The Assassin's Wife (PAPERBACK)

She was an angel and he was an assassin.
It would be impossible to keep her. Yet, with one look, David knew he had to have the dancing angel, no matter how difficult. No matter the cost. He didn’t know who she was, but he couldn’t look away from her. She was unbelievably perfect in both grace and beauty as she swept the stage. She moved with such perfection, such grace and speed she would often trick his practiced eye – not something many people could do. He would find himself watching her move only to have to search her out because she had flown across the stage in an instant. Emotions, normally foreign to him, swept over him, holding him in thrall. His muscles clenched with jealousy, knowing that men with more wealth were looking at her now, plotting ways to have her.
Perhaps they had more money, but they did not have more power or skill than David. Russia was his birthplace, Moscow his playground. He owned these heavyweights. And he would own her. As soon as he’d taken care of business. The reason he was drawn to the Bolshoi for the evening. His eyes sharpened on a man in the audience; his prey. Unfamiliar fury washed over him as he watched the greedy soon-to-be dead man watching his dancer as she dipped and spun across the stage, her perfection impossible not to watch.
Though it pained him to leave her, even for one night, he would. She would keep. A word in the correct ear and she would be tucked safely away, his to unwrap when he was ready.
With one last, long look, he turned away from his angel and left the theatre to complete his job.
“Do’svidanya, little dancer. Until we meet.”