The Thief (Black Dagger Brotherhood #16)(50)

“All finished.”

“Brush my teeth?” he murmured drowsily.

“Absolutely.”

She came back with a toothbrush preloaded with paste, and that he did himself. Then the water was off, dripping loudly in the stall.

Marisol wrapped him in thick towels and together they got him back onto the bed. As he sagged against the pillows, he realized it was more exercise than he’d had since Dr. Manello had come and picked him up from his house to come here for his detoxing—

Assail took his female’s hand urgently and spoke in a strong voice. “No more drugs.”

She blinked. “Okay. I can tell the doctors you don’t want any more—”

“No. No more cocaine. Ever.” He shook his head emphatically. “I will never do it again. I should never have started using, and then it got away from me. It nearly killed me. That is an evil drug, and I am e’er rid of it.”

Sola leaned down and smiled. “That is good to hear.”

As she grew serious, he had a feeling she was thinking about his dealing. “And I’m getting out of the business, too,” he said. “It’s not for me anymore.”

“Wait…you’re going legitimate? As in, completely legitimate?”

Assail frowned as he considered his past pursuits. Ever since he had come to the New World, he had been hell-bent on making money—because that was what he had always done. And he preferred the black market because he hated paying corporate taxes, and moreover, he had enjoyed thwarting the human legal system. But unless the stock market had collapsed during the time he had been off the planet, he had more money than he could spend over the course of his centuries-and-centuries’ long lifetime.

There had never been a need, actually, only the drive.

A compulsion for winning.

Except, now, after what he had been through over the last—had it been weeks or months?—he found himself not wanting any part of such pursuits. Hell, he’d already shut down his drug business to get out of that messy problem of having dealt to the Fore-lesser. He’d had plans to import and sell guns and munitions, but really, what for?

“There will be no more of that for me, Marisol.”

As tears sprang to her eyes, he assumed they were from happiness. But then he wasn’t so sure.

“That’s good news to you,” he prompted. “Is it not?”

“Of course it is.” She seemed to collect herself. “It’s the news I’ve wanted to hear.”

“Lay with—”

As his thoughts abruptly stopped, and he had nothing but a blank space in his head, he panicked. This was how it had been going, however, these little hiccups in cognition creating the proverbial sound of crickets in his skull…and then resolving themselves.

Marisol was speaking unto him, and he tried not to become agitated when he couldn’t properly interpret her words—

“Lay with me,” he blurted. “Lay with me? I’m all right. I swear unto you. I just have these…little interruptions. They always take care of themselves, though.”

She stayed where she was, staring at him as if she were trying to diagnose him like a doctor. But something must have satisfied her, because she nodded and got up on the bed gently. As she stretched out beside him, he rolled in toward her. They both took a deep breath, and he would have willed the lights off if he’d had the strength.

“I will be better in the morning,” he mumbled. “I just need rest.”

“Of course. It will all…” She exhaled slowly. “In the morning, all will be well.”

Something in her voice wasn’t right, but as sleep strengthened its hold on him, he contented himself with dreams of a future where they were together. Here. Miami. The Old Country. It didn’t matter.

But yes, he was going to follow her lead and get out of the life.

Fates, why hadn’t he decided to retire sooner?





TWENTY-TWO


“A word with you, if I may?”

The following evening, Vitoria looked up from her brother Eduardo’s desk—and thought about getting her gun out. “How did you get in here?”

“The door was ajar.”

The woman standing just inside the office and speaking in that autocratic, I-win-the-game voice, was all angles: Dark hair cut blunt at the chin and flat-ironed straight as a set of drapes. Anorexic body dressed in an avant-garde black suit with asymmetrical lines and shoulder pads out of Alexis Carrington Colby’s wardrobe. And the nose job and brow lift made her appear to be in dramatic lighting even if she wasn’t.

Miss Margot Fortescue. The one who had proven so resistant to everything, especially when Vitoria had informed the gallery’s staff first thing at nine a.m. that she would be taking things over. Fortunately, the others had been warm and open. Then again, exactly how many high-end art galleries did Caldwell have? Even snobs had to be employed.

When they were the salespeople as opposed to the buyers, that was. Such a world of difference.

Vitoria sat back and resolved to make sure she shut things firmly behind herself in the future. “What may I do for you?”

Miss Fortescue closed the door sharply. Then again, she no doubt did everything with a punctuation of some sort.

“I would like some proof of your identity.”