Taken by the South Wind

by Anna Hackett

  Tempest Winds? She remembered a vague reference to them in her file. “I have no quarrel with him.”

  “I suggest you find another assignment and stay out of my way, Hashshashin.”

  Samia needed to prove she still had what it took to be an assassin. She couldn’t go back a failure. “My assignment is to kill you.”

  “I’m warning you.” He loomed over her. “I can’t let you get in the way of my duty.”

  “And I can’t let you get in the way of mine.”

  A scowl cut across his face. “What am I going to do about you?”

  Samia called on her power and used her ability of camouflage to melt into the shadows. “Watch your back, because I’m coming for you.”

  Dante watched the assassin disappear into the night.

  So, he wasn’t the only one with power. His wind whispered she was still close, and he smelled her. An exotic scent, like the sweet scent of jasmine carried on a desert breeze. It seeped into him, warming his body.

  “Africus will drive people to kill. It’s what he does.” Dante glanced around, wondering if the lovely assassin was listening to him. Could she make her own decisions, or was she only able to follow orders?

  He didn’t have time to waste dealing with her. Every minute he was distracted was another minute Africus could use to kill.

  “Stay out of my way.” He called on the wind. It swirled up around him, powerful and primal. It rushed over his skin, and with a single thought he let himself blend with it. His body dissolved away, leaving only his soul to travel on the air.

  He soared through the Forum and back into the modern city streets. He followed the trail of his prey and tried to push the distracting thoughts of the woman out of his head.

  Africus was wily to send a Hashshashin after him. The organization had been created during the Crusades and had built a deadly reputation for producing talented killers. Luca was right. The Venti Tempesta were using dangerous tactics to win this time.

  Dante had never expected an assassin to be quite so alluring. Her image rose in his mind. Impossibly sharp cheekbones, midnight-black hair cut short, a long elegant neck and a lean body, all of which ignited his interest.

  Her lush lips were at odds with the carved face. He’d just brushed her mouth with his, but it had been enough to get a taste of her. Cool, refreshing, energizing.

  And her slanted bronze eyes. They were haunting, with such sadness swimming in them.

  The Tempest Winds were loose and here he was obsessing over a woman sent to kill him.

  As he put more distance between himself and the assassin, he felt pride tug at him with insistent hands. Like a seductive lover whispering tempting promises. A heavy weariness descended and made him want to give in. To just accept the pride and give up the soul-destroying battle.

  Maledizione. He needed to get some rest soon or he’d be no match for Africus.

  Dante materialized in a dark alley, then strode out into a piazza. A fountain bubbled in the center of the cobblestone square, and the restaurants lining it were slowing down for the evening, only a few diners left hovering over their desserts and espressos.

  The sound of crashing plates and raised voices caught his attention. Across the piazza, he saw two men swinging their fists. One tackled the other to the ground, a woman screamed.

  Dante’s gaze drifted beyond the fight. In the shadow of the fountain, he saw a tall man with shoulder-length blond hair watching the conflict.

  Africus.

  Moving fast, Dante headed for the Tempest Wind. But before he reached him, the brawling men and their onlookers barreled into his path.

  He felt their boiling emotions. Hatred and anger entwined with pride. Africus was feeding them, encouraging the fight.

  “I’ll make you wish you hadn’t insulted my country.” A short stocky man with a heavy British accent threw a punch at a taller Italian man.

  The tall man dodged. “You come here and enjoy our country, then insult our women.” The man dived, taking the other to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

  The dark energy spilled into Dante, flooding his system.

  Dio. All his nerves vibrated with indecision. He wanted to skirt the fight and attack Africus, but he knew he should stop the men.

  The fight escalated, the sound of flesh hitting flesh filling the square. The others watching started to feel the infection of pride, their shouts growing angry. A darker part of Dante urged him to ignore these small humans—they were beneath his notice.

  The smell of blood rose. No! Dante couldn’t let them kill one another.

  Let them. They deserve it. Dante looked up and his gaze clashed with Africus’s. The blond wind smiled.

  Big bronze eyes full of grief flashed in Dante’s head. He lifted a hand, touched the tear in his shirt and the already healing cut. If he left these men, he’d be just what the lovely assassin believed him to be. He leaned down and ripped the brawlers apart.

  Tossing the local to the side, Dante waved a hand and barked in Italian. Then he gripped the tourist by the lapels of his shirt, dangling him an inch off the ground. The man’s right eye was swelling closed and his split lips were bleeding.

  “I suggest you get your wife and leave.” Dante thrust the man toward a woman wringing her hands under the awning of a restaurant.

  The man scowled and opened his mouth.

  Dante straightened to his full six feet two inches. “Go.”

  The man swallowed, then grabbed his weeping wife and left. The crowd dissipated.

  The situation diffused, Dante swung back to the fountain. Africus was gone.

  Damn. Dante’s neck throbbed. He sent out the wind, hoping his enemy hadn’t gone far. But the wind found no sign of his scent.

  Jaw tight, Dante headed through the square, running a hand through his hair. He wanted to give chase, continue searching the streets and alleys until he picked up his prey’s trail.

