all the bloody saints, she’d managed to keep any sexual activities between them tamped down to nothing because of his heroin habit. According to a bit of Internet research, she supposed he could probably get hard, but the drug suppressed orgasms. At least so far, he’d been much more interested in his next shot of dope and drifting off into an opiate-induced dreamy void than in bothering her for sex.

Jaret returned his attention to the baccarat table. “I’ll just be over there.” She pointed to a row of padded Louis Fourteenth chairs with bowed legs. Jaret nodded absently. His pupils were very small, so he was still fully under the influence of his last shot. That meant she had at least a couple of hours before he’d need to leave the casino.

Tamara tottered to a chair on ridiculously high heels. They made her feet ache, but Jaret liked it when she dressed like a fancy woman, and pleasing him was high on her list. She settled onto the plush seat and slipped her shoes off. A waiter stopped and arched an inquiring brow; she ordered club soda. Rubbing the bridge of her nose between two fingers, she made a grab for her courage. So far, her plan had gone off without a hitch. The only thing left was to finish things off.

The waiter handed her drink over, along with a bowl of salted nuts, and she set both on a nearby chair. The ebb and flow of noise in the crowded room eddied around her. A quick glance at Jaret reassured her that he was still deeply engrossed in gambling—his second favorite addiction, right after heroin. He didn’t care much for women, other than as window dressing and so the other men would see him as some sort of stud.

Tamara sipped her fizzy water and pursed her lips together. It was a long way from Dublin to Monte Carlo, and she wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for her sister. She bit her lower lip. Poor Moira. Dead at twenty-five. The coroner’s report had listed a drug overdose as the official cause of death, but Moira hadn’t been an addict. Her only crime was falling in love with Jaret Chen. Tamara had no idea how her sister had actually died, but she knew in her bones that Jaret was responsible.

She drained half her water and chewed absently on a handful of cashews. Their entire family had been devastated by Moira’s death, particularly her da. Tamara could still see his swollen, blotchy face at the funeral as he and three of her four brothers lowered the casket into the earth. The glass in her hand made an odd noise; she set it down before she broke it by accident. Moira had been a cat shifter, just like Tamara. Why the hell hadn’t she claimed her animal form and killed the son of a bitch bent over the gaming table?

I’ll never know.
She unclenched her jaw before her teeth cracked. She’d waited a few months so Jaret wouldn’t be suspicious, and then searched him out. When he’d made a comment in passing that his last girlfriend had been Irish and had the same last name, she’d shrugged and blessed every goddess in the Celtic pantheon that Moira had never told Jaret anything about her family.

“MacBride’s a common enough name in Scotland and Ireland,” she’d informed him with a coy look, before asking, “What happened to her?”

“Who?” He’d looked the soul of innocence, the bastard.

“Sure and you know, your last girl pal. I’d hate to think she might come back to claim you.” Tamara had held her breath then, torn between not wanting to hear whatever lie he came up with and being desperate for information.

He’d shrugged. “Hard to say quite what happened. Guess she dumped me.” He’d made a sour face then and muttered something disparaging about women under his breath. That had been two months ago. In the intervening time, she’d inveigled her way into his life. Because she was attractive, pleasant, and never made any demands—easy enough since she couldn’t bear the sight, or stench, of him—he’d allowed her into his inner circle.

She closed her teeth over her lower lip. The only thing she hadn’t done was kill him. It would be easy enough. He slept like a dead thing because of his drug habit. She could do the deed and be out of their bedroom, and on her way, hours before anyone discovered his body. She’d never formally registered as a hotel guest. Jaret had had his reasons for wanting her invisible. Apparently he’d never guessed she might have her own.

So, why haven’t I finished this?

The answer bubbled up and it sickened her. Nothing in her chosen profession as a freelance photojournalist had prepared her for wholesale slaughter. She was a coward, plain and simple. Killing in her mountain lion form was one thing. It felt…natural. Not that she’d ever killed anything except game to eat, even shifted. To take a life, in a cold-blooded, carefully thought out manner, repelled her. She’d dreamed of shoving her knife into Jaret’s carotid, even circled him while he slept, blade in hand, but in the end she hadn’t been able to force herself to strike.

Her hands ached because she’d balled them into fists. Once she uncrimped her fingers, blood welled where her nails had sliced into her palms.
Either I do this thing, or I need to leave.
An unpleasant thought surfaced. She was in so deep, he’d never just let her walk away. Maybe that had been Moira’s undoing. Sick to death of playing third fiddle behind Jaret’s addictions, maybe her proud sister had issued an ultimatum and ended up with enough heroin in her bloodstream to kill a moose.

The more she considered it, the more certain Tamara was she’d hit within spitting distance of the truth. She gazed at her lap and pulled the gaping front of her dress closer together. There wasn’t any choice. Not really. He’d never let her go, so she had to latch onto enough moxie to finish him off.

“Another drink, mademoiselle?” The waiter was back; he stared at her half-exposed breasts, a lascivious grin not far from the surface.

She nodded. “Scotch. Single malt. Twenty years old, or more.”

“Very good, mademoiselle. Anything to go with it?”

What could she order that wouldn’t blow her upset stomach story? “Um, crackers, with some brie.”

The waiter walked away. She stared after him. In a very distant way, he looked like the Teutonic god who’d been eyeing them from across the baccarat table earlier. The tall, blond man had been broad-shouldered and slim-hipped. His eyes were a cool, icy gray, and his facial bones damn near perfect, with a square jaw and pronounced cheekbones. He hadn’t smiled, but she imagined his teeth would be very straight.

Why can’t I have someone like that in my life?

Because I’m a shifter, goddammit. It’s a big secret to keep.

