Spirit Bound - Christine Feehan [7]
As soon as Gavriil was out of danger, Stefan followed the money trail, found not only Elena’s guilt, but the tie back to Jean-Claude La Roux. Elena died after providing the name of her lover. Her lover had given up the rest of the hit squad before he had died. One by one Stefan had hunted every participant who had destroyed his brother’s career and put his life in jeopardy, killing them all except for the one in the French prison. That last detail had been attended to earlier in the evening.
Stefan lay down on his cot, ignoring Jean-Claude’s puzzled look. The man wanted more information and was probably regretting that he’d set the tone for their rocky relationship. There was immense satisfaction in knowing Jean-Claude was going to regret a lot of things—ending Gavriil’s career not the least of those regrets.
FOUR days later, Stefan took his time in the hot shower, grateful for a decent room, clean bathroom and comfortable bed. He wrapped a towel around his hips and stepped out onto the cool tiles. Setting his gun down on the sink, he dried his hair, staring at the fogged image in the mirror. John Bastille was no more, and Stefan Prakenskii was back. He wasn’t any better looking than Bastille had been, even cleaned up. His body was in shape, every muscle loose and ready, his waist tapered, hips narrow and his core strength absolutely solid. He was like a machine, trained for any possibility. He knew a thousand ways to kill someone. He could seduce any woman out of her clothes, her sensibilities and her secrets—and had done so more times than he could count. He could hit a target a mile away in a high wind without a problem. He could deliver a needle as he brushed past his target without them feeling anything more than an annoying insect bite. He had no idea how to be anything else.
Picking up his gun, he went into the small room, his home for the night. He had the door primed—he wasn’t a trusting man and never would be. The windows looked out over the river, his last resort should he be attacked and there was no other way out. He had set an escape route over the roof and one through the hotel as well. He had four exit strategies and his room was an arsenal. Still, he never felt safe.
There was a restless feeling in him that hadn’t been there before. Maybe it was time to get out. He’d lost too much humanity. His senses were going numb, or maybe they had been gone all along and he hadn’t noticed—or cared.
In spite of his determination not to look, he found himself standing in front of the dresser where the photograph he’d lifted from the wall, his favorite of Judith on the beach, lay right where he’d put it. He’d tossed it there, trying to tell himself he would turn it over to his handler in order to better help with finding her identity. A little mistake like that could blow everything. Blow the entire two months of living in a dirty cell with a monster. What was he thinking? He didn’t make mistakes.
He picked up the photograph and stared down at that pensive face. His thumb slid over the band of soft skin revealed between her jeans and tee, as he had done in the cell. What was it about her that got to him? She was a mistake, and yet, knowing it, he’d taken the photograph anyway. It wasn’t her striking looks—and he did think she was beautiful; he was inexplicably drawn to something inside her that had shone through in this picture.
He forced himself to toss the photograph back onto the dresser. He would never see her, never know what happened to her, but if he was making mistakes, regretting who he was, then it was time to employ his exit strategy. Every man