Chapter One

From his vantage point on the hotel rooftop, Javier Morales lit a thin cigarillo and took the smoke into his mouth, savoring the rich flavor. At three a.m. the city that never slept appeared to be dozing. Little traffic traveled the avenues or along the West Thirties in Midtown, nothing but a few lonely taxis or the occasional vehicle. Most of the windows in the surrounding buildings were dark at the wolf hour but he had an excellent view of his target's terrace to the west. If the broker proved to be a creature of habit, as Javier had been told, he would emerge from his apartment at four, then drink a cup of coffee while working in his flower boxes. If not, the operation would be a complete waste of time. When approached by a notorious Queens drug operator to take out a Wall Street financier who'd lost the drug kingpin's investments, Javier accepted, no questions asked.

Although confident he could make the kill shot, a moment of doubt always came. Once he followed through and collected the money, it would be on to the next hit. Trained as a sniper by the military, his post-service career had been a simple choice. He lacked the skills to be a banker or broker or manager. No way would he work as a janitor, in construction, or become a cop. Javier's forte was delivering death.

Time slowed as he waited, each moment longer than the next. Javier smoked too much and craved coffee. His focus remained on the target's rooftop. When the man emerged, dressed for his day on Wall Street in an Armani suit, dress shirt and tie, Javier gripped the stock of his M2010 rifle and drew a bead. Once he had the shot in place, he fired without any remorse and didn't miss. As the target toppled forward onto the roof, Javier disassembled his rifle with swift motions, placed it in his bag, and turned to leave. He halted when he heard a tiny whimper from behind.

"Ohhh," a soft, female voice breathed.

From where he stood on the back side of the boxed entry to the stairs the sound was audible and disturbing. Javier had thought he was alone, but he wasn't. A woman, wearing a strapless maroon mini cocktail dress and tall heels, stared at him, eyes wide and vibrant red lips parted. His first thought was, it's Cinder-fucking-rella, then he wondered why a woman dressed for a formal occasion would be on the hotel rooftop at this hour. His next realization came hard—she'd seen him make the hit. Until now, no witness had existed for any of his kills.

"You didn't see a fucking thing," he growled, hoping it was true.

"I watched you kill a man," she breathed. "He's dead. Why?"

If this bitch thought he would explain, she must be loco. He had to make a swift exit now before some wiseass cop figured out the angle for the shot and arrived on the scene.

"It doesn't matter," he spit out the words as if they tasted nasty.

"You took his life so it does. I don't understand why…"

Sirens screeched like banshees in the distance, the sound moving closer with speed. "I don't have time for questions or bullshit," Javier told her. "Why are you here?"

His tone emerged harsher than he intended and he watched her expression shift from shock to fear. She tugged a satin wrap he hadn't noticed until now around her shoulders and turned to leave, wobbling in her designer shoes. "I … well, it doesn't matter. I need to go."

Sure, she did. Javier figured she would rush to dial the NYPD. If not headed to the death scene, officers would be within moments, and if they caught him, his life would be over. The media would go wild, outing the former decorated Army sniper, a hero who served time in Afghanistan, as a professional hit man. At times, the transition surprised even Javier.

No one plans to be a hit man when they grow up, but then he hadn't set out to be a sniper either. Even though he'd never shot a rifle or any weapon until basic, during the white phase of training he earned the expert level on the shooting range. That ranked higher than marksman or sharpshooter. Javier had nailed 38 out of 40 targets and his fate had been sealed.

If he hadn't come down with fucking malaria in the last year of the Afghanistan occupation, Javier would have remained in the military. He might not have been a sniper forever but he'd planned for an Army career. After twenty, maybe thirty years, he would have retired with a monthly pension and benefits. Malaria robbed him of the chance, made him sicker than he'd ever been, and earned him a medical discharge. Javier didn't get a pension, however, because once cured of the tropical disease, he wasn't permanently disabled. Even the chance it might recur without warning wasn't enough for compensation.

"Bitch, you're not going anywhere except with me," Javier said. He grasped her hand and held it tight. If she protested or tried to pull away, he would take her arm. No way could he allow her to leave. He could end up in jail if she did and that was not happening.

Her eyes lit with anger. "Let go of me!"

Whoever this woman was, Javier pegged her as wealthy, probably from old money. Something about her imperious command indicated she bossed servants around on a regular basis, expecting them to do her bidding. It wouldn't work on him but she didn't realize that.

"Not happening," he told her as he dragged her toward the exit. A quick elevator ride, a fast stroll through the lobby, and they would be on the street. His black Porsche was there, and he would force her into the car. From there, he had no clue. Maybe he'd take her to his place or leave the city. They had to get away from here first, and without her causing a disturbance.

"I'll scream," she threatened as they stepped into the elevator. "I'll kick or scratch you. I'll shout so the desk clerk calls the police."

