The Assassin

by Rachel Butler

  “You’re proving to be very resourceful, Selena. If he comes back early, you can handle it.”

  She was more resourceful than he knew. But he would find that out soon enough.

  “Give me a call when you’re finished with your search. And, Selena . . . don’t disappoint me again.”

  11

  “I don’t understand the game you’re playing with her.”

  After hanging up the phone, William turned his attention to Damon, who was standing in front of a display case and fingering the premier example of his netsuke collection. The jade figurine was small, intricately carved, and centuries old. For generations it had belonged to the same family, passed down from father to son. William had once tried to purchase it, but the then-current owner had laughed at his offer. You’ll have to pry it from my cold dead hands, he’d said in a parody of a bad movie.

  As you wish, William had replied, and shot him in the center of the forehead.

  Truthfully, he’d intended to kill the man anyway—it was the only way to take over his Asian supply lines—but the story sounded so much better without that little detail.

  Removing the figurine from Damon’s hand, he returned it to its place in the cabinet and closed the glass door. “You don’t have to understand anything but what I tell you.”

  “You tell her to spend time with Ceola, then when she tries, you stop her. Why?”

  William smiled. “Because I can.” He allowed the reply to achieve its full impact, then relented and explained. “The invitation this morning was to visit his parents. Despite everything, Selena still maintains this damnable sentimentality when it comes to family. If she sees Detective Ceola as the good son, the adored brother, the favorite uncle, she’ll begin to question the need to eliminate him. Better that she think of him only as a neighbor, a police officer, a man alone.”

  “A lover,” Damon said dryly, turning the last word into a mockery.

  William fingered a cigar without lighting it. One of Damon’s flunkies had been watching Princeton Court the night before—most nights, in fact, since Selena’s arrival— and had reported that she’d spent the night with Detective Ceola. “The words Selena and love, or any variation thereof, don’t belong in the same sentence. She’s merely doing what I instructed her to do.”

  “If you’re so sure of that, why did you send me to see her the other night?” Damon emphasized the question with a glance at his hand, still bruised and swollen from her bite.

  There was the problem: No matter how much he wanted to trust Selena, he could never be totally sure of her. He’d spent fourteen years shaping her already-damaged psyche to his needs. Even longer than that, he’d watched her and plotted how he would approach her, how he would control her, and for a time he had succeeded beautifully. He’d been able to predict her response to any situation with near-perfect accuracy . . . until it was time for her to repay his efforts by coming to work for him. She thought she had the right to turn him down. She thought she owed him nothing but love.

  She owed him far more than she knew. He had literally given her life, and such a debt couldn’t be repaid with simple affection. But it could be repaid by Ceola’s death at her hand, for then William would have the leverage he needed to own her, heart and soul. She would never refuse him anything again.

  A simple plan with two major drawbacks. First, Ceola had to die. He hadn’t yet put together everything he knew, but he would, and then it would be too late. Second, Selena had to kill him. When William had brought her to Tulsa, he’d been as sure as he ever could be that she would do exactly what he told her. Each conversation with her, though, raised little alarms. He knew too well that small problems, left unchecked, could grow into big ones, and Selena on anyone’s side but his own could be a big one indeed.

  But he had no intention of confiding his doubts to Damon. His assistant already nurtured a jealousy of Selena and wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of any weakness. If she showed herself untrustworthy . . . that would be soon enough to let Damon deal with her.

  “Your visit to her house was merely a reminder who was in control,” he said in response to Damon’s question. “Even you require chastisements from time to time, and you’ve been playing this game far longer than she has. Don’t worry. Selena will prove herself.”

  One way or the other. Depending on which way she chose, she would fulfill her obligations to him . . . or she would die. It would be a terrible waste, one he would regret deeply, but it would be for the greater good.

  His good. In the end, that was all that mattered.

