Choked sobs tore free, born from a despair so deep she couldn't understand it, or her own reaction. What was wrong with her? She never just gave up like this; she was always maneuvering, managing, looking for an advantage. She needed to pull herself together, make an effort to seduce Rafael-
No! The word erupted from her subconscious, reverberating through her entire body. The savagery of the instinctive reaction shook her; she never allowed herself to feel that deeply about anything. Then something inside her settled and she felt the utter rightness of it. She and Rafael were over, finished. He'd given her away as if she were nothing to him-as if she were nothing, period.
She hated him, hated him even more than she hated herself. She'd completely subjugated herself to him, bitten her tongue and smiled and gone along with him no matter what he wanted, and for what? For him to treat her as if she were a common whore? She trembled with a primitive need to hurt him, to see his blood, to physically beat him and bite him and tear at him with her nails.
She couldn't; she knew that. His goons would either shoot her on the spot or drag her off to be disposed of at their leisure. Admitting her own helplessness against him was even more galling.
The ruthlessly logical part of her brain ordered her to pull herself together and just deal with this, but she couldn't seem to shove all these turbulent emotions away. They were like giant waves that kept crashing over her protective walls, and she was going under for the third time.
Rafael had to pay. She didn't know how, but she had to make him pay. She couldn't live if she let him get away with grinding her into the dirt the way he had. No matter how low life had pushed her, she'd always managed to reassure herself that at least she hadn't been reduced to prostitution. She'd seen herself as Rafael's mistress, not his whore, which maybe was splitting hairs but to her way of thinking it was a damned important hair.
She no longer had the comfort of that illusion. To him, she was nothing more than goods to be traded for a service, and the mirror she held up to herself reflected back only what he saw. Her entire body shuddered from the force of her sobs, her throat under such strain that she began gagging, but her stomach was empty and the spasm produced only dry heaves.
Finally she heard him enter, closing the door more loudly than he usually did, as if to emphasize his lack of remorse. He'd wanted to retain the assassin's services more than he'd wanted to keep her, and-
The bitter thought stuttered to a halt, and for a moment she felt her brain almost freeze in a sudden burst of comprehension. He'd wanted to retain the assassin's services... There was someone else he wanted dead, wanted it desperately enough that he'd swallowed his pride and given-loaned-his mistress to another man. Maybe that meant he valued her more than his actions said; maybe this gave her an advantage.
Her brain felt as if it were gummed with molasses; before she had time to work through her thoughts, Rafael stepped through the open sliding doors onto the balcony, halting when he saw her. "Why are you out here?"
His tone was so casual that the thick, sulfurous rage surged again inside her, and she had to clench her fists on the folds of her robe to keep from launching herself at him and tearing at his eyes with her nails. She gulped in huge breaths of air, fighting for control, fighting to think. She had to do something, say something.
She lifted her head and he flinched, his eyes widening with shock. Drea was acutely aware of how she looked, with her swollen eyes and ravaged face. She'd never before let Rafael see her looking anything less than perfect, but this time she didn't care how she looked.
In another sudden burst of clarity, this one even more stunning than the first, she suddenly knew exactly what she was going to do, what she had to say. The enormity of the plan was so stunning that if she let herself hesitate she might chicken out. Rafael had to pay, and she knew exactly how she would make him do it.
She sucked in a deep, shuddering breath, bracing herself. "I'm sorry," she choked out, tears streaming down her face again from the effort it took to apologize to the bastard. "I didn't know...I didn't know you were t-tired of me-" Her voice broke and she covered her face with her hands, her shoulders heaving from the force of her sobs.
She heard the scrape of his shoes on the tiles as he moved closer. Then there was a hesitation, as if he either didn't know what to do, or knew but didn't want to do it. Finally his hand settled on her shoulder. "Drea..." he began.
Drea jerked away from him, unable to stand even a casual touch from him. "No, don't," she said raggedly. She wiped her face with the sleeve of her robe. "I don't want your pity." More tears slid down to take the place of the ones she'd removed. "I knew you didn't love me," she whispered, "but I-I thought I had a chance, I thought one day you might. I guess now I know better, huh?" Her lips and chin quivered as she stared out into the distance, though most of the view was blocked by the wall. She didn't dare look directly at him, afraid he would see in her eyes the utter loathing she felt for him. Thank God for these damn stupid tears that wouldn't stop, even if she had to make Rafael believe she was crying because of him, instead of-
No. She was not crying because of that damned killer. She didn't know why she was crying, but it definitely wasn't because of him. Maybe she'd gone crazy, or something. But crazy or not, she'd play it for all she was worth. She was banking on Rafael's ego, banking that he'd be so flattered that she'd actually fallen in love with him that he'd be willing to buy the line of bullshit she was handing him.
He crouched beside her, his dark eyes searching her face. Drea kept staring straight ahead and once more wiped her face. Maybe she couldn't handle anything else that had happened today, but she would damn sure handle Rafael Salinas, or die trying.