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clarity.
    I love him.
    But love had a price. She now knew why she’d turned him, making him fully her mate. And also why she wasn’t admitting to it. Not yet, anyway.
    “This is one spectacular dream. I really do have to admit that.” He smiled, revealing perfect white teeth containing little spiked canines.
    “Stuart…”
    “You don’t have to kill him, you know,” he informed her.
    “Who?”
    He gave her another smile involving little lines about his eyes. The man had a spectacular smile, too. Even with the fangs.
    “Cunningham. You don’t.”
    “It’s my job and it pays well.”
    He broke eye contact to look about and then whistled. “You don’t look to need money.”
    “Exactly.”
    “What if I told you I had a trust fund approaching 40 million. Gaining interest as we speak. Would that be enough?”
    Sasha pressed a key on the remote. Large numbers filled the screen from her bank accounts. She touched another key and her recent deposit flashed across the bottom.
    “And these are…?”
    “My account balances. In eighteen different countries.
    “And the two million dollars? That’s the fee for this assignment?”
    “Actually, it’s in Euros,” she informed him.
    He whistled again. “Is that the going rate?”
    She shrugged. “Depends on complication and access.”
    “Of course it does.”
    “How much did you pay for the prince?” she asked.
    She’d been wrong. They weren’t light blue. They were cold-as-ice blue. And glaring at her with the one emotion she knew too well: shock.
     

CHAPTER SIX
     
    Shit
. It made perfect sense. It did. Finally.
    Stuart pressed his thumb and forefinger into the space atop his nose, feeling the pulse point pounding on his finger pads. He was on the verge of a headache, a large one. This wasn’t a dream. It was a psychotic breakdown, it had been triggered by his conscience, and that was just another example of his Irish bad luck; most of which he’d addressed in a study of physical manifestations on the psyche for his doctorate dissertation. In extreme cases of trauma, the mind could conjure anything. Even gorgeous women, capable of turning his body inside-out; jet-set lifestyles only the rich and famous pursued; and claims of vampirism tossed in for good measure.
    He’d gone insane. But to have proof that having the time of his life with a woman of his dreams really was a figment of his imagination…well. That was complete punishment. He should’ve known. Chinese philosopher Confucius had said it hundreds of years ago: Before a man embarks on vengeance, he needs to dig two graves. Stuart had pondered it but didn’t care. He’d wanted revenge and so he’d gone and found it. And now he had this penance to contend with.
    “Are you going to tell me?”
    Stuart pulled the hand away and regarded his dream woman. She’d moved closer. Or something. She’d also changed. Somehow. Or he’d been completely self-absorbed. Again.
    She had her mass of charcoal-shaded hair wrapped into a sleek French Twist, little black onyx studs gracing each earlobe, and those womanly curves filled out another tiny black cocktail dress, slit to mid-thigh, and all of it ended with another pair of killer heels. All of it in black satin. He wasn’t complaining. He’d never seen or been near anything so inherently sexy. She obviously liked to dress in black. Come to think of it…everything in his new wardrobe was black, too.
    “Well?”
    “Tell you what?” he replied finally.
    “How much did you pay for the assassination of Prince Ada Majin?”
    “How do you know I did?”
    Ridiculous. And not remotely fair. He’d just admitted it was his own brain playing out this entire episode, and he still had to make explanations? If there was any logic and justice in there, he was missing it.
    “Your assassin told me.”
    “Really? Did you kill him?”
    “Of course.”
    “Torture him, too?”
    “He wasn’t forthcoming with information.”
    Her red lips were moving, saying words