"I don't think so, Chica."

As the elevator door closed, Javier hit the "stop" button. He pulled her to him and without any tenderness or finesse, he kissed her. His mouth took hers, his lips hard and harsh. Javier forced his tongue into her mouth, French kissing her until his dick stiffened within his jeans. Aroused, he pulled her tighter against him, his hands down below the fabric to stroke her breasts with one hand. Her wrap fluttered to the floor and he moved his mouth to kiss her bare shoulders, then nibbled at them. Another few moments and he would take her in the elevator, dominating her into submission. Using skills he'd honed as a preteen, he managed to pickpocket her phone out of her purse and slid it into his pocket.

One moment, he would have sworn she returned the kiss, then she wiggled out of his arms and slapped him across the face. "Get your hands off me, you murdering bastard!"

Javier took her into his arms again, this time with a tight grip she couldn't easily break.

"You liked that," he whispered into her ear. "Don't tell me you didn't. We'll do that and more, I promise, but here's what will happen. We take the elevator to the lobby and we walk out, holding hands or with my arm around you. If you want to live, you won't scream or ask for help. We get into my car and we'll go to my place. Then we'll talk."

Talk was the least of what he planned to do once they arrived.

He gazed into her hazel eyes, which had widened as he spoke. Without blinking, she stared back. "So, you'll kill me if I don't do what you want?"

Javier shrugged. "You said it, not me. Let's go."

As she retrieved her wrap, he started the elevator and as it descended, he gathered his thoughts. He ached to fuck this woman and would, but after that, he had no idea what to do with an eyewitness who could place him at the scene of a crime. She had the power to take him down and Javier vowed to do whatever necessary to prevent that. He wouldn't kill her—not a woman—but he had to figure this out and soon.

"What's your name?" he asked, as the elevator reached the lobby.

"Cecily Randolph DeLauncy," she proclaimed as if it meant something. It sounded like royalty the way she pronounced it. "You may call me Ms. DeLauncy."

"I'm Javier, Cecily," he told her, ignoring her request. He linked her arm through his as they exited the hotel. Although he expected her to fuss, she didn't. She walked, her heels tapping out a rhythm on the floor, head high as if she entered a ballroom or high-class event. Her manner made him almost feel he was wearing a tux, not black jeans, a black button-down dress shirt, a leather jacket, and Army boots. The rifle case he carried could have been a gym bag, laptop case, or even a briefcase.

At his car, she balked. "Where are you taking me? Are you going to kill me?"

"Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies," he said. Javier glanced down the street and saw red emergency lights flashing by on one of the avenues. "Get in the fucking car and let's go. Andale!"

Cecily pursed her lips into a pout and glared at him. "What if I don't?"

He opened the passenger door and pushed her into the seat of his Turbo 922 Porsche. Javier clicked the seat belt harness into place so she couldn't easily bolt. Without another word, he got into the driver's seat and took off at speed, avoiding anywhere close to the hotel or the adjacent apartment building where he'd scored the hit. She shrieked as he took the next corner on two wheels and the tires squalled.

"If you're taking me to some slum, I'll scream until the police come," she told him as she pounded her feet against the floor.

"Scream and I'll slap you," he said without any heat. He would, although he'd rather not mar that beautiful face with his hand. "Do you think a man with a car like this one lives in a motherfucking slum, Azúcar? Is there a brain above the pretty face?"

She folded her arms across her chest and glared. "Slap me and I'll hit back. I'm not afraid of you, you loathsome piece of shit. I don't scare easy."

He admired her bravado but pegged it as false courage. She might think herself to be tough, but he'd grown up in a housing project in the Bronx. Javier learned to fight before he started kindergarten, got initiated into a gang by junior high, and changed paths by high school. Back then, which seemed like a lifetime ago, not less than two decades, Javier sought to be a hero, not a hoodlum. His military career had been intended as his way up and out of poverty, not his downfall into this high-dollar criminal life as a paid assassin. Becoming the man he was now made him hard, almost invincible, and unbreakably strong. Along the way he'd left behind his heart and probably his soul.

Javier laughed and it wasn't a happy noise. "You're terrified, Chica. That's why your hands are trembling, and your eyes are big as a centerfold model's tits. You probably need to pee and your tummy hurts. Your chest is tight, and your throat is choking with tears."

As if proving his point, Cecily put her right hand over her abdomen. "I get stomach cramps when I'm stressed."

"Just don't puke in the car."

Javier sped north on Madison Avenue, then careened onto East 65th for a few blocks until he turned onto First Avenue. After that, another few turns landed him on York Avenue within sight of the condo he called home. He parked the car, faced Cecily, and barked, "Stay here or I'll ice you. There's a reason they call me ‘Ice Man.' I got something to grab. I'll be back in five."

