“If you will kill me, then why not tell me the name of the man who hired you?” How calm she sounded, as if she was asking for a morning cup of coffee. But her mind was racing, sharpened by a knife of fear that lay cold and hard against her heart.
“You, my fine English lady, do not know what it means to be a bravi. Not even in death will you know who has paid to send your soul to the devil.”
“But why, Luigi? Why am I to be killed?”
“It is none of your affair, signora. Enough talk.” His voice was calm again, almost detached.
“Then you really do not know, do you, Luigi? Your employer did not see fit to tell you—a miserable peasant, a paid murdering animal.”
He growled, deep in his throat, and Cassie drew back from him, pressing her side against the bedpost.
“Damn you, you bitch! Shut up! My comrades said nothing—nothing, do you hear? They protected me and him. I shan’t complain, for he will make me rich, while you and your husband, signora, float in the sea until the fish tear the flesh from your bones.”
Luigi straightened from his slouched position against the cabin door. His black eyes swept again over her. “I will not enjoy sticking my stiletto between your ribs, for you are but a woman. It is the blood from your husband’s throat that will make this miserable voyage worth my while.”
Anthony. He would be easy prey, all his attention fastened on the storm, on The Cassandra. He would not even know why he would die. A great fury welled up inside her, and she was not aware for a moment that he was walking slowly toward her, his eyes dark with lust.
“I really did not enjoy your body that first time, my lady. Andrea had spoiled you. There was so much blood, so much sticky seed smeared on your thighs. But it will be different now. You will know a man before you die.”
He was unfastening the buttons on his breeches, not even bothering to pull them down.
He had nearly reached her while she screamed, and he laughed savagely, spurting flecks of saliva into her face.
“You are already hot for me. Give me pleasure, signora, and I will make your death easy.”
I am only a woman, she thought frantically, and he fears naught from me. The thought seared deep into her. Her only hope was her woman’s weakness, her woman’s helplessness. Her eyes fastened upon the fragments of glass on the floor, near the table.
His hands were reaching for her, and she could smell his lust, could see his bulging sex, freed from his breeches. She fell toward him, and when his arms closed about her, she drew up her knee and kicked his naked groin with all her strength.
He bellowed with rage and pain, and grasped his belly.
“You damned bitch! You miserable little whore! God, how you will die!” He lunged at her, though his body was bent in his pain.
Cassie slammed her fist in his face and tried to struggle past him, but he hurtled her to the floor, throwing her upon her back. Sharp white lights exploded in her head. She bucked her body wildly against him, until she saw his fist poised to strike her. With a desperate strength, she lurched sideways, throwing her arm above her head. His blow caught her cheek, but it made no impression in her fear. And now he was the one yelling, cursing her, pummeling her, ripping at her dressing gown.
She felt a tremendous sense of elation. Her fingers closed over a jagged triangle of glass, and with cold dispassion, she watched her arm swing forward, the raw glass a spear held tightly against her palm. As he reared up, his hands jerking at her thighs, she saw nothing but his distorted face, felt nothing save that fierce triumph. The jagged glass sliced easily down his cheek, from his eye to his jaw.
He rocked backward, screaming with pain, his hands covering his face. She jerked the stiletto from his belt, pushed away from him and scrambled to her feet. She was at the cabin door, twisting at the knob, before he could stagger to his feet. The yacht careened wildly and both of them teetered, grasping at anything to keep their balance.