An Affair of Vengeance (11 page)

“I didn’t pick you.” She cleared her throat and considered how she’d defend herself if he launched an attack. With the lights low and her a hefty glass into the bottle of strong amontillado, now would be the time for it. She eased back on the couch and played with the leather tassels on her purse. Tucked inside it was a snub-nosed, hammerless Smith & Wesson .38 special, sleek enough to pull out without snagging on anything and perfect for close-range shooting. She could have it aimed at his chest in two seconds flat—if he gave her that much time. “You’re the one who ran into me at La Banque.”

“You were waiting for me.”

“It was an accident. Coincidence.”

“No such thing.”

“That’s right. You don’t believe in coincidence.”

“No.”

“Karma?”

“Never.”

“Cosmic justice?”

“Only in death.”

She sucked in a hard breath. “Jesus.”

“Don’t believe in him, either.”

If he was going to attack, he should have done it by now. So what was he doing with her? “This isn’t normal first-date conversation, you know.”

“This isn’t a normal first date.”

The room’s shadows, deep and long, crept out from the corners to lick at her heels. She shivered, kicked her shoes off, and tucked her feet under her butt. She had no answer for him, for she didn’t understand what was going on between them, either.

“I thought you’d be more idealistic,” he said. “You seem the type. Young, eager.”

“Sorry to disappoint. Idealism’s not really my thing anymore.”

“I’m not disappointed. Except for you, maybe. What happened?”

She couldn’t think of a reason not to be honest, if vague. “Everything I loved vanished. Poof, like smoke. One day it was all there, and then the next, gone. As if it had never existed, except in my head. And I was the only one who had a problem with it, the only one who thought that something should be done.”

He nodded, or at least, appeared to nod. Darkness had gathered so completely in the room that she could hardly see the outline of his face. Just his full, straight nose, flat forehead, and gently rounded chin in profile. He lifted his wine to his mouth and drank. Moisture stayed on his lips when he pulled away the glass; the smooth, wet skin reflected pinpoints of light from the street. His eyes, so unusual and pale in normal light, were dark and hooded now.

She was so focused on his face that she didn’t notice the movement of his arm until his hand, warm and solid, reached her knee.

M
cC
REA REACHED FOR
Evangeline not knowing what he’d find, not much caring, just wanting human contact in the darkness.

When he touched her knee she jerked back. His hand slid down to her calf.

Her hand disappeared inside her purse. “What are you doing?” she asked.

She had a gun in that sparkly little bag, he could tell by the defensive way she held it, as if her hand was already curled around the grip and the barrel already pointed at his heart through the sequins. That she was armed didn’t surprise him.

That she hadn’t moved her leg away from his hand did.

She was cautious, but not afraid.

So was he.

He wrapped his fingers around her ankle, rubbing the smooth, flat part on either side of her Achilles tendon. Then he trailed them up the bottom of her foot, from heel to toes.

She shivered against him. “What are you doing?” she repeated, this time more urgently.

“I think you can guess.”

“I didn’t expect a foot rub out of the evening.”

She had a nice enough foot, but he wasn’t a foot kind of guy. “You aren’t getting one.”

He brought his hands together and pushed them back up her leg, over her knee, to her thigh, relishing every bend and curve. But her thigh, sweet Lord. That’s what he liked. Soft and firm at the same time, with long, slick muscles for him to sink his fingertips into.

Her bag slumped to the ground. Still within her reach, but her hand wasn’t on the trigger anymore. It was on his shaved head, her palm hot and her fingers spread.

The silken hem of her dress smelled like flowers. He took it between his teeth and drew it up, over her thighs. His nose pressed into her hip, and she gasped. Lowering his face to her right thigh, he breathed in.

Her arms wrapped around his back and wrenched him closer. Her legs opened to let his body sink in. She moaned in his ear, dragged him up, and met his lips.