His fee would be tucked beneath the chin of one of the elephant sprinklers in St. Catherine's Park. At this hour, the park would be empty, no kids on the playground, no teens running the track, or playing basketball. No adults would be on the handball courts or using the climbing wall. Javier strode into the park, plucked the waterproof envelope from the beast, and resisted opening it there. In his early days, he always checked to see if the cash was inside, but he knew it would be. He could tell from the size and weight that the twenty-five grand in small bills was in place.

With the money tucked into one of the inner pockets of his Romano leather jacket, Javier jogged back to his car. Cecily remained in the passenger seat although her pretty lips twisted into a pout. He slid into the seat and fired the engine.

"Let's go home," he told her.

The woman sputtered, cussed him in fluent French, Italian, then English, and spit at him. The first two he could handle but not the last. Javier lifted his hand in time to catch the spew, apparently aimed for his face. "Don't try that again, Chica," he said as he wiped his hand clean with a linen handkerchief. "You won't like the punishment."

Her defiance irked him and yet it made his passion rise. At his building, he pulled into the onsite parking garage and let the attendant park his car. At the front entrance, the doorman greeted him by name and held the door open.

Javier gestured Cecily to enter first then followed. In the elevator, she stared at him.

"You live here?"

He shrugged. "What did you think? Pictured me in a public housing project or a third-floor walk-up, maybe a cardboard box in an abandoned subway station? It's a studio apartment but still, it's fine."

She pulled her wrap tight around her shoulders. "I didn't have a clue and didn't need to know. Won't you take me home, please?"

He shook his head. "No, not happening. You'd be on the phone to New York City's finest before I walked out the door. You'll be my guest, for now."

Cecily wrinkled her nose and frowned. "I'd call it prisoner."

"Semantics. No matter what word you use, it's the same. It's like that old potato, patato thing."

She turned her back to him. "You're insane, a criminal, bloodthirsty, a killer, and crazy."

Javier grinned. "I'm a professional. It's a career."

Cecily swirled around. "Murder is not a career."

She spit out each word like a bone stuck between her teeth while he laughed.

On his floor, he grasped her arm so she wouldn't bolt and strong-armed her to his door. After unlocking the door one-handed, Javier led her inside. He considered what the place must look like to her. An open floor plan featured a living area where he had a sectional couch, a glass-topped occasional table, a smaller table with a lamp, and a large-screen television mounted on the wall. Beneath it a shelf held movies, music, and a few books.

Beyond the living space, a dining room table with four chairs sat in front of the three windows with a view of the East River. On a clear day, Javier could see Roosevelt Island and Queens on the opposite side. Two paintings decorated the wall, both originals, one by Diego Rivera, the other by Frederick Remington. Javier always imagined in a past life, which he wasn't certain could be possible, he would have been a cowboy, maybe a vaquero.

The compact, efficient kitchen opened to the left and his spacious bedroom to the right. Javier put his rifle bag in the closet to the right of the entrance door.

Cecily stood and stared. His furnishings were the best money could buy, and a top-rated interior designer had used her expensive expertise to provide an attractive, comfortable, and yes, ritzy atmosphere. "The artwork, they've got to be prints, right? I expected movie posters or gun pictures or something."

His dick swelled within his jeans and if he didn't take her soon, he might explode. After any hit, he needed sexual release. Javier had to have a woman to release the tension, to bring him back down to earth. "Not hardly," he said as he reached for her. "Wait until you see the Degas in the bedroom."

He had no more words, so he seized her and took her into his arms. Javier kissed her, swiftly and savagely, his mouth claiming hers by right and force. His lips burned against hers. She tasted like champagne and mint. Her perfume, something exotic and expensive, filled his nose with the scent, which further fueled his desire. Javier placed one hand behind her head and devoured her mouth. He nibbled at her lips and bit enough he tasted the salt of blood, then he rammed his tongue into her mouth, French kissing her until she whimpered.

That brought him to a halt. He wasn't a man who took a woman against her will, and he'd never had one protest. He might be a contract killer, but he wasn't a fucking rapist. Unless he'd gone loco and lost his mind totally, she wanted this too, the way her mouth reacted to his, how her body seemed to ripen with his touch.

"You want me. I know you do, as much as I want you. Your body tells me so even though your mouth tells another story. I'm not going to take you against your will, Chica. I don't do that. Tell me if you want me."

"Javier," she mouthed. "Wait…"

He growled with frustration. "Yes or no? Which one lies, your body that's hot for me, that melts at my touch, or your lips that tell me to wait? Do you want it hard and fast or with a slow hand? Tell me."

Cecily stared at him, eyes huge in her face, then whispered, "Rough, I like it down and dirty. Give me what you got, you bastard. I'll decide if you're as good as you seem to think."

If she wanted rough, that's what she'd get. He couldn't wait much longer or his cock might explode.

