She lay bundled in a wrap of ebony velvet. Against that starkness, her shoulders seemed shaped from delicate alabaster, her exquisite features, chiseled from flawless marble infused with a rosy glow.
So beautiful, so perfect.
So deadly, his treacherous lover.
Eduard stood unmoving but hardly unmoved, watching her drowse in sated pleasure. He tried to keep his thoughts simple so as not to overwhelm them with the awful magnitude of what he'd just discovered.
He'd known from the start what she was, her father's long arm of justice reaching out for the unlawful. He'd learned she was an accomplished liar and role player, that she could hide her true feelings so deep, they couldn't be touched by even the strongest vampiric probe. A woman and a warrior. She was a finely crafted instrument--sleek, lovely, lethal, like the dagger he held in his hand.
But was that all there was to Frederica Lavoy?
If so, why had she released him from her father's imprisoning care? Because she hadn't believed him guilty or because she couldn't bear to lose him? In his vanity, he wanted to believe it was a bit of both.
He moved closer to continue his study, his step silent, his features still.
Did she care for him or was she a spectacular actress? She enjoyed having sex with him. That, she hadn't pretended. She was a young, vital woman, liberated by a passionate nature. Was that all they'd shared? Just lustful couplings? He frowned to think it, even as his body stirred with heated rememberings. Was she a cold, carnal creature devoid of tender emotion or conscience, or an intense and vulnerable woman, layered with complexities he had yet to understand?
He weighed the knife in his hand. Was this the justice she sought? Had she released him so she might have the pleasure of bringing him to his end? Had she slain Vanko because he saw through her disguise? His thoughts winced away from imagining her surprising his loyal lieutenant with the wicked point of her dagger before falling upon him like an animal and draining him to near death. If that's what she'd done, what made her any different than those she hunted in her father's name?
If that were true, was she beyond redemption?
Was she incapable of love?
She stirred on the rumpled bed covers, her eyes blinking open to fix upon him with a sultry, soft focus. His traitorous response was immediate and shaming.
She'd come to him with his friend's blood on her hands, his life coursing through her veins. He'd enjoyed that warmth Vanko had given her. And he'd taken her to his bed where she yet remained in hopes of further destroying what was left of his self-respect and dignity.
And he still wanted her, even with hands stained and motives impure.
His love for her damned him all over again.
The pale jewels of morning rubbed warm and inviting upon the curve of her bare shoulder. Beyond their idyll, the waters rippled, quicksilver, beneath a pearlescent sky. Slowly, he drew the heavy draperies to block out the inevitable shafts of light which would shoot from where the clouds were parting. Piece by piece, panel by panel, he sealed them back into a velvety darkness.
If only he could restore the black veil of his ignorance as easily.
And then she sighed, a sound that twined about his breaking heart and threatened to squeeze the life from it.
In his palm, the dagger felt as cold as unmet consequence. With one pull, he could end the conflict between heart and mind forever. But without her, without knowing for sure what drove her to such terrible acts, forever would only be another kind of tormenting hell.
Above all things, he prided himself on his fairness. He wasn't quick to judge, nor long to blame. A methodical man, he considered all sides before forming an opinion. A meticulous man, he balanced all consequence before taking an action. Those characteristics made him a good leader. Or were they failings where Rica was concerned?
If it were one of his own, he would weigh action against reason before deciding what to do.
Did he owe Rica less, simply because she'd engaged his emotions as well as his compassion?
Perhaps she had some reason for what she'd done, some excuse for killing Vanko. Shouldn't he give her the opportunity to explain, to seek his mercy? He wouldn't deal harshly with her if her justification was valid. Surely, she knew that about him. He couldn't disappoint her by being rash in his conclusions, just because his heart hung bruised by her deeds, and his sense of loss felt overwhelming.
Carefully, he laid the dagger down at the edge of the platform then perched dispassionately upon the side of the bed. Rica regarded him with a steady stare, sensing his turmoil, awaiting his direction.
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