Annique blinked at her sister. Of all the rotten timing. “What are you doing here?”

“Wishing you a merry Christmas?”

That earned Jazzy a glare. “I haven’t heard from you in two years.”

“I was busy.”

“Too busy to let me know you were alive?” Annique snapped.

As she ripped into her sister, Reaper watched them, gun still in hand but pointed at the floor.

“So you’re related?” he managed to finally squeeze in.

“According to our parents. Reaper, meet my sister, Jazzy, short for Jasmine.”

“Reaper?” Jazzy snorted. “Don’t tell me he’s got you calling him that.”

“It’s better than Charming.”

At that, Jazzy’s eyes rounded. “So that’s what the C.R. stands for.”

“How would you know what his name is?” Annique narrowed her gaze on her sibling.

“Yeah, explain how you know,” was his sarcastic addition, which earned him an elbow to the ribs.

“You”—Annique jabbed a finger in his direction—“shut it and put the gun away. No one is shooting anyone today. Unless it’s me doing the shooting on account that you’re both dicking me around.”

“He’s the one being a dick,” Jazzy muttered with a glare in his direction. “I’m just trying to be a good sister.”

“A good sister doesn’t wait years to let me know she’s still alive. Nor does she show up unexpectedly while I’m on a romantic getaway.”

“Is that what he’s calling this?” Jazzy snorted.

“Did you use your connections at work to spy on us?”

“So what if I did? I’m allowed to keep tabs on my sister.”

“How about you try picking up a phone instead, or sending a text? You know, Not dead. Thinking of you.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Whatever. How about you explain exactly why are you here, and don’t feed me a line about reconnecting on Christmas. No one knew we were here, and yet here you magically appear.”

Jazzy’s chin tilted. “For your information, I was here first, setting a trap.” She shot a glare at Reaper, one Annique didn’t understand. An undercurrent laced every word, and she felt as if she’d missed something important.

“Why do I get the impression you know each other?”

“I don’t know him,” Jazzy was quick to retort.

Whereas, Reaper shook his head. “We do, of a sort. We met through work,” was his short explanation.

“Work?” That deepened her frown. “Since when does your work”—and, yeah, Annique said it as if it had finger quotes—“need real estate?” Because last she’d heard, Jazzy was working for the CIA, hence the reason she couldn’t stay in touch easily. Undercover missions and stuff.

“What the hell are you talking about? What real estate?”

“She’s talking about the fact that I work for Bad Boy Inc. realty.”

“I know you do. I know all about you, Reaper.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Annique asked.

As Jazzy stared at her, her eyes widened. “I don’t believe this. She doesn’t fucking know?” Jazzy said the words to Reaper, not Annique. The mystery thickened, and she didn’t like it at all. “Did you bring her here as bait to draw me out?”

He shook his head. “Bait would imply I knew who you were and that you were related. Annie is here for other reasons.”

“Hold on a second.” Annique waved a hand as she focused on a key point. “So you lied. You had no idea I was here.”

Jazzy shrugged. “No.”

“And yet you knew Reaper was? Expected him. Does he know what you are?”

“I’d say he has a good idea.”

Annique glared at Jazzy. “What happened to keeping your job under wraps?” How many times had Jazzy told her no one could know what she did?

“It is still a secret.”

“A pretty big fucking secret.”

“Shut up.” Jazzy glared at Reaper. “Qiqi understands why I have to stay on the down low. You know, what with being CIA and all.”

He burst out laughing. “Is that your cover? And she believes that?”

“Believes it because it’s true,” Jazzy said quite vehemently. “Just doing my part for my country.”

“Bullshit. I might not know exactly who you are in the grand scheme of things, but I know you’re not CIA.”

“I could be. I’ve done jobs for them.”

“So have I. I’ll be damned, you’re just like me,” he snickered.

“I don’t see why you’re smirking. Have you told her yet who and what you are?”

“He’s a realtor. Isn’t he?” Annique’s gaze bounced between them, and she noted his tight expression. “What’s she talking about?” What was Reaper hiding from her?