  But Dante knew if didn’t get some sleep, some rest from the constant war inside him, Africus would win this fight before it even began.

  Dio, he wanted to fight, not rest. But he couldn’t risk succumbing to the pride, as he’d almost done in the piazza.

  Reluctantly, Dante headed in the direction of the apartment Luca kept in Rome. Venti Enterprises’ head office was in the city and Luca spent most of his time here overseeing all the arms of their vast business empire.

  Stalking down a darkened street, Dante thought of his brothers. Did they feel their respective vices twisting inside them like a wild animal? Lust for Antonio, anger for Luca and greed for Soren. Did these vices whisper beguiling promises and tempt them to give in?

  He expelled a breath and shoved his hands in his pockets. He would beat this, whatever the cost.

  Something tickled along his senses, like the familiar kiss of the wind.

  His assassin was back.

  He continued walking, not giving away that he knew she was there. Damn the woman for not listening to him.

  Why are you worried? She is no match for your strength.

  He wasn’t worried about her killing him. What worried him was that she was a tempting complication he didn’t have time for. He tried to spot her in the shadows, but her camouflage was too good.

  But she couldn’t hide from the wind. A small smile edged his lips.

  Chapter Three

  Dante kept his power gentle, nothing more than a small stir of the air. It brought him her scent, sweet and luscious. And her location.

  Slowly he pulled his hands out of his pockets. Then he spun and reached into the darkness.

  His hands closed around slim biceps. He heard her gasp.

  The struggle was brief. She was strong—stronger than a woman, stronger than most men—but she was no match for him.

  As he stared into her face, the voices in his head receded. Pride, for once, was silent.

  He tugged her close and the knife in her hand clattered to the ground. “I told you to stay away.”

  “You didn
’t expect me to listen, did you?” she spat.

  He saw the anger burning in her eyes. The little assassin didn’t like losing the upper hand. But other emotions swam in those bronze eyes, pulling him in. Had he ever seen anyone so lonely, so haunted?

  He understood what it was to hold yourself apart from others. He and his brothers did business, mingled at parties, took lovers, but they never let anyone truly close. No one understood what it was to hold power. Or to have to keep that power in check every day.

  But Dante suspected this woman knew what it felt like.

  Wondering how many weapons she had hidden under her form-fitting black clothes, he pushed her up against the wall of a nearby building.

  He ran his hands down her sides, over her curved hips. His palms slid across a toned belly and lean thighs. He detached another knife strapped to her thigh and slipped it into his pocket. “Can’t have you stabbing me again.”

  Continuing the search, he tugged a slim garroting wire from her pocket. He skimmed a hand across her small waistline, touching a strip of bare flesh. She felt like heaven—slim, toned and enticing. His body responded, hardening, every inch of him aware of her.

  “Stop,” she whispered, voice choked.

  Dante realized his search had turned into a caress. His hands were exploring, his mind memorizing the feel of her. He cleared his throat and stepped back.

  What to do with her? He couldn’t afford to have her darting out of the shadows, distracting him from his hunt. She might get him killed. Or get herself killed.

  “You don’t leave me much choice, assassin.” In a swift move, he wrapped his hands around her waist and threw her over his shoulder.

  She kicked and beat her hands against his back. “Put me down!”

  He slapped her shapely backside. “I don’t think so.”

  “I will make you pay for this.”

  The vehemence in her voice made him believe it. But not until he’d taken care of Africus.

  “Where are you taking me?” she demanded.

  “Somewhere I can lock you up and keep you out of trouble.”

  He heard her spit out a curse in Arabic. He strolled into the Campo de’ fiori, a beautiful piazza lined by historic buildings. The cafés and wine bars were still busy and a few diners cast startled glances at them.

  A statue dominated the square, the shadowy figure of the monk Giordano Bruno. It stood in the spot where the monk has been burned at the stake for heresy, his captors infected by the vices of the Tempest Winds the last time they’d escaped their prison.

  It was a reminder to Dante just how important it was he didn’t fail.

  “Buona sera, Signor Venti.” An eager young doorman held the door to his building open. His white smile was wide as he took in the woman draped over Dante’s shoulder. “A beautiful evening, no?”

  The woman gave another kick and Dante subdued her, his hands biting into the backs of her thighs. “Ciao, Paolo.”

  The young man was too well trained to ask any questions. Dante moved across the elegant foyer and into the elevator. Paolo was still smiling as the elevator doors closed.

  Moments later, Dante strode into the apartment. Luca had bought all the dwellings on the top floor of the old building and knocked the walls down to form one large apartment. He’d managed to modernize it without losing the historic charm.

  Suddenly Dante’s tiredness crashed down on him. He didn’t stop in the stylish living room or admire the stunning view of the dome of St. Peter’s framed by the French doors. He continued down the short hall and into the master bedroom.

  He dumped the assassin on the bed and watched her bounce.

  It was then he noticed a startling fact. As soon as he was no longer touching her, the pride-filled whispers crowded his ears again. They bombarded him with nasty suggestions that a part of him wanted to believe.

  Reaching down, he gripped her arm.

  “Don’t touch me.” She tried to jerk out of his hold.

  He held fast and marveled. The voices dimmed and faded away.

