The Smiling Assassin — Nathalie Gray

He lived shrouded in the shadows of a world gone mad, a lone hunter, a predator, an assassin with an archangel's name. No hope, no regret. Until a woman reaches into the darkness and offers him solace and a warm place to be -- her heart.

TO MY READER: Once in a while, you have to redeem one of them, the anti-hero, the near-villain, the killer with a conscience. And sometimes, all it takes is the love of a good woman. That's the story of Uriel and Amelia.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: After a twelve-year career in the Canadian military (army), where I learned English and the many uses of parachute cord and gun tape, I decided to recycle my skills and become a writer. Of erotic romance. What can I say? I'm a late bloomer.

EXCERPT FROM THE SMILING ASSASSIN:He wasn't callous enough to kill the man while she still watched. But as soon as the skinny brunette scrambled off the bed to retrieve the rest of her ruined clothes, Uriel fired a single, economical bullet in the would-be rapist's heart. A small target, yes, but he was a good shot. Usually, he pumped another round in his target just for good measure -- he was careful if nothing else -- but this time, with the woman's gasp of shock and pale face, Uriel just let it be a one-bullet deal. He figured the poor woman had had enough. He wondered who she was, what had brought her up to infamous Foley's apartment. Not pretty enough to be an escort, she was no prostitute or junkie either, not that it made a stitch of difference. There was something in the way she moved, in the way she yanked her clothes on with her back against the wall and her eyes on him and the dead prick. Nervous, understandably afraid yet alert. Judging from the dark mark over Foley's nose and temple, she'd placed a few good ones too. Good woman.
“Here,” he said, ripping the sheet off the bed and proffering it. “Wrap that around you. It'll be windy on the way down.” There was blood on one corner.
She took the offering without glancing into his eyes, for which he was glad. He may be an assassin -- the best -- who'd just caught his latest target but the sight of a woman's pain or fear always tore at his soul. Rage bubbled to the surface. He pushed it down. Nothing came out of anger. Or any other emotion for that matter.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked in a small, tight voice. Her dark eyes looked too big for her narrow face.
He hated the dead prick even more. What kind of voice did she usually have? What change would her ordeal bring? What else on top of her dignity had this scumbag stolen?
Uriel turned his back on her so she could adjust herself in her clothes and drape the sheet around her. “Down below,” he replied, surprised his voice came out strangled. What the hell was wrong with him? “You can call station security there.” He'd be long gone by the time they'd arrive.
She nodded, held the sheet around her shaking frame while he pushed the remnants of the door aside so she could pass. He always made grand entrances. Either by busting through something or, if the occasion called for it, by showing up like a ghost ship, slowly, silently. Deadly. With his height, either way worked.
For this present contract, he would've chosen the latter method hadn't he heard the woman's calls for help. He could've chosen to wait for a clear shot and usually did. Waiting for that one split second of perfect clarity was what differentiated him from the rest of the wannabes out there who thought owning a fancy gun and having a good eye entitled them to the title of assassin. But he hadn't waited. Couldn't have waited.