Moonrise by Anne Stuart Page B

daughter.
    He’d known, as he’d dragged Mary Margaret’s body into the bushes, that he really had no choice in the matter. He could get her away from this place without noticing the carnage that surrounded them, but sooner or later it would catch up with them. And to keep her alive would only complicate matters.
    She served no useful purpose, and he hadbeen taught a ruthless efficiency. She was a complication, in his way, and the only obvious choice was to dispense with her.
    The alternative was unthinkable. He had no reason to let her live, except for sentiment. Emotion. Old memories, a passing fondness he’d once had for a young girl, a moment in an empty house one Thanksgiving years ago when she was young and alone and he’d let his guard down for a brief while. She seemed to have forgotten, but it might come back to her sooner or later. And he couldn’t afford to let that happen.
    She was already doomed. Her parentage, and her curiosity, had made that certain. He could be gentle with her. Make it fast, painless. If someone was going to kill Annie Sutherland, then it ought to be him.
    It wasn’t as if he had a conscience that could bother him. He’d killed. He was good at it, neat and painless, delivering death to the deserving without pause or regret.
    Or if the regrets had come, it had simply been part of his penance. The price he had to pay, to live out his life expiating his sin by compounding them.
    Catholic guilt. He’d always taunted himself with that, with the knowledge that his mother’s faith had eaten its way into his heart and soul, into his very bones like a cancer.
    That too was his penance.
    He moved up the stairs silently. Adrenaline was still pumping through him, a natural side effect of the past half hour. His pulse was steady, and his hands were without a tremor. This was what he did best. Mary Margaret had called it artistry. He doubted if Annie would consider her corpse a masterpiece.
    She had her back to him when he reached the top of the stairs. She was stuffing clothes into her suitcase, and her movements were fast, jerky, angry. She picked up those absurd high heels, held them for a moment, and then slammed them into the wastebasket in the corner. It tipped over beneath the weight of her throw, and she muttered a curse.
    He moved closer, so close he could reach out and touch that slender neck beneath the damp fall of hair. She wouldn’t know what happened. A moment of pressure, and she’d be dead before she hit the floor. He could catch her, carefully, and lay her out on the bed. He would close her eyes, and then maybe he’d even burn the place down around her, a funeral pyre. He found he didn’t want people touching her, messing with her, after she was dead.
    He just needed to lift his hand. She didn’t know he was there, behind her, ready tostrike, but if he hesitated much longer she’d turn and see him, and recognize her death in his face. It would frighten her, and he didn’t want to do that. If he was going to do it, he needed to make it as easy, as painless, as possible.
    His muscles clenched painfully. He lifted his hand, and his fingers brushed her wet hair.
    She whirled around and glared at him. “You scared the hell out of me,” she snapped. “You’re as bad as Win, tiptoeing around and sneaking up on people. Is that part of your stock in trade? Junior Spooks on Parade?”
    He laughed then, a rough, harsh sound, and he wondered how long it had been since he’d laughed. Maybe a decade or more. He dropped his hand to his side, flexing his coiled fingers. “You’ve got more sass than brains,” he drawled, using his best Texas accent.
    “That’s saying a lot. I was Phi Beta Kappa at Georgetown University.”
    He found he was grinning. It almost felt as if the stiff lines in his face would crack from the unexpected amusement. “Annie,” he said, “you’re getting in over your head.”
    “I already am. What do you suggest I do about it? Run away and