Damian's Assassin

"There's no life in here."

She felt his cold gaze and didn't face him, cringing instead. He hadn't hurt her like Talon, but she had the feeling she wasn't at all welcome. Even in the kitchen, the fruits and vegetables that gave a splash of color to her kitchen were hidden away. She opened one cabinet, not surprised to see white bone china. And no dust, even in the cabinet. She'd go crazy in such a place!

Pushing the cabinet closed, she jumped to find the stranger so close. He'd changed into a sweater and dark jeans and gazed down at her, disapproval in his hard features.

"Don't touch my shit," he said firmly. He was too close again. His hand grazed her as he reached around her for a set of keys she hadn't noticed on the counter. Another warm buzz traveled through her, scattering her thoughts at his nearness and scent. "C'mon."

She sprang forward, anxious to see her brother. He stopped at the door and faced her.

"Rule number one," he reminded her.

She nodded, willing to agree to anything if it meant she could see Jonny. He led her through the apartment building to an underground garage and to a sleek, black sports car with black interior.

He said nothing as they exited and drove north, towards the highway. She took in the clean car and shook her head, wondering how many hours a week he spent cleaning everything he owned to keep it all so spotless.

"Can I ask you something?" she ventured, gazing at his handsome profile.

"Depends on what it is."

"How about your name?"

"Dusty."

She stared at him. "You don't think it's ironic?" she asked. "You don't have a spot of dust anywhere in your house or car and your name's Dusty." He said nothing, void of emotion. She cursed herself quietly for saying stupid things.

"Name," Dusty said.

"Bianca Rodriguez."

"Brother's name."

"Jonathan, Jonny for short."

"Address."

"I'm staying with Jonny here in Miami at Dad's … Jonny's apartment. Our dad died last year, and I moved-- "

"Age."

"I'm twenty-five, he just turned twenty."

"Marital status."

"I was engaged for a while, but that … well, single, both of us," she said with a frown.

"Birthdays."

"Eighteen November for me and five March for him."

"How'd your dad die?" he asked.

"Heart attack."

"What do you do for a living?"

"I'm an aspiring chef. I've been studying culinary arts for a few years and recently decided to branch out on my own."

"You're unemployed."

"I guess," she murmured. She was worried and tired already, and his latest jab didn't buoy her spirits at all. He seemed done with his interrogation of her, and she looked at him. "Do you like living in Miami?"