Perfect Assassin by Wendy Rosnau Page B

replacement, I’ll give you a call.”
    “It’s a date.”

    She would stay until the weekend and then disappear. She’d been at Moon’s house almost a month and it was past time she move out. Her ankle had mended, and Moon had removed the stitches one night after he had made her drink three glasses of wine.
    Prisca stepped out of the shower, glanced down at her leg. She would always have a scar, but Vic had done the best he could.
    She needed to get back to her old life, back on the trail of Jacy Madox and Bjorn Odell. But it wouldn’t be easy to leave Moon’s cabin. She had slipped into a routine. She had become comfortable living with him. That sounded crazy, but the longer she stayed, the harder it would be to leave.
    She was more than attracted to him. Looked forward to seeing him each morning. Sharing kitchen duties, and caring for the animals. She’d even ventured out to the barn and had made friends with his horse, Pete.
    It was infatuation, she told herself. Moon had become her lifeline, and he was as dependable as cement. She’d had that with Otto, too, but this was different.
    Moon was different.
    She dried off with a towel and then slipped on a pair of jeans and a black sweater. Towel-drying her hair, she opened the door. The smell of fresh bread told her that Moon was in the kitchen. She smiled in anticipation of seeing him, knowing how she would find him—he was as comfortable doing dishes as he was chopping wood for the fireplace.
    He didn’t look like the cooking type, but he had more skills than any man she knew, and more energy—he did more in one day than most people did in a week.
    Weeko scurried by and disappeared into her bedroom. She followed, speaking to the raccoon like an old friend. That was the problem. She was getting too comfortable here. She was forgetting who she was, and in a frightening way it felt good.
    The phone rang and she heard Moon’s heavy voice as he answered it. She entered the hall again after slipping on shoes. She was still using the towel on her hair when she entered the kitchen.
    He looked up, but he didn’t smile. He was arguing with whoever had called.
    “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’ll have to see. She wouldn’t want to come. It’s not the kind of place she would enjoy. Sure, I’ll mention it, but I don’t think you’ll see us there.”
    When he hung up the phone, he swore.
    Pris was about to ask who it was—rarely did he get any calls—but he answered her question before she asked it.
    “That was Tate. It’s his birthday today. He’s having a party at the Sun Dance. He wants us to come.”
    Us…
    “I told him you wouldn’t want to go.”
    “Why wouldn’t I?”
    He frowned. “Because it’s a bar. Loud music. Drinking. People acting crazy.”
    “You don’t want to go?”
    He hesitated.
    “I’ve been in this house for weeks. It would be fun to get out.”
    “So you want to go?”
    She had only met Tate twice. Both times he’d come to Moon’s house, but he hadn’t stayed long. He was a full-blooded Blackfeet Indian with a long braid down his back. Moon had explained that his mother had been married once before she’d married his father. That Tate’s father had died in a hunting accident when Tate was a few years old.
    He was looking at her, still waiting for an answer. “You can go by yourself if you don’t want to take me.”
    That gave him pause. “Why wouldn’t I want to take you? I just thought—”
    “I wouldn’t fit in. That’s okay. I understand.”
    “You don’t understand anything,” he grumbled. “Would you let me finish?”
    “Okay. What’s the problem?”
    “Tate’s parties usually end up turning into a bar fight. I don’t want you anywhere near that.”
    His answer surprised her. She recalled him telling her about his days with the Hell’s Angels. About his wild brother Tate, and their even wilder escapades.
    “I have you to protect me, right?”
    He just looked at her. She’d caught him