  Tony had showered, dressed, fed the dog and the cats, emptied the litter box, and had a cup of instant coffee by the time eight-thirty rolled around. He stood at the kitchen island, watching the clock, giving Selena a few minutes longer— eight-thirty-two, eight-thirty-four, eight-thirty-six—before finally grabbing his keys and heading for the front door. Just as he twisted the knob, the bell rang.

  Part of her hair was pulled back and secured with a big wooden hair clamp, leaving the rest curling down her back. She wore pants that ended halfway between her ankles and knees, and her blouse was sleeveless with a little stand-up collar. She looked incredible, and unsure as hell.

  “I was just on my way to coax you out of the house.”

  Hands clasped around the narrow strap of her purse, she smiled hesitantly. “No coaxing needed.”

  He was pretty sure that wasn’t true. She’d probably used the entire time she’d been gone to give herself a big enough pep talk to make it this far. While part of her wanted to go with him, another part really wasn’t up to being disappointed. To make certain that didn’t happen, he’d called his mom to give her a heads-up, but the line had been busy. His folks were the only people he knew who didn’t have Call Waiting. His mother refused to put one call on hold simply to answer another. If the second caller had something important to say, he would call back.

  Unfortunately, he was going to walk into her house with his something important, and she was going to have to deal with it without notice.

  He grabbed the ball cap and sunglasses he’d left on the hall table, then locked up before walking with Selena to the car, staying a few steps behind so he could covertly admire the way she moved.

  “If you keep looking at me that way . . .” Her words trailed off in a sensual promise, magnified when she looked over her shoulder and gave him a knowing smile.

  “I’d be happy to do something about it when we get back,” he replied. “Actually . . .” He backed her against the passenger door, moving forward until their bodies touched and he could smell all the scents of her—the exotic flower-tinged perfume, a hint of cocoa butter that reminded him of hot summer days at the lake, something he could define only as tropical in her hair. “I’d be really happy to do something now”—he brushed his mouth across hers—“but Mom’s a real stickler for doing what you say you’ll do . . . and you don’t want to miss her linguine . . . and there’s a tree growing in her gutters. . . .”

  Selena laughed—not exactly the reaction he’d been looking for, but gratifying just the same—and gave him a quick smack on the lips. “Come on. I want to see this gutter-growing tree.”

  They made fair time on the drive across town. Tony parked in the driveway behind his mother’s car, got out, and headed toward the side of the house. Realizing belatedly that Selena had, naturally, started toward the front door, he backtracked, caught her arm, and pulled her with him. “They’ll be out back having coffee.” Holding her hand, he led her through the gate into the backyard, where stepping stones gave way to a brick path, and around the back corner of the house.

  Nick’s twin daughters were the first to spot them. Five years old and identical right down to the space between their lower front teeth, they left their toys in the grass and launched themselves at Tony, forcing him to let go of Selena to catch them. “Uncle Tony, Uncle Tony!” they clamored. “Nonna says we can help you cut the grass!”

  “Gee, thanks, Nonna,” h
e replied, giving his mother a wry look.

  Sitting at the patio table in the shade, Anna shrugged as if to say Better you than me. “The only other choice was to let them help me weed the flower beds, and you know what happened the last time I got help with that.”

  Yeah, without telling her, they’d “weeded” a hundred dollars’ worth of flowers she’d just planted. It took a lot to get her irate with her grandkids, but they’d succeeded that day.

  Still lugging the kids, he stopped between his parents’ chairs. “Hey, Dad.”

  For a moment, Joe remained motionless, gazing out across the yard, then abruptly he looked up, eyes wide. “Oh, sorry, I was just thinking about work. You must be—” As he got to his feet, confusion crossed his face, then he grinned and shrugged. “Anna told me we were having company this morning, but I have to admit, I wasn’t paying much attention. I’m Joe Ceola.”

  Tony looked at the hand he offered before reluctantly taking it. “I’m Tony.”

