“As I mentioned, Yusuf had taught me some Russian, so I knew enough to piece together the conversation, especially when I kept hearing Nikolai come up. That was what Dmitry called me, and I was the only one on the ship that went by that name.

“I asked Dmitry about it later. He told me that Alexandroff had become suspicious of me and that I needed to take part in the next deal or he’d put me off the ship, which was code for shoot me in the head and dump my body in the sea.”

Marissa’s gasp is soft. I keep my eyes closed, but I imagine the look of horror on her pretty face. I don’t want to see it because it will change if I tell her the whole story. But it might be best. Maybe she’ll realize I’m a terrible person to get mixed up with. Maybe she’ll demand that I stay the hell away from her.

I don’t know if I would, or if I even could. But she could try.

“What did you do?” she asks softly.

“I had no choice but to agree, so Dmitry made arrangements for me to accompany him on the next exchange. He said he’d do everything he could to protect me, to keep me out of it as much as possible. I just had to go, just to show I wasn’t some kind of rat.

“It was with a different group of bastards, some Dmitry knew to be a little more reasonable, and he thought it might be a safe way to prove myself to Alexandroff. So he gave me a gun, showed me how to shoot it two days before the trade, and then I went ashore with him to sell guns to terrorists.”

Marissa says nothing for a few minutes. I wonder if she’s planning an exit strategy even as she lies next to me with her body pressed against mine.

Her question surprises me. She’s pretty intuitive, it seems.

“Did you have to use your gun?”

I know my answer will likely cement the decision she’s already toying with, but she needs to know. She needs to know I’m toxic. It’s better for both of us this way.

“Yes.”

“Is . . . is that what the tattoos are for? For people you’ve . . . for every time you’ve had to use your gun?”

“No,” I reply. “There’s one band for every trade I lived through. Sometimes my gun wasn’t necessary.” I pause before I add, “But a lot of times it was.”

I feel her shift beside me. Her warmth disappears. Her reaction, her decision stings more than I thought it would, more than I’d like to admit. I figure it’s better now than later, though. I can’t afford to get attached. And it’s better for her if she doesn’t get attached, either.

I keep my eyes closed, ready to give her the cold, silent indifference that comes second nature to me. If she’s gonna leave, she won’t know that I give a shit. I won’t let her see.

But then she surprises me. I first feel the tickle of her hair as it dangles over my chest. Then the light touch of her lips on my cheek as she bends to kiss it.

“I’m so sorry for the life you had to lead. You were so young,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. “You didn’t deserve that.”

Her hand splays across my chest as she scatters kisses all over my face and neck. I feel drops of warm wetness every so often. I don’t realize they’re tears until one hits my lips and I taste the salt.

She makes her way to my stomach, then down my right leg and back up again, dragging her lips and tongue along the inside of my thigh.

It’s not often I see the goodness in people. Or that they surprise me with compassion. Yet Marissa has. I just told her I’m a criminal and a killer, and rather than running the other direction, she cried for me.

Something burns deep inside my chest. I don’t have time to think about it or deny it, or devise a plan to rid myself of it. Marissa sees to that when her lips close over my engorged head. She makes it so that she’s all I can think about. She erases all other thoughts with the first swipe of her tongue. And I’m happy to let them go.

TWENTY

Marissa

I could watch Nash sleep for hours. In rest, the stern set of his mouth is more relaxed and the anger that seems to burn perpetually in the dark pits of his eyes is absent, leaving him just incredibly handsome. Not complicated.

There’s no denying he’s a twin. He looks nearly identical to his brother, so his features aren’t unfamiliar to me. But in a way they are. There are subtle things that I see right away that set him apart from his brother, things like a small scar that disrupts the smooth line of his right eyebrow, the lighter streaks in his hair from time spent under the sun at sea, and the bronze sheen to his skin. In my opinion, he’s ten times more handsome, more rugged than Cash. And certainly far more dangerous.

I realize what I’m doing as I stare at him.

Stop staring! You’re like the creepy watch-him-while-he-sleeps, obsessed girlfriend.

