Tamara paraded slowly up and down their hotel suite, trying to mimic a stripper and feeling nauseated. Damn the luck! Jaret had waited on more heroin, saying he wanted sex for the first time since she’d begun hanging around with him. Fortunately, he was doing himself. She hadn’t offered, and he hadn’t asked. He’d get close, and then he’d go soft and curse her. “Look sluttier,” he gasped. “I’m almost there.”

She strutted, bumping and grinding her hips. When that didn’t seem to do the trick, she tossed her head, hiding behind a sheaf of dark hair. Tamara racked her brain, trying to think of some exotic dancer moves, when he panted, “Do yourself.”

“Huh?” She spun and glanced at him, something she’d been trying to avoid. His face was blotchy and he had his cock in a death grip, but at least it was still hard.

“Sit in that chair,” he flung an arm outward, “and frig yourself. I like to watch.”

She swallowed her surprise. This was a new development, but then everything since they’d returned to their rooms was. Why couldn’t he just shoot himself into oblivion and go to sleep? He reached over and slapped her ass with his free hand. “Move it, bitch.”

Tamara practically leaped away from him, settled onto the indicated chair, and closed a hand over each breast. She twirled her nipples into peaks before moving a hand between her legs. It was a long time since she’d come. She rubbed a finger over her clit, surprised to feel it swell beneath her ministrations. Maybe she wouldn’t have to fake arousal. She shut her eyes, called up an image of the fine-looking blond from earlier that night, and rubbed herself. In no time, her hips bucked against her hand as an orgasm rocked through her.

“Yes,” Jaret crowed from where he lay on the bed, jacking himself. “Do it again.”

Tamara caught her breath. She’d been so lost in her fantasy of the blond stranger sinking his mythical long, hot cock inside her and fucking her senseless, she’d almost forgotten about Jaret.

“Sure and you’re not wanting me to take care of you?” she asked, desperate to do something, anything, to get this over with faster, so she could get to the real business of the evening—killing him.

He shook his head. “No, I get hotter watching than anything else.” His hand moved faster and faster on himself. “Frig yourself, babe. I want to watch you when I come.”

She moved her fingers over her swollen clit again and shoved two fingers from her other hand inside her pussy. It felt damned good, too good. Her hands moved in a rhythm to match his as she thought of the blond again. She fingered her G-spot and shuddered against her hand about the same time he shrieked, and semen jetted from his red, swollen cock.

“We’ll have to do that again, sweetheart,” he crooned. “It takes time to get to know one another.”

You mean time to get comfortable letting your perversions swim to the surface. She bit back what she wanted to say and just smiled.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and headed for the bathroom. Thank fucking God. He’d dose himself now and be asleep in no time. She crawled under the covers and waited, feigning sleep. Sure enough, the bedsprings creaked, he rolled over, and was snoring within a few minutes.

She kept an eye on the clock. When half an hour had passed, she eased herself from the bed. Don’t think. Just do.

She’d formulated this a hundred times in her head. A thousand. The suite’s kitchen was fully stocked. She ignored its selection of knives and plucked her own from where she’d carefully hidden it in the bottom of her suitcase, gazing at the lethal expanse of steel. She’d purchased the six-inch blade right after they’d gotten to Monaco, during one of the rare occasions Jaret had allowed her out of his sight. Tamara brought the blade to her lips, murmured a silent prayer, and tiptoed back into the bedroom.

This time, she didn’t hesitate. She’d learned from her past attempts; if she took the time to do anything but strike, she’d lose her nerve. Jaret lay on his side, chin tipped, the vessels in his neck clearly outlined beneath his ruddy, Asian skin. The next few minutes would be hell. Would he attack her? It took time for people to die. Time for them to lose enough blood they were no longer a threat…

She sprang, plunged the knife deep, and swung it through jugular and carotid both. Jaret was slow, sluggish. He must have given himself a whopping dose of heroin, or else it had been stronger than he’d expected. Blood sprayed from his severed carotid, geysering several feet into the air. Shocked by the grisly scene, she hurtled off his body. He made a gurgling, whooshing sound and bounded off the bed right for her, driving her to the carpeted floor. She hoped the thud wouldn’t bring security running.

Her heart pounded. Sweat slicked her sides. She stabbed again and again with her knife. He closed his hands around her throat, cutting off her air. She writhed beneath him until her eyesight grayed around the edges. Frantic and furious, her cat took over, forcing her way through. When her vision cleared, she was on top of him, mountain cat fangs buried in his gushing neck.

Knowledge flickered in the depths of his dark eyes. He opened his mouth, tried to talk, but blood burbled past his lips. She loosened her grip and jumped off his body. He wasn’t quite dead yet, but it would be over very soon. Tamara reached for her human form, barely allowing herself to breathe. She had to get out of there, put distance between herself and Jaret’s corpse. Bloody cat tracks peppered the beige carpet. She wasted precious moments working on them with hot water and a sponge before she gave it up for a lost cause.

Tamara doused her blood-soaked body in the shower, dried off, and dressed as fast as she could. She stuffed her few things into her suitcase—along with her knife—grateful Jaret had never registered her as a hotel guest. If she were any judge of things, he’d probably used some name other than his own at the front desk. Also a good thing, if it were true. She was fairly certain Chen was his real name, though most of his men used aliases.

Tamara dragged a dark coat over her jeans and black sweater, tied a scarf over her hair, and picked up the handle of her carry-on. Purse in her other hand, she crept to the door of the suite, opened it cautiously, and glanced out. Thank Christ! Empty.

She walked down a back staircase and let herself out into the humid night. Tamara glanced around; relief that she was still alone weakened her knees. Maybe one of the goddesses really was watching over her. She plucked the knife from her suitcase’s outer zippered pocket, wiped it down carefully with her scarf, and dropped it into a hole in a thickly flowering hedge. So far everything had gone better than she could have hoped.

Tamara padded silently away from the bulk of the hotel, rejoining the sidewalk about twenty yards past its ornate front doors. Disgust filled her when she understood she could have taken care of business weeks before and spared herself the degradation of her days—and nights—with her sister’s murderer.

She waited until she was several blocks from the hotel before she hailed a cab and asked the driver to take her to the airport in Nice. Settling into the taxi’s back seat, triumph surged, hot and vital.

I did it.

Yes, but I’m not in the clear yet. I still have to get out of here.

Even if she escaped, she’d met enough of Jaret’s boys. They weren’t stupid. They’d put two and two together, figure out she’d killed him, and hunt her down. She squeezed her eyes shut as the enormity of what she’d done settled in her gut like a lead block.

One thing at a time. I can’t fight tomorrow’s battle until I get back home.

Her eyes widened. Maybe she shouldn’t go home. Ireland would be the first place they’d look for her.