  Incredibile. Somehow, touching this woman held the pride at bay.

  Samia watched Dante Venti looking at her as if he’d been smacked upside the head.

  She had no idea what was wrong with him, but she was getting out of here. Out of the corner of her eye, she searched for a weapon. There was nothing in arm’s reach except the silk covers on the big bed.

  She couldn’t believe he’d captured her. She’d made mistakes an apprentice assassin wouldn’t make. Not once in her career had she ever allowed herself to be caught. If her father ever found out, his displeasure would be unbearable.

  Samia was very afraid she’d lost her edge. Lost it in the blood of a ten-year-old boy. She squeezed her eyes closed. If she couldn’t kill, she’d be tossed out of the Hashshashin, the only family she’d ever known.

  Fingers pressed against her cheek, she opened her eyes. Dante stared at her, then pulled his hand back. After a second, he reached out again, cupping her jaw. She froze, staring at the strange look in his eye.

  She had to kill this man. If she wanted to see pride in her father’s eyes, she had to complete her mission.

  And what if he’s as innocent as that boy? She’d watched from the shadows as he’d pulled apart the fighting men in the piazza. He hadn’t hurt either of them, or let them hurt each other.

  What kind of killer did that?

  Indecision churned in her gut. For the first time in her life, she didn’t know what to do.

  Dante shifted and sat beside her, keeping his hand pressed to her face. His warm thigh pressed against her leg.

  Wings took flight in her belly and flames licked along her nerves. What was it about this man? She’d never been so attracted to anyone before.

  “Who are you?” His voice was low.

  She felt a stir in the air around them. The temperature in the room rose. She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. If you kill me, they’ll only send another.”

  Death didn’t frighten her. It was her life…and death. She looked down at her hands. They were covered in the blood of so many.

  Dante’s fingers stroked over her skin. “Are you that expendable to them?”

  She glanced up. “Yes.”

  “And you’re okay with that?”

  “I’m just a weapon. The killing machine you accused me of being.” Nothing more, not even to her father.

  Dante’s jaw tightened. “You’re a human being.” His finger skimmed a lock of her hair. “And your eyes are so sad.”

  Her stomach clenched and she turned her head. The man saw too much.

  “Tell me your name?”

  She opened her mouth to refuse him, but instead, the words tumbled out. “Samia. Samia Hassan.”

  “Samia.” He murmured her name, as though rolling it on his tongue, savoring its sound. “Where are you from?”

  She shrugged. “Nowhere.” The brotherhood was based in Morocco, but she traveled the world and didn’t have a home.

  “And what are you, Samia Hassan?”

  She frowned. “You already know I am Hashshashin.”

  He leaned closer. “No, I mean what kind of being?”

  She was silent. She had no idea what she was, and over the past three months, there were days she wasn’t even sure who she was. One slip of the knife and the identity she’d clung to all her life had slipped away.

  “I’ll make you answer my questions if I have to.”

  She sighed. “My father is human. Born and raised by the brotherhood.”

  “And your mother?”

  Samia dropped her gaze. “I don’t know, I never knew her.”

  “But the Hashshashin have a tradition of breeding with beings of power.” He forced her to meet his gaze. “You have an exceptional ability to blend into the shadows. Your father must have mentioned what she was.”

  All Samia knew of her mother was that she’d gladly accepted the money Samia’s father had paid her to have sex, give birth and hand
her daughter over without a backward glance. Samia tried to pull away from Dante. “Why is my heritage so important to you?”

  He yanked her closer, until she was plastered against his chest, her legs tangling with his. “Because every time I touch you, I feel the vice that strangles me every day fade away.”

  Chapter Four

  At Dante’s tortured confession, Samia’s heart contracted. “What are you talking about?”

  “You ease my burden.”

  The air in the room was sucked away. She searched his face and suddenly saw how tired he looked. Lines of strain bracketed his eyes and mouth.

  Could his words be true? “Which vice does your wind carry?”

  He expelled a slow breath. “Pride. From the day I inherited my power, I have fought to control it. But with the Tempest Winds free, it’s much stronger.”

  Could this man really be innocent? Was he only trying to save people, not hurt them? She knew how powerful he was. She’d never been caught before, yet here she was, a captive in his home.

  If he lost the battle with pride, how much damage could he do? He’d admitted the darkness tempted him.

  Except when he touched her.

  He watched her with golden eyes tinged with desperation. A lump lodged in her tight throat. She was a killer. How could she calm anybody?

  Yet she felt it. An insane need to soothe away his pain. To run her fingers over the lines on his tense face and see if they melted away.

  Don’t let yourself be vulnerable, Samia. She forced her mind to clear. Maybe this was just a clever way to lure her into dropping her mission. “How is this possible?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve never heard of anything like it.” He pressed a hand to his temple. “There’s something in my ancestor’s memories, but it’s too far back to be clear.”

  “Well, I don’t have any answers for you.” She was letting herself be drawn in too close. She needed to get away. Not only to clear herself of this sensual spell he cast on her, but also to contact the brotherhood.

  She needed to find out if any of Dante Venti’s story was true, because there was no way she’d survive killing another innocent.