Four

Melanie Kendall vomited in the ladies’ room of an upscale restaurant several blocks north of the hotel where Alexander Bruni had just been killed in what police were already describing as a suspicious hit-and-run.

Suspicious, indeed.

She had resisted the impulse to peek down the street as she’d rushed past on foot, her car-the one that had struck Bruni-safely abandoned in a nearby garage, along with her wig and the black poncho she’d worn. She’d discarded them in a trash can, avoiding any surveillance cameras.

Everything had been carefully planned, although not by her. She wasn’t a planner. At least not of murders. A beautiful decorating scheme-that she could plan.

But she could execute a murder with precision and daring, and that, she’d discovered, was a rare skill. Five kills in seven months. Murder investigations in London, San Diego, New York and now Washington, D.C. Her first kill had been declared an accidental death, but that, apparently, was what the client had wanted. Melanie didn’t know the specifics.

Not my job, she thought as she gave one last dry heave. She wasn’t repulsed by killing. Vomiting was simply her release after all the excitement.

No one was in the ladies’ room with her, but Melanie didn’t care. She knew how to puke without making a sound. She flushed the toilet, let the stall door shut behind her and splashed her face with cold water in the spotless shiny black sink, then took a thin, folded towel from a neat pile on the granite counter and patted her skin dry.

In the mirror, her reflection looked fine. Her eyes were a little bloodshot, but they’d clear up in a few minutes.

They always did.

She was small-tiny, really-with long, straight dark hair that she could make elegant or informal with just a quick twist or a flip. Her fiancé, Thomas Asher, the incongruous man of her dreams, had once told her that his first wife had always agonized over her hair.

His first wife being Carolyn Asher Bruni, now Alex Bruni’s widow.

Being a decent man, Thomas would probably feel bad for Carolyn, but Melanie couldn’t help that.

She adjusted her expensive jeans and made sure she would blend in with the upscale, professional crowd at the restaurant. Now wasn’t the time to draw attention to herself. Thomas liked her natural flair for clothes, too, and how she always dressed appropriately for whatever she was doing, whether business or pleasure.

She liked thinking about him. Saying his name to herself. That she was fifteen years younger than he was-she was just thirty-blew Thomas away. She knew he saw her as sophisticated, worldly, well read and yet completely charming.

Not as a killer.

Melanie tossed the towel into a wicker basket and returned to her two-person table in the main dining room. It wasn’t quite eleven yet. Breakfast was still being served. She picked up her menu, smiling at the waiter. “I’ll have the oatmeal with fresh berries on the side-and coffee. Low-fat milk, please.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

She hated being called ma’am. But she noticed Kyle Rigby making his way toward her and told the waiter, “Make that two coffees, and add a muffin. What kind do you have today?”

“Raspberry and-”

“Whatever. Anything. Warm it up, will you?”

He retreated as Kyle dropped into the chair opposite her. She hadn’t been this close to him in over a week. With his very short silver-streaked hair and broad shoulders, he looked more like a high-priced Washington lobbyist in his expensive tan suit than a thug. A killer.

She might be a killer, too, Melanie thought, but she wasn’t a thug.

And she was giving up killing. She had no regrets about her life over most of the last year, but she was moving on. It was time. Ever since she was a little girl on Long Island, she’d envisioned marrying a man like Thomas. Quiet, intelligent, privileged-a true blue blood, as her mother, who had always wanted Melanie to marry well, would say.

Melanie wanted nothing more than to be a real, old-money Virginia lady, attending luncheons, hosting teas and benefits, sitting on charity boards. Carolyn had been uninterested in any of those traditions. His daughter was hopeless in that regard. Melanie looked forward to them.

But first she had to finish her business with Kyle, preferably before people started hanging their Christmas wreaths. As she’d donned her blond wig earlier that morning, Melanie had considered how little she knew about him. His real name, where he’d grown up, if he had family. Whether he was poor or middle-class or rich. Whether his father had beat him or his mother had loved him. If he had brothers and sisters, if they all were thugs or killers.

She supposed she hadn’t wanted to know. He had come into her life eight months ago, when she’d caught him about to shoot a would-be decorating client, a rich, scummy defense attorney she knew would never pay her on time. She could have stopped Kyle. She could have called the police, distracted him, done something, but even as she’d stood there in near shock, he’d known she wouldn’t do anything. She’d never killed anyone or witnessed someone being killed, but she’d been mesmerized as Kyle had smiled at her then fired. She’d never felt so alive. With her would-be client’s body still warm on the living-room floor, Kyle had swept her into an upstairs bedroom and made love to her. Every second of that night was burned into her soul.

Never, ever would she have such an experience again.

He’d made her help him clean up the scene. The body wasn’t discovered until four days later. The police still had no leads. The dead lawyer hadn’t noted anywhere that he’d had an appointment with an interior decorator about redoing his sunroom. Fingerprints and DNA weren’t an issue for Melanie. She was Ms. Perfect. She’d never had so much as a speeding ticket.

As little as she knew about Kyle, here they were, she thought-partners, lovers. Their months together had been an adventure she would never forget, but whatever he did after she made her exit was his problem. She’d be planning the last details of her wedding and honeymoon.

She didn’t like the smug look he gave her from across the small table. It reminded her of the night they’d met. She often wondered what he’d have done if she hadn’t reacted as she had, but that didn’t bear thinking about right now.

She placed her cloth napkin on her lap. “Someone could see us,” she said, her throat still raw from puking.

“If you’re expecting paparazzi, forget it.” Kyle lifted his own napkin, his nails, she noticed, neatly buffed and filed. He had the biggest hands she’d ever seen, but in his suit and cuff links, he managed to blend in with the Washington types. “No one in Washington cares you’re marrying Thomas Asher.”

“A prominent ambassador was just killed a few blocks from here.”

“Really? Did he have a heart attack?”

“When the car hit him, maybe.”

Melanie couldn’t hold back a smile. It seemed to erupt from deep inside her, along with a giddy excitement. She always felt this way after taking risks. There was nothing like it. The mix of power, relief, fear, guilt, energy-the tension that existed among such contradictory emotions.

Indescribable, really.

Kyle didn’t smile back. He was doing a job, and it was serious business for him. He didn’t have the imagination to understand the psychological addiction of killing, the emotional draw-the satisfaction that went beyond a paycheck. Melanie liked money. But money wasn’t why she’d become a paid assassin.

“I’m not letting you screw up a good thing for me.” He sat back and gave her a grim look. “You should never have gotten involved with Thomas Asher. You should have at least told me when you did.”

He’d found out two weeks ago when he’d come to Washington to discuss the Bruni hit. “I didn’t know we’d be given Alex Bruni as a target.” Melanie kept her voice low, but she was careful not to sound defensive. “We’re partners, Kyle, but you don’t own me. You and I are together maybe a week, at most two weeks, a month. You don’t live in Washington. I’m not even sure where you do live. I’m entitled to have a life.”