Yeah, and to keep on keeping it made her weary. She’d given up on a normal life when the first change had come on her shortly after she hit puberty. There were laws to ensure shifters didn’t get out of hand. It was easier to hide what she was than to embrace it. Her parents, both shifters themselves, had hammered that point until she was sick of hearing it.

The waiter had just stopped by with her drink and crackers with cheese when Jaret joined her. “Feeling better, I see.” He pried the glass from her hand, swallowed half its contents, and raised his eyebrows. “Expensive.”

“I can pay for it. I still have a little money.”

He rolled his eyes. “No, no. Wouldn’t dream of that. You’re my woman, aren’t you?” At her pleasant nod, he went on, “I take care of my women. Good care of them. Come on.” He tugged her to her feet.

“Wait. My shoes.” She bent and fished them from beneath her chair. Hanging onto him, she balanced first on one foot, then the other, while she slid her feet into the pumps. “Okay.” She grinned broadly. “All ready.”

“Do you want to bring the crackers along?”

“Sure. Why not?” She gripped the plate in one hand and curved the other around his arm. He finished her drink and steered them out of the casino toward the stairs that led to the Hotel de Paris.

Tonight,
she told herself.
Before tonight’s over, he’ll be dead. Moira can rest in peace, and I’ll be out of here.

Shock ran through Lars as he stood in the open doorway of his room; he clacked his jaw shut. Someone had planted a bomb with a timer. Running on instinct, he yanked the door to his suite closed seconds before an explosion rocked the floor. He’d just jammed his gun out of sight when two hard-eyed men dressed in the casino’s signature black shirts, blazoned with a red fleur-de-lis, raced into the hall. It figured the hotel would use the casino’s security squad since the Place de Casino was right next door and managed by the same corporation.

“Monsieur. What happened?” The red haired guard loped to his side and stared at Lars with penetrating green eyes. Around fifty, he looked like he’d seen a lot. Lars knew better than to try to feed him a line of bullshit.

He ginned up a rattled expression. “Damn if I know. I had just opened the door to my suite when I realized I had forgotten my jacket in the casino. I pulled the door shut and turned to leave.” He tossed his hands skyward. “The whole building shook.” Lars jerked a thumb toward his room. “It sounded like something exploded in there. Is that even possible? My things…”

The other guard pulled out a small electronic device, traced the sides, top, and bottom of Lars’ door, and muttered, “No fire. No poison gas.”

“Maybe we should get the dog,” the first guard said.

“Dog?” Lars infused anger into his tone. “If your implication is I have something illegal in my room, I resent the hell out of it.”

The second guard, a balding thirty-something with brown hair and mud-colored eyes shrugged. “Resent all you wish, monsieur. We see a lot here. The Mediterranean is a prime entry point for drugs from Africa and the Middle East.”

Lars drew himself up. “May I go back into my room? See what has been damaged? I had a very expensive laptop, my clothes, the keys to my airplane.”

“You own an airplane?” Guard number one exchanged glances with his cohort.

“Yes.” Lars reached for his back pocket and found himself staring down the barrels of two .45 caliber semiautomatic pistols. He held his hands up. “Whoa, easy there, boys. I was just going to show you my passport and my ID. We are on the same side here.”

“We’ll get them for you.” Guard number two moved behind Lars and extracted his wallet and passport case. He flipped open the passport and handed Lars his wallet.

Lars pulled out a business card with The Company’s logo and handed it to the guard who wasn’t examining his passport. A radio crackled. The red-haired guard spoke into it in French, telling the man on the other end everything was under control.

“Now that you know who I am, may we at least open the door to my suite to assess the damage?” Lars asked, taking his passport. He returned it to his back pocket, along with his wallet.

The first guard waved Lars’ card under his nose. “What exactly do you do for this international security company?”

“Electronics. I program computers.” Lars cocked his head to one side. “Though I hate to admit it, I am quite the desk jockey. Coming here was my first vacation in over a year, but it will be ruined if my laptop was trashed.”

“You live in Heidelberg?” the second guard asked. “German national?”

Lars nodded. “Yes to both. You saw my passport.”

The guards exchanged another glance. The redhead raised his eyebrows in a quizzical expression, and then used his own key card, obviously a master, to unlock the suite’s door. “Stay back,” he instructed Lars, “until we’re certain there’s no further danger.”

It chafed, but Lars did as he’d been told and waited while the guards swept through his rooms. He heard a long, low whistle. That did it. He stepped inside. The balding guard hunkered next to a circular pile of shrapnel. Lars tightened his jaw, grinding his teeth together. Not a bomb. Not exactly. Compressed air, and enough shrapnel to kill him—if he’d been standing in just the right place. Even if he hadn’t, flying debris would likely have wounded him. Lars had used similar devices. They were handy because damage was localized to a small area.

Once I was incapacitated, they would have let themselves in here and finished me off. Guess they did not factor hotel security into their equation.
Whoever was behind this had probably fled as soon as the two security men showed up. Lars smiled sourly to himself and walked past one of the guards into the bedroom. Once there, he pulled his valise from the closet and started tossing clothes into it.

“You are leaving, monsieur?” The balding guard came up behind him.

Lars spun to face him. “Would you not do the same?”

“We know where to find him.” The first guard pocketed Lars’ card.

“Indeed.” Lars glanced from one guard to the other. “Might one of you be so kind as to call for a private car to take me to the Nice airport?”

“Of course.” The older guard spoke into his mouthpiece.

Lars grabbed his Dopp kit from off the bathroom ledge, dropped it into his valise, and zipped everything up. His next stop was for his laptop, which didn’t look as if it had been touched. He stowed it and its charger into a hard-sided computer bag.
Stupid of them,
he thought.
They should have taken it the first time they were in here.
Not that it would have done them any good. The hard drive was programmed to self-destruct if anyone unauthorized tampered with his computer.