Walking The Edge: A Romantic Suspense/Espionage Thriller (Corpus Brides Trilogy Book 1) (18 page)

Something of momentous proportions brewed in the agency for which they both worked. When his investigation—commissioned by the head of the organization in person—still led nowhere after months, despite a solid lead from one of the few people he trusted, he’d turned part of his attention to Max, on whom he’d always kept a watchful eye. The beautiful blonde woman had appeared out of the blue some two weeks earlier, living with Max, who had assumed a fabricated persona in the British capital. Why? With Max not supposed to be working on any case, why the legend, then? Who could she be, for Max would go undercover around her, bearing a false identity?

The question had plagued him back then, but now, it stung like acid eating him alive. She couldn’t be who he thought...

And the man with her in the picture...he remembered that face. A photographic memory had made him an ace in his field, sending him up the rungs of the organization’s ladder with a speed no one else had achieved in the history of the clandestine agency he belonged to.

The man in the image he knew as Matthias Pires, a small-time Marseille criminal who had wormed his way into the operations of firearms dealer and crime lord, Oleg Stepanovic. No one knew how he’d come onto the scene, armed more and more with insider knowledge.

This woman with that bloke—why? What could be the full ramifications of the whole puzzle?

He’d thought he’d grasped the gist of it, but his surprise had been astounding when the first thing he saw as he walked off the train into a Marseille station amounted to Pires’ face on the many screens relaying continuous news pieces. Apparently, there’d been an assassination attempt made on Pires...who turned out to be Gerard Besson, a
commissaire
in the local police.

How had he not seen this back then? Besson must be very good, if he’d escaped the scrutiny of the secret organization already on Stepanovic’s case, having sent in one of their female agents to get as close as possible to the overlord with a pronounced taste for kinky women. Maybe
she
had known—then why hadn’t she told him, her superior, anything? Why had she hidden the knowledge? So she could be with him today? Under a different appearance and identity? Then what had she been doing with Max, who’d been guarding her too close for comfort?

Such a huge mess!

She
had
to have some answers for him. He stood so close to solving his case—the truth couldn’t elude him any longer.

Skulking in the shadows, he had to act quickly, before someone from this posh setting saw him. How could a small-time cop even afford a place in such an area?

He pulled out his gun and crouched, then slipped his hand under the door and gently lifted it open. The panel slid up without a sound. With luck, though he never bargained on the chance factor, Besson wouldn’t hear him.

Luck proved on his side. He flattened himself to the ground and rolled into the garage as soon as the opening grew big enough for him to pass through. Gun in hand, he scanned the place at the same time he prepared to jump up.

He stifled a laugh and the urge to shake his head when he pinpointed his target a few feet away. Besson had the woman in his arms, and blimey if even an earthquake would tear them apart. Bloody idiot, allowing a bird to bring down his guard.

He stood at the same moment the woman’s eyes flew open and she saw him.

“Gerard!” she gasped.

*

Gerard released her and swung around. Pure reflex guided him. He gripped his gun and pointed it at the intruder. His breaths came in short, rapid gasps, adrenaline pumping into his body.
Putain
, where had this one come from?

“I wish you no harm,
Commissaire
,” the dark man said. “Or should I call you Matthias?”

Gerard let out another curse. The link with Stepanovic again. It was all really connected. Cocking his firearm, he aimed for the man’s chest. “Lower the gun, then.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

Just what he’d feared. Blood pounded at his temples, his eyes focusing into tunnel vision.

Mirka. He had to get her out of there. Once, she’d swooped in and saved him, emerging safe and sound from the encounter. He wouldn’t bank on Fate granting her a second such chance with a gun pointed at them.

She had frozen next to him. She couldn’t be afraid, could she? “Mirka?”

The man in front of them jerked, his aim faltering for a second. “What did you just say?”

*

The intruder’s bottle-green gaze landed on her, and she gasped.

She’d seen him before, in that dream. She’d thought him a younger Peter. He looked exactly like the person in her memory, and for a second, she wondered if it couldn’t be the crazy man who’d claimed to be her husband who stood before them with a gun aimed at Gerard.

She narrowed her gaze, scrutinizing his features. His hair hung long, longer than she recalled, and unless he’d gone for hair extensions, she couldn’t imagine slick and polished Peter, or whatever his name would be, sporting such a ragged haircut barely five days after she’d left him back in London. No,
he
was another man, all right. Soft lines fanned at the corners of his eyes, as if he occasionally gave in to sweet emotions. A far cry from the expressionless Peter. His face also looked more lived in, more experienced. Mature.

The subtle thrust of the chin caught her attention.
Damn it
—her London stalker?

And she realized she knew him. His name was...

“Scott.”

The man’s hand suddenly trembled, his aim faltering, a frown marring his face.

“Fey?” Surprise hung heavy in the name.

*

The aim of the gun barrel moved from him to Mirka, and Gerard knew the man would shoot. Heeding only the siren call of danger telling him to fire, he squeezed the trigger on his Sig.

The bullet hit the man near the shoulder; he went down.

Gerard reached his side in a flash, kicking away the assailant’s weapon and then crouching by his prone body.
Putain
—he was losing too much blood. “Call an ambulance,” he yelled. “Dial 1-5.”

He bunched up the man’s jumper and pressed it to the bullet hole, trying to stop the haemorrhage. When he heard no sound, he glanced up to find her rooted to the spot, her face pale as a ghost.

“Mirka,” he barked.

She seemed to snap out of a daze, blinking hard, her focus going to the man on the floor.

