Chapter One

Jasper Grant does a pathetic job at concealing his expression, or maybe he just makes no effort to. He stares quite obviously from his large, empty and shiny desk. His eyes follow every contour of my skirt, rising till they come to rest on the neck of my blouse where two buttons are open, and the third barely holds the full bust together. Jasper Grant finally meets my eyes, his bright almond slits, no different from a panther's.

"Who are you?" he asks in a low growl.

"Michela Cruz."

He makes no response and glares quietly, leaning on his elbows. His knitted eyebrows and broad, bulky shoulders only accentuate his already predatory air.

I had known these very eyes when they were a lanky 15-year-old's, though, they now belong to a dangerously gorgeous panther of a man. So unless they are jetting out flaming bullets, I will still comfortably return the stare.

It is a full minute, I'm sure, before he finally leans back in his seat and speaks.

"What was that?"

"Miche—"

"What are you doing in my office?"

Jasper Grant is also apparently bad at curbing the bite in his tone.

"Michela Cruz, sir, your new personal assistant."

"I don't need a personal assistant, you can leave my office."

Then I slip a note to him on his desk, leaning so that the spilling cleavage is directly in his line of sight.

"Mr Alexander, the hiring manager, said to deliver this note of introduction to you, once I can meet with you," I say, still leaning generously.

After a studious glance at my gaping blouse, he grunts and bends to open the sealed note. Contents of the note, I already know. It reads:

"Hot piece of ass, huh? You're welcome."

But Jasper Grant still takes his time to read the note. He suddenly leans forward on his elbows, as if to pounce. A sculpture near the large window, glowing with the night city lights, casts a shadow on his face—yet gleaming are his feline eyes.

"It would be best for you, if you go," he says, with a note almost resembling genuine advice.

With all the feminine grace I can muster, I answer.

"I want to work. I would love to work for you, sir. I would do a wonderful job as your personal assistant. I do whatever you want, however you want it. And I am good at what I do."

I catch a smirk on his dimly-lit, roguish but pretty face.

"You will do whatever I want you to do." He pauses.

"But you won't last long."

"Oh, I last, sir. Try me." I give him my mischievous smile, before recovering myself and changing it to something between lovely and flirty.

His smirk widens into a smile, but it serves more as a snarl. He leans back into his chair again, like some big cat in a crisp, off-white shirt.

"I shall see about that. I may have some use for you."

He takes once again to examining my figure, starting from where my skirt stops on my thighs.

And I stand right in the middle of Jasper Grant's unnecessarily large office, occupied by just his desk, wine shelf, miniature sports car models, and two sensual female paintings—under his x-raying gaze. It is like a prey under devouring examination. Then he asks:

"McClaren?"

"Michela Cruz, sir."

"You will answer 'Michelle' to me."

Then he returns his sights to the illuminated city night streets. I understand that to mean my dismissal, so I turn to quit the office. And I feel eyes following my rolling hips.

***

Diego is a young powerful brown stallion, the latest addition to Morello's stable. He stamps a hoof and eyes me uneasily, as I mount him. I stroke his great neck, whispering to try to calm him.

"Diego doesn't like women so much," Morello calls from his mount, a black beauty, with large white blazes across the left eye and neck.

"He only trusts when he knows he has a strong rider."

Morello looks impeccable in his white polo shirt, pants and shoes. Save for some white hair and bald patches, he looks almost as sharp and youthful as he did in the pictures, decades ago when he played polo.

"You have to talk to him, Arturia, introduce yourself."

I bend to Diego's right ear and he eyes me warily.

"Listen up, boy, I am Michela Cruz. And you're going to be running this track with me. See that pretty couple over there? We are racing them to the ground. We'll show them that it's not about fancy dresses, it's about who comes out on top. They are getting beat, you hear that?" I give him an encouraging slap. He stomps and gives a more confident neigh.

"Ha ha! See? I knew he'd like ya. But what's this nonsense I hear about getting beat? Hear that, Princess?" Morello asks his grand horse.

Princess was a polo phenomenon, winning Morello all his trophies. He had her since she was a foal, but now she is well beyond her prime. And Diego, a fine specimen of a horse himself, is Morello's idea of evening out the odds so I won't "lose so hopelessly again."

"Let's go crush 'em to tiny pieces," Morello roars as Princess neighs and it all joins into a somewhat unsettling chorus.

And here, I thought my speech was over the top.

The starting pistol goes off and we whip our horses.

There come gusts of air hitting my face and racing past us. Rocking and cutting through the wind with the horse in my charge, all sends the adrenaline rushing. This is the way to live! This is one of the things I've really missed since leaving Morello's estate and moving to Monerco.

Diego and I catch up with Morello, where he's already patting Princess and calling her a "good girl."

"Now, we can talk with clearer minds. Let's get back to business or I should say, to your "Grant business", Arturia. It's been weeks since we last saw you at the estate. You'd better tell me all about Monerco, my dear. How is Grant?"

It is always Morello's way to attack matters on the spur of the moment, before the storm passes.

"He's in perfect health, Pa. I'm making sure of that," I answer, adrenaline still coursing in my veins. And Morello is right, after the race my mind is much clearer, my work in Monerco takes beautiful shape.

But Morello looks amused, as we return the horses to the tenders and turn to the Del Pey Mansion.

"Then you don't need your guns, my dear. We could have gotten you syringes, cottonwools or something, if I knew you were going to Monerco to nurse the man. Maybe now you should go by Michela Nightingale—" Morello breaks off, laughing hysterically.

It stings and all my elation begin to sour. Why is he laughing at such a thing?

"You know I am serious, Pa." I stop in my tracks and Morello turns at my sudden stop.

"I want Jasper Grant healthy and strong when I kill him."