Dreams That Burn In The Night (31 page)

Her finger
tightened a fraction around the trigger. He saw it. He swallowed nervously, one hand jerking, the
one that would have gone automatically for his own gun, if he had had a chance.

"Hey!" His voice
betrayed his alarm. "This isn't all that funny."

"Like I said, no
sense of humor." She smiled at him. "I liked it. You weren't the best I've ever had but you're
close. I like the way you make love." Her body was still twitching, still hot from lovemaking.
Her neck was a mild red with a sexual flush.

"Somehow, I don't
feel complimented." He licked his lips ner­vously, all passion dead within him. He shrugged his
shoulders, moving his holster to the right by that movement. It was a little closer, reach-wise,
to his left hand now but still much, much too far away. "I'm beginning to think you're
serious."

"I am."

He leaned toward
her just a fraction, pressing with his knees against her outstretched legs.

"Don't." Her voice
was like ice now.

He stopped
moving.

"Back up." He
leaned away from her, sweat beading on his forehead. His trigger finger on his left hand
ached.

"I don't
understand," he said, but he felt a wintry sensation in the pit of his stomach. On the contrary,
he was afraid he did.

"It's no mystery,"
she said. "Tomorrow when the President leaves his hotel, he's going to be assassinated. You won't
be around to complicate the action."

"Some fun," he said
dully. "But you killed your friend. That doesn't make much sense. The first team, I think you
called him."

"He was stupid.
Like something out of a bad gangster film. It was no extra trouble to kill him. You would have
killed him any­way. Besides, I was amply repaid for the favor." She smiled and her body shuddered
as if it remembered something delicious.

"Uh, yeah." He
looked back at the body on the floor, then back at her. He did not look happy.

"A question of
money too. If the first team doesn't make it, the second team makes more money. Ups the price, so
to speak."

He sighed. "There's
that, I guess." He stifled the urge to reach for his gun. He knew he'd never make it.

As long as she kept
talking he was safe. He tried to think of something to prolong the conversation, anything, but
his mind drew a blank.

"Now you know why
I'll hate myself in the morning."

Her finger was
tightening against the trigger. He looked her in the eyes, seeing a lot there but no mercy. He
was professional enough to know he had no chance unless she made a mistake and the likelihood of
that was infinitesimally small.

His voice was
sorrowful, almost wistful.

"The only thing
that bothers me," he said, meaning it, "is what must be going through your mind right
now."

"Did you ever hear
the story about the atom bomb that wanted to be a bullet?"

"No." In spite of
himself, he grinned.

"It's because, said
the atom bomb, I miss the personal touch."

"Ah." He nodded as
if that explained everything. "Still, we just made love, how do you feel?" He wasn't exactly sure
he knew why he wanted to know. Somehow it seemed like the right last question.

She's like a female
praying mantis about to devour the male after mating, it suddenly occurred to him. A revolting
idea.

"As if it mattered
how I felt?" she said, and there was some anger in her voice. "You've never asked a woman that
question after making love, have you?" It was an accusation.

It was true. He
shrugged. "So what. I'm asking now. Call it professional curiosity. What do you feel?"

She put the first
and only bullet one inch above bis left eye. He sprawled away from her, tumbling across her legs
to the floor.

"Postcoital
depression," she answered him, but he did not seem to hear.