“I know him,” she said.

Is he the man she left me for?

His fingers turned to ice, but as the warmth of the blood seeped through the fabric in his grip, his wits returned. He couldn’t think about anything else. A man had been shot and lay close to death on the floor of his home.

He glanced up at her again. She still hadn’t moved.
Merde
. He’d have to take matters into his own hands. She wouldn’t be up to anything, shock apparently having gripped her.

With his free hand, he reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out his mobile. After asking for an ambulance from the SAMU, he then concentrated on staving off the blood from the wound. The guy’s pulse grew weaker.
Not good.
Propping the phone between his ear and shoulder, he spoke with Rashid, asking him to head to the hospital so he could keep Gerard updated on the stats regarding the man when the ambulance brought him in. He had other, more pressing matters to deal with.

Like the woman in his flat.

He cursed. Another killer sent to him. What did Stepanovic not want them to know?

The ambulance reached there a few minutes later, and the paramedics took over the task of stabilizing the man. He proved a tough one, holding on despite the loss of so much blood.

As soon as the ambulance left, he turned to her.

She still stood where he’d left her, and suddenly, he felt himself hanging on for dear life on the edge of a cliff.

He’d thought he’d found her. Mirka.

But now, he couldn’t be certain. It was her, all right, but there existed more, always more, where she remained concerned. Open one door, step into the room, and find yourself looking at a slew of other dark, locked panels.

She seemed stricken, as if a bolt of lightning had hit her. He went to her side and gently rested his hands on her shoulders. She turned those big eyes swirling with questions onto him, and his chest constricted. Without a word, he drew her to him.

What would happen to them? What to make of the situation? And who
was
she?

It always came down to this question. They still had no idea about her real identity. And a man had recognized her, and she’d spoken his name.

Why would she recall someone’s name if that person hadn’t meant something to her?

He shuddered as he remembered Mirka had been intricately enmeshed in Stepanovic’s entourage.
Putain
, she’d been the dealer’s mistress. Often, she left Stepanovic’s bed for his.

But as much as he wanted to view her as a traitor, he couldn’t. There had been something too authentic, too real, about the woman he’d held in his arms.

The woman he held now.

He looked down at her soft, honey-blonde locks. Unable to resist, he touched her hair, the caress of his hand settling into a gentle, soothing motion. She leaned farther into him, burrowing her face into the crook of his shoulder.

Her body trembled, racked by sobs. She’d broken down, finally. A human being lived inside her, and the stress of what she’d been through in the past few days must’ve been herculean to bear. She would have needed to break down at some point.

He shushed her, murmuring soft words into her hair. When she wouldn’t stop crying, he cradled her in his arms and took her up to the mezzanine, where he deposited her on the bed.

She refused to let him go; he settled by her side on the mattress.

“Stop crying,” he whispered.

But he couldn’t tell her everything would be fine, because things had just taken a turn for the worse. A killer who knew him as Matthias, his undercover alias, and who knew and recognized her, had erupted into their lives, bringing back to light a case that had nearly had her killed.

Another thought entered his head. If Mirka was here, and she hadn’t died in the crash...whose body had they removed from the wreck?

“My name is not Mirka,” she said, the sound muffled against his chest.

He heard her nevertheless, and one of his worst fears came to life when she pulled away and stared up at him, tears swimming in her eyes.

“My name is Fey, and that man—the one you shot—we were involved in the past.”

His phone rang before he had a chance to process what she said. The caller ID display flashed Rashid’s name and number; he had to answer.

“He’s been wheeled to surgery,” his right-hand man said. “Lost a lot of blood but they think he can pull through if they get the bullet out in time. Your rapid intervention probably saved his life.”

Gerard snorted. As if that proved a consolation. They needed to know the man’s identity, and what he was to her. Until then, nothing would be right. Uncertainty churned out anger that could call forth emotions as powerful and dangerous as recklessness and hate. And he didn’t want all this to happen to them. He’d been close to succumbing to the all-encompassing darkness when she had left. Already, he could feel its cold, sharp, pointed fingers clawing at his mind and heart. Not good.

“Did you find any ID on him?”

Rashid sighed. “Nothing. I got his prints, though. I’ll run them later at the
commissariat
. Until then, we’re in the dark.”

“Thanks,” he mumbled.

Dead end there. He sighed. They had only one recourse left.

Now, to get some answers out of her...

*

He closed the phone with a loud clap, startling her out of the deep stupor shrouding her. With a blink, she realized she sat huddled on the bed, her knees drawn up as if to ward off everything bad hovering around her like an unseen mist.

“Who is he?” he asked.

His voice came out cold, and she shivered under the ice in it.

“Answer me,” he said, making her recoil into herself.

“Scott,” she muttered.

“Scott what?”

“I don’t know.” Did he even hear the soft whisper?

He shot to his feet. The flat of his hand landed smack on the metal railing barricading the mezzanine. The rattling sound and evident frustration in the gesture made her jump.

“I swear to you, I don’t know,” she cried out.

He kept his back to her, and unable to see his face, she gauged his state of mind in the squared set of his shoulders and the coiled tension making him stand tall and erect.

“What
do
you know?” he finally asked, his voice a tad softer.

What should she tell him? What did she extricate from the whirlwind inside her, the slivers of memories flitting and floating around her, wrapping her in an intricate web that threatened to surely choke her? Everything she’d thought she knew fell apart at the botched-up seams, and as much as she hated this, she further hated the fact that she swam in a sea of notions and bearings holding neither north nor south. Lost—she hated the feeling.