I make myself roll away from him and get out of bed. I’m as quiet as I can be. Nash is such a strong force, it’s easy to forget that he was stabbed not so long ago. No doubt his body needs the rest.

I head for the bathroom and a much-needed shower. As I lather and rinse my hair, I let my mind wander back to the conversation Nash and I had last night, to the things he told me. My heart aches at the thought of what he’s had to endure, at the thought of what he’s probably seen and done as a result of someone else’s mistakes. It’s no wonder he’s angry and bitter. And the loss of his mother— essentially his entire family—on top of that is horrific. I decide it’s a testament to his strength of character that he survived as well as he did.

But I think parts of him might be forever damaged, if they, in fact, survived at all.

I shake off the depressing thoughts. I don’t like to think about the very real possibility that he’ll never feel anything more for me than what he does right now, that he’ll never be capable of a more meaningful relationship.

But I knew that going in. He himself told me that he would hurt me. I guess I was either stupid enough or arrogant enough to think that I might be different, that he might change for me.

As water sluices down my body, I come to the harsh and disturbing realization that if anyone can help Nash feel again, it’s likely going to be someone a lot nicer than me. Someone more like Olivia. Someone with less baggage, someone who isn’t just as broken as he is. Together, our pieces might make one whole person. But I doubt it.

My morose thoughts only worsen when I get out of the bathroom to find not only an empty bed, but an empty condo. There’s no note, no indication of where he went or when he might be back. No nothing. Just an echo of my earlier worries, an echo that says Nash is inconsiderate because he just doesn’t care. And that he never will.

I feel a twinge of pain somewhere in the vicinity of my heart. For once in my life, my feelings for a man have nothing to do with my ego. I wish that were the case. Wounded pride is much easier to deal with than this increasing feeling of hopelessness.

As I walk back to the bedroom, I hear the bleep of an incoming text. I detour to the table by the door where my purse, and, therefore, my phone rests. I plugged it in last night to charge it and never went back to get it. Nash distracted me.

I’ll say.

A warm flutter dances in my belly just thinking about him standing behind me in the mirror last night. I’m sure I shouldn’t have liked him being so rough and angry. I’m sure I should’ve objected, both as a woman with some self-respect and as a human being. But I don’t regret that I let it go on. For some reason, it felt like one of the most honest exchanges we’ve had thus far. He wasn’t holding anything back. He wasn’t pretending to be anyone or anything. He was just Nash. Raw, angry, sexual Nash, taking what he wanted and needed. And he took it from me.

I know I shouldn’t read so much into him coming to me for it, but I can’t seem to help it. Just as quickly as the hopelessness set in, a tiny seed of hope grows to overwhelm it.

I’m sure it will be the reverse in a few minutes or a few hours. I seem to have become emotionally bipolar since meeting Nash.

As I reach for my phone, I chastise myself for seeing and feeling things that aren’t there and setting myself up for a devastating letdown. What I find only gives my foolish heart more reason to hope.

I’m with Cash. Call if you need me. I can be home in a few minutes.

I text my short reply and try not to smile too broadly.

Okay.

Home?

My optimism returns tenfold. For a moment, I don’t think about anything but the fact that he’s being considerate of me, caring. Feeling. And that he referred to this as home.

But at the same time all this hope is filling me, rational thought is arguing with it from somewhere far in the back of my mind. It’s warning me that I’ve fallen for Nash, that I’ve fallen hard. And the thing is, I’m smart enough to know that a fall like this could break me.

Permanently.

* * *

The caller ID makes me sigh. It reads Deliane Pruitt. My secretary. And the fourth person from work to call me in the last two hours.

What happened this morning? Did the floodgates of gossip open up?

“Good morning, Del. How are you?” I greet her pleasantly.

“Good morning. Am I interrupting?”

“Not at all.”

“Okay. Good. The word is out about your return, and I’m getting calls from people wanting to set up lunches and meetings and fund-raisers. Are you coming in today?”

