Free Assassins in Love by Kris DeLake

only existed on lower-class fares. Upper-class fares, like Misha’s, forced the purchaser to pay for everything, including meals, even if the passenger disembarked early.
    She had checked on those regulations before she followed Testrial on the ship. She hadn’t mentioned that little piece of information to Misha in their fight that morning because she didn’t want to tip her hand about when she might be leaving the ship.
    But that nice little clause in the cruise line’s fare regulations made it even harder for the ship to prove that Testrial didn’t just disembark at some earlier port. Eventually they would find out that his identi-chip—the one she had disabled after she killed him—hadn’t been found leaving the ship, but it would be an eventual discovery, not a quick up-front one.
    “C’mon, honey,” that pugnacious bulldog said to her, extending his fat hand. He was dressed well. He clearly had money. Although dancing with him might have been uncomfortable, given that he only came up to her shoulder.
    Still, if she hadn’t spent the night with Misha, she would have taken this guy up on his offer. He would have been one of her alibis. But she needed him out of the way, in case Misha showed up.
    If Misha showed up.
    “Thank you,” she said, “but I’m not in the mood to dance.”
    “C’mon,” he said, grabbing at her wrist, “just one.”
    She moved her hand slightly so that he didn’t catch her wrist. Instead, he caught her fingers. She gripped his thumb and pushed it backwards enough to hurt him, but not enough to send him to his knees.
    “I’m really not a woman you want to mess with,” she said.
    His eyes widened. His face had grown pale.
    “Yes, right, okay,” he said. “Just let go, all right?”
    She did.
    He rubbed his hand, kneading the area near his thumb particularly hard. “You could’ve just said no, you know,” he said.
    “I did,” she snapped. “You didn’t listen.”
    He nodded and scurried away—if a bulldog could scurry. He looked a bit like a tottering tree stump.
    She watched him go. She might have felt sorry for him, if he hadn’t been the second man in twenty-four hours who didn’t listen to her.
    In fact, that was the hallmark of this entire trip, because Testrial had laughed when she started her litany of his crimes. He hadn’t gotten serious until he saw how serious she was, and how much she had changed.
    She was so intent on watching the bulldog that she almost missed the announcement.
    The androgynous voice with the formal tone and upper-class accent said, in its snotty little way, “Rafael de Brovnik.”
    She turned toward the main doors, and there he was. Her breath caught. She had forgotten in just a few hours how absolutely gorgeous he was.
    A diffuse light had fallen on him for just a moment. That was how the entrances of the rich and famous worked in this ballroom—they had everyone’s attention, if everyone wanted to give it to them.
    Misha looked a bit uncomfortable, like he didn’t want to be here. He was wearing a long black coat, a brocade vest, and snug black trousers. The brocade brought out his blond hair and highlighted his boots, which were threaded with what looked like real amber.
    The light found amber all over him—cuff links, ear posts, buttons. Amber made him look expensive and softened him a bit.
    Or maybe the room softened him a bit.
    For the first time ever, he seemed out of his element.
    He looked around as if he was searching for her. She slipped behind the staircase. She could still see him, but knew that the shadows here protected her from him.
    She wanted to observe him for a few minutes, just to get her breath back.
    God, he was beautiful.
    God, she wanted him.
    Her entire body remembered exactly how his felt. She could almost imagine his hands on her right now, touching her—
    She didn’t quite shake her head this time, but close. She hated the effect he had on her. Or rather, she wanted to hate it.
    She was mad at him,