Page 4 of Fastest Kill

There was the sound of the desk sergeant trying to maintain professional composure, only to fail, followed by Dario's laugh. A full, easy, genuine sound that she had memorized against her will.

Dario made a joke she couldn't quite make out, followed by bad attempts at speaking Greek, and cheerful flirting with the kind of shameless confidence that only an Italian man could manage.

The door to her cell opened with a high-pitched buzz. The overhead strip light caught the red silk like a flag to a pissed-off bull, and there he was. Two hundred and fifty pounds of solid, tattooed muscle packed into a shirt that belonged in a nightclub, not a police station. Long dark curls mussed from travel and an insufferable grin that said he was enjoying her predicament. He held a pair of boots by their laces.

"Buonasera, Spartana." His eyes swept over her, taking in the stained shirt, the tangled braid, the bare feet, because she had thrown one of her boots at the man who grabbed her, and the police had confiscated the other as evidence. His grin widened. "You're looking well, baby."

Frederica stared at him from the bench, every fiber of her being vibrating between the urge to kill him and the terrifying, undeniable relief that flooded through her chest at the sight of him standing there.

"Took you long enough, arkoúdos," she said, and her voice came out steadier than she had expected. "Did you stop for sightseeing, or are you naturally this slow?"

Dario leaned against the cell door frame, arms crossed. "It was only a ninety-minute flight. You're lucky I was in Istanbul, and I like a rescue mission. You want to tell me why you're in a jail cell in Crete instead of at your parents' place in Rhodes?"

"No."

"Didn't think so." He straightened and held out a hand. "Come on, let's get you out of here before your mother finds out and kills us both."

Frederica looked at his big, outstretched hand, and with a tired sigh, she took it. His fingers closed around hers, warm and unyielding, and he pulled her to her feet with effortless ease, reminding her exactly how strong he was.

For half a second, she was close enough to smell him—whiskey and smoke and something warm underneath, like cedar—and her grip tightened before she could stop herself.

Frederica let go and stepped back. "I need my boots."

"Here," he said and passed them to her. "Sergeant Papadakis is a reasonable man once you stop calling him names. Apparently, because of your excellent aim, the guy you threw this boot at needed three stitches."

A flicker of satisfaction cut through Frederica's hangover. "He deserved more."

Something shifted in Dario's expression. The grin remained, but underneath it, his eyes went dark and focused in a way she had only seen when he was working. "Yeah, he probably did."

The moment lasted a beat too long. Frederica broke it by snatching the boots from his hand and shoving her feet into them.

"So," Dario said, the lightness sliding back into place like a mask. "Care to explain when exactly I owed you a favor?"

"Rome," she said without looking up. "I could have put that bullet in you instead of your client. That's a favor."

Dario's laugh echoed through the holding cell, startling the snoring tourist awake. The man blinked at them, confused, and passed out again.

"Fair enough," Dario conceded. "Let's go. I have the Colleoni plane waiting, and you owe me a story."

Frederica pulled a face. "I don't owe you anything."

"You owe me a fucking story, Spartana. A good one. I want to know how the deadliest woman in the Mediterranean ended up drunk and bootless in a Cretan jail cell on a Tuesday night."

Frederica straightened, both boots now on, and met his eyes. The fluorescent light was still flickering overhead. She had lost count.

"It's Wednesday," she corrected.

"Even worse." He held the door open for her with a theatrical sweep of his arm. "After you."

She walked through it, and if some part of her felt lighter than it had in weeks, she refused to acknowledge it.

3

There were worse places to be than on the Colleoni jet when you had a hangover.

Dario had always liked the plane. Leather seats, a good bar, tinted windows that made the Aegean look like spilled ink below. It was one of the few Colleoni assets that Gabriella had actually allowed to feel comfortable, probably because she understood that people were more pliable when their legs weren't cramped.

Frederica was lazing in the reclined seat beside him, her boots off, looking like she was seriously reconsidering every decision she had ever made. She had been silent since takeoff, which was twenty minutes ago and approximately nineteen minutes longer than Dario expected her to last.