Death Angel

She heard a faint sound in her bedroom, and a chill ran down her spine. Rafael! She whirled and unlocked the door, pulling it open in the same motion and stepping out without looking, as if she hadn’t heard anything and didn’t know he was there. She all but bumped into him, and jumped with a fake yip of surprise. "I didn’t know you were in here," she said, pleased with how hoarse her voice sounded.

He put his hands on her waist and frowned down at her. "Are you sick? You sound terrible."

"I might be catching something," she mumbled, looking down. "I woke up with a cough."

He tilted her face up, his dark eyes sharply examining her pallor, the shadows under her eyes. Drea could barely force herself to stand there and let him touch her. He was a handsome man, with thick black hair and chiseled features, but she had never loved him and at the best of times had found only mild pleasure in being with him. There was no pleasure left now, only hate burning so strong and hot she could barely contain it.

Still, she managed to put suffering in her expression as she looked back up at him, then she closed her eyes and swallowed. Straightening, she gently removed herself from his grasp and went to her closet. Opening the door, she turned on the light and stared into the small room, at the shoes scattered across the floor and the laden hangers jammed together without any sort of system. "I need to find a job," she said in a wobbly voice, the tone a little lost and bewildered. "But I don’t know what to wear."

The truth was, there was nothing in her closet appropriate for job-hunting, and nothing she would mind leaving behind. Every garment had been chosen with the purpose of showcasing her assets, and was either too flamboyant or too revealing. There was nothing tailored, not a single skirt long enough to reach her knee-or, if it did, there was also a side slit to add oomph.

Rafael came up behind her and this time he slid his arm around her, pulling her close against his side. He bent his head, pressed his warm mouth to her temple. "I think you have a fever," he murmured. "You should stay home today, and when you’re feeling better you can worry about what to wear." He gave a small, indulgent smile, as if he were talking to a child.

"But I have to-" She knew damn well she didn’t have a fever, because she wasn’t sick, but that was exactly what she’d wanted him to say.

"No," he interrupted. "You don’t have to leave, and you sure as hell don’t have to hunt for a job. You don’t have to do anything, except rest."

She pulled back from him and searched his face with a desolate gaze. She let her lips tremble a little "But…yesterday…"

"Yesterday, I was an idiot," he said forcefully. "Listen to me, babe: I don’t know how many times you want me to say it, but I’m not tired of you, I swear. I don’t want you to leave. I want you to stay here and let me take care of you the way I always have. You can’t make it on your own. You’re not qualified for any job except looking pretty, but you’re damn good at that."

Drea let a weary sigh leak out of her, and she leaned her head into his shoulder, let him support her weight. "I don’t know what to do." The vulnerability of her posture disarmed him, and also gave her the chance to make certain she could control her expression. She was incredulous that he’d actually admitted he’d been in the wrong about anything-a first-and enraged that he so completely dismissed her capabilities. Logically that last shouldn’t matter, because she’d worked damn hard to make him think exactly what he’d said, but to hell with logic. She was in an emotional free fall, and the only handholds she could grab were those of hate and rage. She clung to them, because without them she’d never stop falling.

His hand slid up and down her back, gently rubbing. "That’s what I’m telling you: you don’t have to do anything. We’ll go on the way we did before. Nothing has to change."

He had no idea how much things had already changed. She didn’t say anything, pretending to think things over, then she threw in a bout of coughing just to be on the safe side. The last thing she wanted was for her voice to begin recovering and sounding normal.

He hugged her close, squeezed her. "You should take it easy today, see if you feel better tomorrow. How about if I bring you a present tonight? What would you like?"

"I don’t know," she said, and sighed again. "I think I will just stay in today. I don’t feel like shopping. What are you doing today? Are you staying here?" She injected a faintly hopeful note into her raspy voice as if she actually wanted him to stay around, though she felt relatively safe in assuming he wouldn’t; Rafael rarely spent the day at the penthouse. He liked to see and be seen, and unless there was some party to attend he never took her with him.

"No, I have business I have to attend to. I’ll leave a couple of the guys here, okay? Anything you want, anywhere you want to go, just tell them." He never left the penthouse empty; someone was always there, making it difficult for the FBI or anyone else to slip in and plant surveillance devices. At first she’d always had two babysitters watching out for her; one would stay behind while the other kept watch on her if she went anywhere. Later, after Rafael decided he could trust her, just one man stayed behind to watch the penthouse and if she went out she went alone. It had been awhile since she’d had one assigned specifically to her; Rafael probably thought he was giving her a perk, when instead he was making her plan that much tougher to play out.

"Who?" Not Orlando, please, she prayed. Orlando Dumas was the sharpest arrow in Rafael’s quiver, especially with computers. The last thing she needed was someone computer-savvy looking over her shoulder. When she’d first moved in with Rafael, Orlando had been her most frequent babysitter, because Rafael knew Orlando was the most likely to spot anything suspicious.