Free Heart Shot by Elizabeth Lapthorne Page A

but from his mention of her soul. Never had she felt unworthy of someone else. Emily steeled her spine. She drew on her underwear as she heard water run in a sink from where she assumed the bathroom was down the hall. Fin returned in a pair of loose boxers, looking serious but not particularly upset.
    Emily shrugged her arms into her shirt and started buttoning it up.
    She’d never been a coward before, she refused to start now. When the shirt was buttoned to just below her breasts, she turned around, tilted her head defiantly and prepared herself for the look of rage, disgust and revulsion Fin would no doubt wear when she told him.
    “I doubt anyone would consider me a good guy, no,” she started. “I shoot people. I’m an assassin.”
    Emily forced her arms to stop quivering, refusing to show the least weakness in front of her lover. He stared at her, his gaze steady and serious.
    “Not randomly, I hope,” he added with what she thought might be a faint edge of mockery in his tone. She made an exasperated sound.
    “Of course not. James calls me and gives me the details of the target—he’s in some branch of the government, though I’ve never known which covert area he’s in precisely. I recon the situation, look into the target—”
    “Ah,” Fin interrupted. He looked satisfied, almost smug. As if he hadn’t a care in the world, he flopped down onto one of the large armchairs and watched her intently.
    Although she’d never had this exact conversation before, she felt lost. It wasn’t how she’d envisaged it. Rage, hysterics, shouted vilification she’d been prepared for. But ‘Ah’ and sitting back into a comfy chair hadn’t figured into her expectations for when this conversation finally occurred.
    “What the hell does that mean?” she demanded, feeling decidedly off kilter.
    “You did mention earlier that you were there to do research,” he said kindly. Emily was still perplexed. “But I interrupted you, my apologies. Go on.”
    She floundered.
    When the fuck had she lost control over her life like this?
    “I…well. You did hear me, right? I’m a murderer.”
    “You mean did I understand that you’ve got remarkable shooting skills and no inclination to use them carelessly. You’re likely contracted as a deniable operative. So when a branch of our government decides someone needs taking out and it presumably can’t be done through legitimate means that person contacts you. They give you the name and after careful and—knowing you, sweetheart—thorough research, you decide whether the intelligence is correct. If you’re satisfied I presume you speedily, accurately and cleanly dispatch them. Yes, I think I understand.”
    “I… You… But…” She didn’t even know where to start with his blasé attitude and seeming unconcern with what he’d discovered. Was he crazy?
    “Oh, am I wrong? Have you ever murdered an innocent person?”
    “What? No! Never.”
    Fin grinned at her, the vehemence of her response clear to even the meanest of minds. Emily slowly sat down on the edge of the couch’s cushioned seat. She peered at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
    “You really don’t mind I kill people?”
    “Well it wouldn’t have been my first preference of careers for a lover of mine, no,” he admitted with a cheeky grin. “I’m sure it will make it difficult to introduce you in polite society. But I certainly know the need for people with your skills. There are some truly evil people out there. Do you really think I’ve never killed a soul myself?”
    Her eyes widened. She hadn’t thought of that possibility.
    “You don’t feel stained by it?” She blanched. The question had popped out before she could censor it. It ripped right into the heart of why she’d been so tempted to leave, to find anything else to pay the bills.
    He seemed to take her question quite seriously, clearly thinking over his answer before he spoke.
    “It takes something from you, yes,” he