Page 4

They were there to kill you both, Nikolai had told me in the car before asking if the name Tom Bransford means anything to me.

Which it does.

Because it’s been all over the news lately.

With an unsteady hand, I lift the remote and power on the TV, tuning in to a news channel.

Sure enough, they’re covering the primary debates, which Bransford appears to be winning, putting him ahead in all the polls.

My insides roil as I study his image on the screen. If Nikolai is telling me the truth, this is the man responsible for my mom’s murder.

Youthful and trim at fifty-five years of age, the California senator oozes charm and charisma. His thick, golden-blond hair is barely touched with gray, his eyes are a brilliant blue, and his smile is bright enough to light a warehouse.

No wonder they’re comparing him to JFK; he could be the dead president’s even more handsome brother.

I search for signs of evil on his evenly featured face and find none. But then again, why would I? However good-looking Bransford is, he can’t hold a candle to Nikolai’s darkly magnetic appeal, and I know what he’s capable of. I’m not the only one dazzled by Nikolai, either. Even woozy from anesthesia, I couldn’t miss the covetous looks the nurses surreptitiously cast toward him.

I’ve never been out in public with my employer, but I imagine panties drop left and right when he walks down the street.

A bizarre pang of jealousy strikes me at the thought, and I realize I’m getting distracted from the key question.

Why?

Why would a leading presidential candidate want to kill me and my mom?

It makes no sense. None whatsoever. Mom couldn’t have been further removed from politics if she’d lived in the Amazon jungle, and God knows I don’t follow the stuff. As embarrassing as it is to admit, I didn’t even vote in the last election, being too busy with starting college and all. Nor have I ever met Bransford in any capacity; I have a good memory for faces, and his is more memorable than most.

Maybe Mom had encountered him somehow? At the restaurant she’d worked at, perhaps?

It’s possible, theoretically. The upscale hotel the restaurant is attached to is frequented by all sorts of VIPs. Maybe Bransford had stayed there during a visit to Boston, and Mom witnessed him doing something he shouldn’t have.

But then why would he want to kill me as well? Unless… was he afraid Mom had told me whatever it was she knew about him?

Holy crap. Maybe she hid some kind of evidence at her apartment, and he thinks I know where it is.

Excited, I sit up, only to fall back onto the mound of pillows with a groan. The anesthesia is definitely wearing off because that movement hurt. A lot. It felt like hot knives plunging into my arm, and the rest of my body isn’t doing much better.

It’s as if I’ve been knocked off my feet by an actual truck, instead of an assassin the size of one.

Before I can catch my breath and refocus, the door opens and Nikolai walks in, holding a tray of covered dishes.

My heart launches into a sprint, and what little breath I did recover evacuates my lungs.

Without the veil of shock dulling my senses and the distraction of the medical staff bustling around me, his effect on me is devastatingly, terrifyingly potent. I’ve never known a man who could make my body react by merely walking into a room. And it’s not just his looks; it’s everything about him, from the raw animal intensity in his striking amber-green gaze to the aura of power he wears as comfortably as one of his custom-made suits.

Right now, he’s dressed more casually in a pair of dark jeans and a light-blue button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He must’ve changed and showered while I was under, I realize; not only are his clothes different from what he’d worn in the car, but the smear on his cheekbone is gone and his raven’s wing hair is slicked back wetly, exposing the sharp symmetry of his striking features.

Greedily, my eyes trace over his face, from the thick black slashes of his eyebrows to the full, sensuous shape of his mouth. For once, it’s not curved in that dark, cynical way of his; instead, the smile on his lips is warm, tinged with unsettling tenderness.

“I had Pavel warm up some leftovers and prepare a selection of different snacks,” he says, crossing the room toward me as I reflexively power off the TV. His deep, rough-silk voice is like a caress to my ears, so much more pleasant than the newscaster’s strident tones. Placing the tray on my nightstand, he takes a seat next to me and begins uncovering the dishes one by one. “I figured you might be dealing with some nausea, so I have some plain toast here as well.”