Maverick

*************THIS IS NOT MY STORY!!! THIS IS JUST A BOOK I READ THAT I THOUGHT YOU GUYS MIGHT LIKE!!*********************************

**********************************THE REAL AUTHOR IS LORA LEIGH!!!!!**********************************************

She was a mother. She was a daughter. She was a sister and a wife. Delicate and so very beautiful. Dusky flesh stretched over aristocratic features that drew attention to the slope of her brow, the full delectable pout of her lips.

She was slender, well toned. She was a work of art for her age. A woman of forty five shouldn't be in such peak physical condition.

Unless she was a killer.

Yes, she was a killer, the worst sort of killer actually. A woman of beauty, sparkling wit, and gentle hands. Those hands could fire a gun, wield a knife, or toss a grenade with the same merciless conviction as any male he had ever known. And yet, her soul was gentle. Gentle and strong.

"Pretty," he whispered as he touched the silken flesh of that hand, ran his fingers over it, and finally found the subtle calluses of her trade.

She was a warrior. A warrior such as she should never have the light in her dark, pretty eyes extinguished.

"It's business, you understand." He kept his tone balanced, perfectly modulated.

He didn't want to frighten her. The blood pumped harder and faster through the body with fear. It would flow from her veins too quickly; there would be no chance to enjoy the beauty and rich satisfaction that came the moment one so strong gave up her last breath of life.

Did one such as she feels fear? He wondered.

He tilted his head to the side, and edge of curiosity prickling at him as she stared back at him with icy resolve. There was no fear in her eyes: there was no concern for her own life. She stared back at him with cold flat eyes. Yet he knew those eyes. He had smiled into them many times. He had been charmed by her laughter and wit. But he had never known if she ever felt fear.

How very odd, he thought. He normally knew such simple things when he took an assignment. He made it his job to know all things about his victims.

"Do you fear?" He had to ask the question. He asked it in her own tongue; the beauty of her language had always fascinated him.

Many might not consider the Hebrew language one of grace and purity, but he did. He felt each time he heard the words falling gracefully from an Israeli's lips. There was a certain cadence, a mystical, ancient fluidity that fascinated him.

"Of you?" Her words slurred just the faintest bit from the sedative he had given her before carrying her into his lair. "I know no fear of you."

"Do you fear death?" He feared death. He faced it with each job he took, and sometimes he feared that when his own end came, it would come with pain and humiliation.

"I fear nothing on this earth." And he believed it.

"But you should," she continued. "You should fear, for a wrath such as none you have ever known will descend upon you."

"Your God?" he sneered.

"God will judge you, but Garren and David will destroy you."

Her husband. Her son. A CIA agent and a Mossad soldier. They were formidable adversaries.

"They will never know it was I who took you form this earth, Ariela," he promised her with a tinge of regret. "Angels may watch over them, but they won't speak my name."