Javier tore the fancy dress from her with capable hands, then tossed it to the carpet. Beneath it, Cecily wore no bra, so her full, lush breasts were revealed. Javier removed her thong panties by ripping them. He deepened his kiss as he lifted her into his arms and carried her to his king-sized bed. Without bothering to remove the comforter, he tossed her down and lowered his body above hers. He took her hands and held them above her head so she couldn't interfere as he used lips, teeth, and tongue on her pale, satin skin.

He nipped her soft throat, the hollow beneath it and the top of her breasts, leaving love bites that would bruise and purple. Javier tasted and tantalized, working his slow way down her body, his cock tightening until it ached. He laved her body from breast to belly with his tongue, still holding her hands in one of his so she wouldn't resist.

Since her nipples hardened as his lips caressed them with his mouth, Javier didn't think she had any complaints. His need for a woman, for the pure and swift sexual release, had gone past any point where he could or would stop. If she hadn't told him to fuck her, he would have been forced into a hand job, something he hated.

As Javier moved lower, he released his grip and used his hands to caress her, then to fondle her mound. He stifled a laugh when he found her pussy wet. Delighted to find her willing and that she liked what he'd done so far, he dived deeper. He stroked her, rubbed with enough friction that she moaned, low. Then he stuck an exploring finger deep into her box, delighted with the moist heat. He considered taking her now, but he wanted to enjoy the agonizing pleasure a little longer. Javier fondled her clit and Cecily almost came up off the bed, writhing and panting.

"Don't you dare stop now, asshole."

Javier laughed. "I'm just getting started."

He kissed her pussy, then used his tongue to dive deep. Her taste fueled his passion and increased his need as he stroked her button with his tongue. If he held back much longer, he would burst so he shifted position and hammered her with his dick. He entered with force, but her body received him without complaint or struggle. As he sank deeper, his body reacted like a hungry lion deprived of food. He became greedy, craving more and taking it with force.

As Javier worked his stiff cock up and down in ancient rhythm, his body burned with the need for release. Tiny bursts of pleasure flickered within like heat lightning as they moved in tandem, both seeking and needing.

"Javier," she shouted out his name, chest heaving with effort and desire. Sweat slicked their skins as they came together and when he could wait no longer, he punched into her with swift, harsh strokes that fired wild, crazy waves of pleasure. "Fuck me harder, finish it, please."

Physical delight spiraled through Javier, and he forgot everything else but his dick and the woman he enjoyed. In those seconds, the two were one, a single unit straining together for the ultimate release. He stilled as orgasm struck, powerful and intense, consuming him in sensual fire. He shut his eyes and savored the pleasure as it rocked him to his core. It lasted forever and not long enough. Javier's strength, his power, and manhood flowed into Cecily's body, giving as he took, conquering even as he surrendered to the rush.

When the waves of pure erotic bliss eased, he remained connected for a few more moments. He hated to break the connection, but he did, shifting his body to lie beside her. Cecily met his gaze without blinking as a small smile flirted with her lips. He had ravaged her and yet she had seemed to glory in it. Javier stretched out a lazy hand to caress her breasts, then let it rest on her belly. He wouldn't linger long, never did. When his energy revived, he would rise, shower, then dress. She would leave… His thoughts froze.

"Chingators!" Javier spewed the word aloud. This one couldn't leave. In the moment of desire, he'd forgotten this wasn't any woman but one who watched him take a target. She could finger him to law enforcement and send him to jail. He always had a woman after a hit but never one who had witnessed his act. Javier faced a new situation. What the fuck would he do with this Cecily? He couldn't keep her, like a pet cat, but if he sent her on her way, his life as he knew it could end.

His profession put him in the position where he'd been observed and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't see anything he might have done differently. No, he hadn't expected anyone to come to the rooftop terrace at that hour but short of locking the door or blocking it, he had no way to prevent Cecily's arrival on the scene. Javier's dick, his favorite body part, had betrayed him. He brought her home for a valid reason, but he'd taken her without remorse or thought. He hadn't thought past the end of his cock or beyond filling his need. Now he had her with no way to get rid of the woman.

Javier had put himself into a corner and right now, he had trouble envisioning a way out of this debacle. He could kill her, but he wasn't a madman. He didn't kill out of passion. In the sandbox, he'd killed for survival and to follow orders. In New York, his hits were jobs, his career, and the way he paid his bills. He used his prowess the same way some fucker good with money and numbers made a killing on Wall Street.

Sated, weary, and spiraling down from an orgasmic high, he decided he'd think about it tomorrow. He would devise a plan, one that would keep him both free and from killing Cecily. His eyes became heavy with sleep and when he closed them, Javier slept.

He couldn't remember the last time he had slept with a woman in his bed, definitely not since he returned from his service.

There was a first time for everything.