Assassins in Love Read Online Free Page B

rippled all the way down.
    With his clothes on, he looked slight, which was deceptive. He wasn’t slight at all. He wasn’t slight anywhere , particularly in the places (place) it counted.
    At least he was as handsome as she remembered. Those high cheekbones, that perfect nose, those startling blue eyes. And the white-blond hair? It was his natural color. She had found that natural color nested between his legs, and she had found that unbelievably erotic too.
    She still did, which disturbed her. Because as crummy as her head felt, she shouldn’t find anything erotic. She had clearly had too much to drink last night. He made things worse by holding up a glass of something foamy, which reminded her of the beer and made her stomach lurch.
    “Misha,” he said.
    “What?” The word came out mushy. God, how much had she had to drink? Her mouth tasted like dirty socks.
    “My name,” he said. “It’s Misha. I figured you earned that much.”
    Earned it. She didn’t like the idea of earned, as if she’d paid for it with sex. A lot of sex. Damn. How many times had they—
    “And yes, we met,” he said, “but I doubt you remember.”
    It was as if they were having a conversation she didn’t remember either. Her head hurt, and she brought a hand to her eyes. They felt gummy and sore. Everything was sore. And she had bruises on her wrist. Had he done that?
    “Here,” he said and handed her the foamy liquid. “Drink it fast and try not to taste it.”
    She glanced at him through her splayed fingers. He looked serious, and younger than she remembered. Hadn’t she thought him midthirties? His body was midthirties—flat abdomen, visible muscles, and at least half a dozen scars—but his face was maybe fifteen, at least at the moment. He had shadows under his eyes, and his mouth turned downward, as if a frown were his natural expression.
    The sadness caught her—if indeed it was sadness and not something else. That, and the scars. She had been so involved ( involved , what a euphemism) that she hadn’t even noticed. How could she have missed all those scars?
    She had no idea who he was. Misha? She didn’t remember a Misha, even though he said they had met before.
    She shouldn’t take the drink from him. God knew what was in it. But if he were going to hurt her, he would have done it last night, while she slept.
    Jeez, she’d trusted him more than anyone in recent memory. She had slept with him, actually slept, her guard all the way down. He could have done anything to her. He could have killed her or kidnapped her (although, in all fairness, where could he have taken her on this ship?) or given her to the authorities. He could have had his way with her—in ways she would never have agreed to, not in the way that she had.
    She sat up, the sheet falling away. Her skin had finger marks, bruises, love bites, scratches. She remembered each one, so she hadn’t been that drunk. Just the thought of his teeth grazing the tender skin above her breast made her shiver.
    He leaned forward, handing her the glass as if he didn’t want their fingers to touch. A bit of the stuff overflowed onto her hand, warm and foamy. Her stomach lurched again, so she took the glass from him and downed the stuff.
    It tasted like carbonated bile with a touch of dog hair, but she managed to swallow it all without getting sick.
    Her stomach settled the minute the crap touched it, and slowly her headache eased.
    “What was that?” she asked.
    “A couple of alcohol antidotes mixed with an emergency scrubber that I always carry,” he said. “Works, even if it tastes like day-old vomit.”
    She grimaced, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She no longer felt hungover, although she did feel wrung out.
    “What happened last night?” she asked.
    He smiled and looked pointedly at her breasts. “If you don’t remember—”
    “I mean…” she said, not wanting him to continue. She wasn’t sure if she was embarrassed or not. She