voice. “You are not a retributionist. It’s what you do. It’s not who you are. And until you realize that, we can’t have a relationship.” He raised both palms up in acquiescence. “That’s not quite true. We already have a relationship. But we can’t have sex.”
I blinked slowly. “You’re kidding?”
“No.”
“That’s just great.” I stood abruptly. “You’re a sadist, you know that?”
“Don’t slam the door on the way out, Angel,” he said matter-of-factly.
I shook my head in disbelief and left. When I reached the sidewalk, I turned back and slammed the door with every bit of flare and might I could muster. Feeling perversely satisfied, I whirled and stepped right into the methop junkie. His grimy, open palms fit snugly around my breasts. He grinned and guffawed in triumph, nearly bowling me over with his rancid breath.
“Like I thought,” he said, chuckling, “these melons are just ripe enough to eat.”
“How ironic.” With lightning speed and force, I jammed my hand down between his legs and gripped hard. While his eyes popped and his throat pumped with unspeakable pain, I added, “The melons might be perfect, but these grapes are way too shriveled for me.”
I couldn’t sleep that night. I tried to relax by watching an old black-and-white flick. I loved the early twentieth century Hollywood classics. Still, I tossed and turned. I told myself a hundred times to forget about Marco, but he was the kind of guy who made you think. Damn him. Was he right about my responsibilities to Lin? I swore I’d be there for her. She was seven years old. Old enough to know whether I held up my end of the adoption bargain or not.
When my mother went to prison—when I was seven, ironically—I’d certainly felt abandoned. While I had no plans to go to prison, I never considered that getting killed on the job would be, in effect, abandonment of my motherly duties. Was I willing to give up a dangerous career for a child? When I’d told the social worker a month ago that I wanted to adopt Lin, I hadn’t thought through all the ramifications. Love was more than a feeling when it came to parenthood.
I’d never before considered myself motherhood material. But my outlook changed a month ago when I stumbled onto a plot to sell a dozen Chinese orphans, including Lin, on the black market.
The Mongolian Mob had literally been breeding girls outside Barrington, a northwestern suburb, in a downscaled replica of the Imperial Palace in the Forbidden City. Comfortably imprisoned, Lin grew up thinking she was in China. She had been lovingly cared for by an older sister, but her only kin had been slain when it was time for Lin and the other seven-year-olds to be sold at market.
Pure-blooded Chinese girls were highly prized here and abroad. They were scarce because of China’s twentieth-century one-child birth control policy. Back then, parents favored boys, so females were often aborted or sent abroad for adoption. That led to a shortage of Chinese brides, and many of the men had been forced to marry immigrants.
Lin and her friends would have netted the Mongolian Mob millions of dollars if I hadn’t rescued them. The other girls were put up for adoption, but I had kept Lin as a foster child. We bonded quickly, even though I practically had to fight for time alone with her. My mother, who now lived in my downstairs flat, and my Chinese martial arts instructor, who lived in my garden carriage house, occupied most of Lin’s time. They doted on her and babysat when I was away.
Still, Lin knew I was her savior. I was her new mother. When I realized I couldn’t let her go, I set the wheels of adoption in motion. But now that decision was forcing me to consider radical changes in my lifestyle. Could I give up my career for Lin?
The prospect of working behind a desk just to be safe made me go numb inside. But perhaps there was something else I could do with my skills. Maybe I could be a case worker for social services and make sure foster children weren’t abused. Having been an abused foster child myself, I would certainly know what signs to look for.
The possibilities churned in my mind. Finally, realizing I wasn’t going to be able to sleep, I called Marco. I used my lapel phone because I didn’t want to wake up Lin using the omnisystem. I popped the receiver in my ear.
“Riccuccio Marco,” I said softly, and his number began to ring. With a tightening in my gut, I waited for him to answer, entwined wrists resting on my frowning forehead.
“Yeah?” Marco answered in a groggy voice after five rings.
“Okay,” I said, barely able to get the word past my heart, which pounded in my throat.
“Angel?”
“Yes.”
“Okay what?”
“Okay,” I repeated impatiently. “I’ll do it.”
There was a long pause. He said, more alert, warmly, “Okay.”
“But only as an experiment.”
“How will I know you aren’t going to go out behind my back?”
“I’ll put away my Glock,” I magnanimously offered. “I never leave home without it, at least not when I’m on a job. I rarely use it and have never killed anyone, but it’s like insurance. You know that if you don’t have it, you’ll need it. No Glock, no retribution jobs.”
“Can you resist the urge to retrieve it in a pinch?”
“I’ll put it in my bank safety deposit box. You can be my witness. In fact, I insist. I want to make sure I get full credit for this charade. I’ll take a vacation for one week, but I want something concrete in return.”
“What?”
“If I go seven days without taking on a retribution job, you have to have sex with me.”
“Ah, such a price to pay,” he said, teasing.
“I mean it. I have to have some motivation here.”
He let out a sexy chuckle. “Okay. It’s a deal. You really want to do this?”
“Sure,” I said lightly. “It’ll be a cinch.”
Boy, was I ever wrong.
Chapter 2
Mirandized
Six days, twenty-two hours and twenty-three minutes into my agreement with Marco, my lapel phone rang. Waking from a deep sleep, I slammed my hand on the bedside table, feeling for the noise. At the same time I managed to blink open one eye and saw 3:12 a.m. reflected on the ceiling.
“Who on earth…?” I muttered as I grabbed the tiny round phone. Plugging the receiver in my ear, I groused, “What?”
“Angel?” came a gruff and vaguely familiar voice.
“Who is this?”
“Roy.”
I went instantly alert. Roy Leibman was one of Chicago’s best retributionists. I couldn’t imagine why he was calling me at this hour. I propped myself up on one elbow.
