S. Harper - Cursed

“You were sent to kill him.”

Zack nods. “I had a custom-made long-range rifle and a clear view. The target was supposed to be alone. No one else was visible when I lined up the shot and took aim. I’m good at what I do. What I did . The shot was clean.” He swallows. “But the target wasn’t alone. She must have entered the room right after I pulled the trigger. I watched, through my scope. It was surreal, a macabre silent horror film unfolding before me. One of my own making. One that afterward I couldn’t get out of my head. I still can’t. She threw herself on top of the target. Crying. Screaming. Soaked in his blood. She was four. He was her father. And . . . as it turned out . . . I was the monster.”

I place my hand on Zack’s shoulder and give it a squeeze. “You are not a monster. You killed one man to save hundreds.”

He smiles ruefully. “It was a lie, Emma.” He turns to look at me, his eyes shadowed with regret. “The dossier was a complete fabrication. It was about money and power. It wasn’t about saving lives. And it wasn’t just about killing one man. It wasn’t just one man. There were a lot of men over the years. Every one of them someone’s son, or husband, or father. I started to dig. The more I did, the more lies I uncovered. I wasn’t doing something noble, something to be proud of. I was nothing more than a very highly trained, highly paid assassin. No matter what I do, how many I manage to save, I’ll never be able to give back the lives I took.”

“That’s why working these cases has become so important to you. You can’t return that little girl’s father to her, not ever. But you can find and return others.”

“And I do, just like you. In so many ways, we’re coming from the same place, you and I. We’re seeking the same kind of salvation. That’s why we make such a great team.”

Zack is right. We do make a great team. We are on the same path, in search of the same thing. “The people you worked for, they just let you walk away?”

“Hardly. Suffice it to say I fixed things so that I pose more of a threat to them dead than alive. We’re at a stalemate. I’ve accepted I can’t take them down. For now. They’ve accepted my decision. For now.”

Zack holds out his hand.

I take it.

“No more talk about sad things. Not tonight.”

I let him lead me down a short hall to a door on the left. He pushes it open, giving me a clear view of the master suite.

On the far side of the room is a set of double French doors. They open onto a balcony, offering a breathtaking view of the moonlit beach and ocean beyond. Cream doupioni curtains hang over the doors, the rich silk fabric flutters in the evening breeze. There’s a fire in the fireplace to the left of the bed. It fills the room with warmth, a contrast to the cool night air drifting in from outside. On the mantel is an array of candles, which he’s also taken the time to light. There are more on the dark walnut nightstands, which flank the enormous king-sized sleigh bed. The lamps on the either side of the bed remain off. They aren’t needed. A natural glow fills the room. The flames from the fire and candles flicker and dance, casting shadows on the wall.

I hesitate. The first time we were together was all flying clothes, insistent hands, and hot openmouthed kisses. I guess after my admission and in light of his nature, I was expecting the same. For tonight, at least, he’s got that aggression thoroughly locked away.

“You’re in control here.”

“Honestly, I think I’d be more comfortable if we were both out of control.” I take a sip of my wine. There is the aroma of sea salt and burned wood in the air, as well as a mix of vanilla and orange, cinnamon and ginger. “You always keep scented candles around?” I ask over the rim of my glass.

“I figure you’ve got to give a girl something if you’re going to hold back on the foreplay.”

I walk over to the bed and run my hand over the duvet cover. Like those downstairs, the fabrics are rich and lush. Earth tones dominate—taupe walls, cream drapes, dark brown bedding with gold accents. I move to the fireplace. There’s a large mirror above it. I can see Zack’s reflection as he crosses the room to join me.

He places his hands gently on my shoulders. “Listen, it’s okay if you’ve changed your mind. You were right this morning when you said there are a lot of reasons not to do this.”

My gaze lifts to meet his in the mirror. “And yet here we are.”

He reaches out with one hand, brushing his fingertips down the side of my neck before tracing a painstakingly slow path along the edge of my gown’s neckline—starting in front of my shoulder and ending at the zipper. “You’re sure you want this?”

I’ve had sex with plenty of men during my lifetime. A good many of those men have been quite imaginative. Some have even been memorable. With a few, it still hurts to think about. I’ve been here many times before. So what is it about this man that makes me ache so?

Do I want him? I shiver. I do. “In the worst possible way.”

Zack encircles my waist with his left arm, then dips his head, nose at the nape of my neck. He inhales deeply, breathing me in just like before, only then it was with more subtlety. This time it feels decidedly primitive, possessive.

My own breath catches.

I feel a slight tug as he pulls down my zipper. The fabric parts, exposing my back. I close my eyes and wait. Then I feel Zack’s fingers skimming down over my skin, tracing the edges of my ink. The pair of wings covers most of my back. It’s not a tattoo I chose. Like so much else, Demeter chose it for me. I was marked the day I was stripped of my real wings, the day I was sent here. Because I don’t see them every day, you might think I’d forget. I never forget.

“What you told me in Charleston about this tat, it was a lie, wasn’t it?” Zack murmurs, almost to himself.

I turn to face him, letting the gown fall and stepping out of it. “We’re not speaking of sad things tonight.”

I can see he wants to know more, but I’m standing before him in four-inch pumps, breasts bare, nipples erect, wearing only black silk panties and stockings. The glamour affects my physical beauty in that my true face is hidden. But my body is untouched. Breasts, hips, legs are of a level of perfection only a Siren can possess.

The questions die on his lips. The humidity here at the beach makes my long, dark hair wave. It’s loose now, past my shoulders, partially covering my breasts.

Zack reaches out and picks up a strand. “I love your hair down.” He begins to curl it around his finger, reeling me in. “You should wear it like this more often. In fact, this entire outfit meets with my approval.”

I can’t help smiling, more comfortable in my skin than in silk and lace. “Oh yeah?”

He looks me straight in the eye. “Yeah.”

I reach for his top shirt button and slide it back through the hole. “You wouldn’t find it . . . distracting?”

“Me? No. You know me. I’m all about the mission. Eye on the ball.”

I’m on the last button now. “You’d be more convincing if you weren’t looking at my breasts.”

“Which are amazing.” As if to punctuate the statement, he palms one, feeling the weight of it, squeezing gently. “Why do you insist on hiding them?”

“You mean I should take a page from television and wear low-cut blouses and spike heels on the job?”

“Works for me.”

I interrupt his reverie when I step back to slide his shirt off his shoulders. Before he can express disappointment that I’ve moved out of reach, I do two things that are guaranteed to leave a man speechless. I reach for the button on his trousers and I drop to my knees.