  “You’re new to the neighborhood, aren’t you? Anna and I just moved in a few months ago. You’ve got cute kids. Anna and I are planning to have at least six.” Joe grinned again and said in a conspiratorial tone, “She wants three, and I want nine, so I figure we’ll split the difference. Are these your only two?”

  “Uh, yeah,” Tony said with a glance at his mother. She was deliberately not watching.

  “Grandpa’s wanderin’ again,” the twin on Tony’s left said. “He thinks I’m a boy.”

  “That’s ’cause you look like a boy,” her sister pointed out.

  “Do not. If I look like a boy, then you do, too, ’cause you look just like me.”

  “Huh—”

  “Hey,” Tony interrupted, setting them both down. “Go play.”

  Obediently they ran back to the toys they’d left in the yard, and he turned to introduce Selena. She was hanging back, and came forward only when he held out his hand. “Mom, Dad, this is Selena McCaffrey. Selena, my parents, Anna and Joe, and those are my nieces, Kara and Sara.”

  Anna swung her gaze around, and her eyes widened with surprise. She covered it fairly well, he thought, but he had no doubt Selena had seen it.

  Anna set her coffee down, stood, and wiped her hands on her pants before taking the few steps necessary to offer her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Selena. Tony’s told us virtually nothing about you. I’m looking forward to getting acquainted.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Ceola, Mr. Ceola.”

  Anna pulled out the third chair at the table. “Have a seat and I’ll get you some breakfast. Do you prefer coffee or juice? Oh, never mind, I’ll just bring both. Make yourself comfortable and I’ll be right back. Tony, will you help me, please?”

  The look Selena gave him as she reluctantly moved to the chair wasn’t desperate enough to be labeled “panic,” but it was close. He gave her a reassuring smile, then followed Anna into the kitchen. His mother had taken a tray from the pantry and was piling it with sticky buns, still warm from the oven, a bowl of fruit salad, and dishes. She didn’t speak until she began taking coffee cups and juice glasses from the cabinet. “She’s a lovely girl.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “But she’s . . .”

  He waited, but when she didn’t go on, he agreed. “Yes, she is.”

  “You know I’m not prejudiced, Tony. I believe everyone should be judged on who they are and nothing else— except maybe your father’s hateful old grandmother. Who she was, was a bigot, pure and simple. But I’m not.”

  He took a carton of orange juice from the refrigerator while she poured coffee into a thermal carafe. After snitching a chunk of cantaloupe from the salad bowl, he ate it, then licked the juice from his fingers. “You always told us the color of a person’s skin doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes, I did, and I meant it.” Finally she looked at him. “But I was talking about friends, not girlfriends. Not potential wives. I don’t want any half-black grandbabies, Tony.”

  “Just like Nonna Ceola didn’t want any southern Italian blood flowing through her great-grandbabies. But when she got that, she loved them anyway.” Not that he and Selena were anywhere near thinking about kids. Hell, she wasn’t even thinking about staying in Tulsa.

  “I’m sure she’s a nice girl, but—”

  “She’s a very nice woman. She’s smart and serious and talented and generous. If you quit worrying about her race and went out there and talked to her, you would probably like her a lot.”

  Anna stopped working to gaze out the window at Selena, sitting primly at the little table, listening to Joe talk. Her legs were crossed, her hands folded in her lap. She looked comfortable, but Tony could see the occasional twitch of a muscle in her jaw, the tightening, then easing, of her fingers against one another, and the unnaturally straight way she held herself.

  He wasn’t sure when his mother had shifted her gaze from Selena to him—long enough to see things he should probably be keeping to himself. “ You like her a lot.”

  “Yes, I do.” More than was smart under the circumstances.

  “Hmm” was all she said. It could mean anything from Then I’ll like her, too to I’ll pray to the Virgin for that to change. “Bring the drinks, would you? If you’re going to get the yard done before lunch, you need to get started.”

  He held the door for her, then went back to get the juice and coffee. Outside he set them on a nearby redwood table, topped off his parents’ coffee and poured juice for Selena and himself, then pulled up a chair in front of the plate his mother had loaded for him.