“Nothing,” he muttered.

“Go ahead and tell her,” Jazzy cajoled. “Tell her that the man she is sleeping with is a professional hitman.”

“He’s a what?” Annique turned wide eyes on him. “That can’t be true.” Not the man who touched her so tenderly.

The one who seemed awfully quick to pull a gun.

Not the man who gave her a thoughtful locket.

Who handled violence without a qualm.

Not the man she loved.

A man who didn’t deny the claim. “Hitman sounds so cliché. We prefer the term exterminator for hire.”

Jazzy snorted. “Except you kill people, not rats.”

“You’re a killer!” Annique shrieked.

“I used to be,” he amended. “I’m mostly retired now.”

“Retired from killing people?” Even saying the words made her lightheaded.

Who was this man? This stranger?

“I don’t know why you’re so shocked. Your sister is the same as me.”

Jazzy shook her head and waved her hands. “Don’t rope me into this. I’m more on the industrial espionage side than the killing.”

“Says the woman who shot me full of holes last Christmas.”

“Not my fault you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. I had orders to eliminate Wendell.”

“But you shot me.”

“An honest mistake.” She shrugged. “I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be there once I made sure his girlfriend was occupied.”

“Do I look like Wendell?” he snapped.

“I didn’t kill you, so I don’t see the problem.”

Her little sister, discussing shooting people so nonchalantly.

What is happening?

Annique couldn’t handle all this info. All these revelations. She pushed past them both, snaring the thick terry cloth robe hanging on the chair on her way and shoving her feet into thick slippers.

How does a killer know to pack me something to keep my feet warm?

She headed for the door, dodging their attempts to stop her. “I’m going to find some coffee.” And her sanity.

Because how the hell did I fall in love with an assassin?

After Joel, she should have been able to recognize a man with violent tendencies. Should have known and steered clear. Not jumped into his bed and fallen in love.

Reaper tried to stop her. “Annie. Don’t go. Let me explain.”

She couldn’t stay, not with her head whirling. “Explain what?” Annique cried, tears pricking at her eyes. “That you’ve been lying to me this entire time? I don’t even know who you are.”

He tried to tell me. She just didn’t listen. She fled the room, fled the truths that threatened to bury her.

Ran down the stairs, tucking her robe tightly around her, noting the empty common area and the unmanned front desk.

Screw a caffeine jolt. What she needed was clarity. She strode for the door and yanked on it, needing some fresh air.

The brisk cold slapped her skin, and she closed her eyes.

Breathed deeply.

Calmed herself.

So, Reaper—a name more apt than I realized—is not quite the man I thought. He wasn’t just a realtor. He was some kind of killer for hire.

He also claimed he’d pretty much retired.

Could a man with violent tendencies ever truly leave it behind?

He never hurt me. He always treated her gently, even the times she’d gotten in his face and argued. He never tried to physically force her. Argue, yes. Verbally tease, sure. But lay a hand on her? Never.

Did that mean he never would? She couldn’t say for certain, yet even the nicest of men, normal men, could raise a hand to hurt. It was all about character, and she’d gotten the impression he had a good one.

Why else would she have fallen in love with him?

I thought I was in love with Joel, too. Thought, yes, but in retrospect, she could clearly remember how uncomfortable he made her. How she hated his snide remarks. Recalled the fact that he never made her breathless. Never caused her heart to flutter.

Only Reaper did that.

I love an assassin. It kind of made him sexier than before.

Her breath caught.

Sexier?

Thinking about it made her realize that, if she looked past her shock at the truth, the knowledge added a layer to her lover.

He’s dangerous.

Badass.

Mine.

Holy shit, a killer was in love with her.

Me. Of all the women he’d ever met in his life, he’d chosen her to be with.

And what had she done? Left him alone with her sister—both armed with guns.

I need to get back. Annique slammed the door to the outside shut and whirled, only to gasp as she beheld a familiar face.

One older, but no less ugly for its sneer. Joel waggled a single white rose.

“Hello, Qiqi. Happy to see me?”

She would have screamed, but the punch to her face knocked her out.