3 Chapter 3

David was a killer.

A ruthless, cold-blooded killer. When he worked, he completed his job with no emotion, dispatching his victims with ice in his veins before moving on to the next assignment. He did not kill with passion or because he particularly enjoyed the act. He did not kill for the adrenaline rush, as some assassins did. He killed for work, for life and for money. He killed because he was trained to kill. He killed because emotion was stolen from him at a young age when he was given a gun and pointed to a target.

Yet now, everything in him was boiling with rage as he watched a young man put hands all over his Natasha. He wanted nothing more than to break every limb in the male dancer's body and then tear him to pieces. To watch him bleed until the life was extinguished from his pathetic existence. There would be nothing icy about David's vengeance. He knew he would enjoy this kill if he allowed himself to touch the male dancer. No man could be allowed to touch his Natasha again.

David hadn't thought of this possibility when he'd allowed her to leave him the evening before. If he had realized, he would not have let her return to the Bolshoi. His intent in letting her go back to the only home she knew had been twofold. He needed to put his affairs in order so that he had time to acquire a wife. Men of his profession did not simply drag women around the world without careful consideration. Secondly, he wanted her at least a little bit willing when the time to take her finally approached.

Her reaction to the two wines had been somewhat prophetic. To simply reach out and pluck her, as he longed to do, steal her innocence, would be easy but damaging to her. She would fight and cry. Like the red wine, she would bleed. But if he used patience, and as much gentleness as a man like him was capable of, then he might perhaps have more of the breathtaking smiles that she had bestowed after she'd tried the sweeter wine. He would have her regardless, but there was no harm in taking his time.

Or so he thought before he decided to come see her dance again and found her in the arms of a would-be lover, playing out La Bayadere, The Temple Dancer. Her natural effervescence took on an impossibly sensual twist as she dipped and wove, leapt and shimmered across the stage in a skimpy slave girl outfit. He knew the story. The Rajah's daughter was forced to dance for her betrothed, though she didn't love him.

If David didn't have years of experience honing his instincts he would have stormed the stage and forced Natasha into the shadows, away from all of the eyes, glued to her every sensual movement as she twisted and turned before leaping into the arms of the male dancer. Never before had David felt such furious jealousy and possession over a woman. Over anything. He'd been trained from the cradle to maim and murder.

He did not care what these feelings were. This woman would become his prize for his years of service. He had taken side jobs until he'd been able to buy out his commission seven years ago. Now he could do what he wanted with his freedom. Take the things he wanted. Natasha belonged to him. One day she would have to go. Angels did not survive in this world. But he would make it peaceful. And like an angel, she would sleep with them. He would make sure if it.

He turned and left, unable to bear another moment of watching another man's hands gliding over her sleek curves, of watching her show those rare glimpses of passion and rage to the world. This would never happen again.