Her question irritates me, as does everyone’s assumption that I’m working, just because I’m back in the country. Of course, I know they’re just doing what they’ve always done. I’m always available for those things. Lunches and fund-raisers have always been more play than anything, and a “meeting” is just another name for a social gathering for drinks at a posh restaurant.

A thought occurs to me, striking me momentarily speechless.

“Marissa?” Del’s voice brings me back to the conversation.

“What? Oh, sorry. Um, no, don’t put anything on my schedule yet. I’m not sure when I’ll be back in the office. Or back to work, for that matter. I’ve got some things I need to tend to first.” I pause before I ask Del a question, a question related to the thought I had. A question I’m not entirely certain I want the answer to. “Um, Del, has anyone called about the Peachburg accounts? It’s about time for them to follow up.”

The Peachburg accounts are the ones that Daddy and I went to the Caymans to look at. At the time I thought nothing of him bringing along a “team” to help and to familiarize themselves with the accounts, but now it seems like much more. Now, it makes sense.

“No, ma’am. I think Garrett Dickinson is handling most of that now.”

The blow is crushing. The disappointment of reality sits on my chest like a five-hundred-pound gorilla. My suspicion was correct.

“Okay, thank you. I’ll be in touch with a date when you can open up my schedule.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I’m ready to hang up when Del stops me. “Marissa?”

“Yes?”

“Is everything okay? I mean, you can talk to me if you need to.”

I can tell her offer is genuine. If anything, I think her kindness actually hurts. It’s not that I’ve ever been mean to Deliane, but I’ve never treated her as anything more than an employee. A lowly one. I’ve never given her more thought than a go-between for all the people I know and the activities we’re involved in. She could’ve been automated for all the credit I gave her.

But now I see very clearly that she’s a real person, one much better than me. She’s extending an offer of help and comfort to someone who’s never given her more than the most basic of polite gestures. She’s rushing to the aid of someone who doesn’t merit her consideration.

“Thank you, Del. I might take you up on that,” I say, even though I know I won’t. She doesn’t deserve me unloading on her.

“You’ve got my cell. Call me anytime.”

“I appreciate that, Del. I’ll be in touch.”

After we disconnect, I let my phone drop to the carpet between my feet. I think back over the years since I graduated law school and passed the bar exam. I think of all the accounts my father has “brought me in on” or told me he’s “grooming me to take over.” Each one, for one reason or another, ended up being someone else’s baby while he moved me on to something else. Every meeting he ever asked me to attend was more an informal kind of meet-and-greet than anything with teeth, anything where we actually reviewed numbers or talked real business. What my father has been grooming me for is to be the wife of an important person. He’s taught me how to conduct myself in the company of some of the richest, most powerful people in the world. He’s taught me how to raise tons of money for causes that make us look like decent people, and he’s taught me how to throw a party with the best of them. But not once has he ever trusted me with something that’s actually important, that requires the knowledge I went to school for years to obtain.

Not. Once.

All along, he’s seen me as the wife of a politician, one he can carry in his hip pocket to use for favors and influence when he needs it. He’s raised and groomed a pawn, nothing more. And the realization is devastating.

All sorts of random memories come crashing down around me—my father asking me to sing for an Asian diplomat when I was a child; my father refusing to let me date any boys other than the sons of his influential friends; my father getting me into law school when I was still undecided on my major; my father introducing me to all the “right friends” in law school; my father asking me to wear a nearly transparent dress and “forget” my underwear when I went with him to dinner on an oil tycoon’s yacht. I was seventeen at the time. I didn’t object because I was always so happy when Daddy gave me attention, I didn’t care what it was he was asking me to do. It’s been that way all my life, anything to win Daddy’s approval, anything for a smile or a pat on the head. As far back as I can remember, I’ve been vying for his attention, begging for his love and doing anything to get the tiniest drop of it. I didn’t even realize how twisted it was or what a monster I was becoming. Like my father, I gave no thought to anyone but myself and saw everything and everyone as a means to an end. My end. My father’s end.