  They ate in silence for a time, broken only by the twins’ chatter twenty feet away, until Joe set his coffee down, focused his gaze on Selena, and asked, “Are these your only children?”

  “Yes, they are,” she lied easily.

  Joe looked from Kara and Sara to her, then to Tony. “They take after your husband. Not that that’s a bad thing for the boy, but it’s a shame the girl doesn’t look like you. You’re very pretty, you know.”

  She smiled graciously. “Thank you.”

  “You’re new to the neighborhood, aren’t you?” he asked again. “Anna and I just moved in recently ourselves, and we’re never gonna move again, are we? We’re gonna grow old and die right here. This is home.”

  Anna made a choked sound before mumbling some excuse and rushing into the house. Tony stared at what was left of the roll on his plate, his fingers clenching the fork as if it were fused to his palm. He should stay there and watch his father, or go inside and check on his mother, but he couldn’t let go of the fork, couldn’t give his brain the command to come up with something rational to say—as if Joe would know the difference.

  Then he felt a warm touch on his arm. He shook his head to clear the buzzing, as Selena stood up. “Why don’t you two chat? I’ll see if Anna needs any help inside.”

  Checking on Anna was his responsibility, but like a coward, he was more than happy to leave it to her. He would be happiest if he could just walk away and leave everything to someone else—if he could live in some fantasy world, like Joe, where everything was the way it should be, where his father was healthy and normal, where his mother’s life was going exactly the way it was supposed to.

  The door had just closed behind Selena when his father broke the silence. “So . . . Anna tells me you’re new to the neighborhood. You and your wife will like it here. We sure do. Do you have any kids?”

  The house was relatively quiet and smelled of citrus and polish and something fabulously aromatic cooking in the kitchen. Selena hesitated, wondering what had possessed her to come inside. Anna Ceola was obviously upset, and with very good reason. What did Selena know about calming distraught mothers? She wasn’t even supposed to be there. If William found out . . .

  When William found out, he would be furious. And she couldn’t care less.

  A faint sniffle came from the far end of the house, drawing her down a long hallway lined with family photographs. She wished for time to stud
y each one, to locate Tony in them, but that was easier said than done. Each Ceola brother looked like the others, particularly in their younger days. The only one she could be sure was him was a photograph in which he stood with his father, both in their police-department uniforms. They were flanked by two more Ceolas also in uniform—his uncles, she assumed. Tony looked so young, no more than twenty-two, and Joe looked so vital.

  “That was when he graduated from the academy.” Still sniffling, Anna appeared in the next doorway, a stack of neatly folded towels in her arms. “Joe was so proud of him. He never pressured any of the boys to become cops, but he was thrilled that Tony chose to.”

  “Were you thrilled?”

  “I would have been happier if he’d gotten a job bagging groceries at Albertson’s. It can be bad enough having a husband on the job. You don’t want your child doing it, too.”

  Together they looked at the photograph, as if looking negated the need for conversation, but finally Selena took a step back. “I . . . I’m sorry about your husband.”

  Anna smoothed a work-roughened hand over the top towel and exhaled heavily. “He always said that about the house—this is home, we’re never going to move again, we’re going to grow old and die here. Now there are days when he doesn’t know where he is. He can’t go out by himself anymore because he forgets which house is ours.” Her voice grew tighter, thick with tears. “Our five-year-old grandchildren have to watch him the way they watch their little brother, and tattle on him when he does something he’s not supposed to. I hate this. I hate it!”

  “I’m sorry.” Such inadequate words, but they were the best Selena could offer.

  “We all are.” Then, in an obvious effort to lighten the mood, Anna asked, “How did you and Tony meet?”

  “We’re neighbors.”

  “And you’ve been dating . . .?”

  Did two dinners and some incredible sex constitute dating? Selena wondered. Probably not to a mother. “We’ve been out a few times,” she hedged.