Her lips. Her skin. Her tongue. He couldn’t think, couldn’t process how completely he lost himself in her. Her mouth tasted of sherry, warm and inviting. Her insistent hand at the back of his head yanked him in, breathlessly deeper. She wanted him. Sweet heaven, she murmured his name! He didn’t fight her. Didn’t fight himself. Their passion mounted quickly, like a flash flood, and he forgot everything in the world but her. Blessed peace, at last. Like none he’d ever felt. Buried in her breasts, he forgot himself.

Until the snap of his belt whipping out of its loops reminded him of where such passion inevitably led. He wanted her, slick and hot, under him, but he wouldn’t do that to her. Willing or not, she didn’t know who he really was. She couldn’t give proper consent under these circumstances. While he was no angel, sleeping with a girl while undercover was unconscionable, no matter how badly he might want it, no matter who she might be. Even he had his boundaries, and they were about three minutes away from crossing a big one.

“No.” He pulled back, wiped his mouth. Even in the low light, he could see her expression. Mouth open, shocked. Angry. Eyes enormous. Hurt.

“What?”

“I’m sorry.” He swept his hand along the wood floor, looking for his belt. “I don’t want to take advantage. I won’t.”

“You’re not taking advantage.” She reclined on the couch, her dress still creased from where he’d pushed it up her thighs. “Because I’ve had a glass of wine?”

“No. Maybe. Yes.”

She gave him a look of such exasperation that he thought, stupidly, that maybe he could erase the last half second and go back to where he’d been, abandoned in her arms. She wanted him. He wanted her. Why did he insist on making it more complicated than that?

But she sat up, grabbed her glass, and swigged it hard. “I’m sorry, too. Sherry ruins my judgment.”

She stood. She was leaving. He wanted her to, intellectually. Morally. But not physically. Physically, he wanted her back in his arms, sweet and willing. Not cold and hard, as she was now.

“Let me show you out,” he said, walking to the door as he tucked in his shirt, wondering who’d loosened it in the first place.

“This is far enough, thanks.” She stood facing the door, not looking at him. He didn’t make her.

“I wish I could explain,” he began.

“You could try.”

“No, I can’t. Trust me.”

“How can I trust you when I don’t know who you are?”

“You can’t.” He pressed his palm to the door, above her head. He wanted to touch her again, and that was as close as he dared go. “We shouldn’t see each other again.”

“I know. But we will.”

“It’s not the right time for us. It’s too dangerous.”

“It’s never the right time. I can’t help it. I wish I could. But I see you and I feel like you’re water in the desert, and I’m so damned thirsty.”

He rested his forehead against her hair, and her hand grabbed for his. Such a small hand. So delicate. He couldn’t hurt her. He wouldn’t tell her how drawn to her he was, either. “Nothing good can come from this.”

“I know. You told me that already, and I believed you then.” She passed a card into his hand. “Call me if you change your mind. You don’t have to protect me, you know. I’m tougher than you can imagine.”

She whirled around and pecked his cheek, then opened the door and strode quickly into the hallway and out of his view.

He didn’t follow her, but clutched the card she’d given him hard enough to leave a rectangular imprint in his hand. Her number, handwritten on white cardstock. He could reach her now. Maybe after the mission was over he’d ring her, tell her he was free. They’d get together for dinner, then drinks, then dancing. They’d be good together. She understood him, somehow, and he wanted her so badly he didn’t think he’d ever get the desire for her out of his veins.

Who was he kidding? He wouldn’t call her. He wasn’t cut out for that kind of thing. And whoever she was, she’d have moved on before he got the chance to make himself capable of returning or receiving someone’s love.

No, it was over. He felt a thousand years older than he had an hour ago. A shower would help. A long, cold shower would wash away the memories of Evangeline’s kiss, and he could face his meeting with Ménellier tonight.

Thirty minutes later, he stood in front of his balcony doors with his hands in his pockets. Staring out at the alley, he watched a streetlight flicker and die. His eyes refocused, and he found himself staring at his own reflection in the glass.

He scowled, despising what he saw.

He wore another black wool ensemble, as slim cut as a tracksuit. He tugged on his starched white cuffs and ran an index finger around the cool metal band of his watch. Cartier, of course, though less because he wanted it and more because the brand was a sign of wealth he couldn’t afford to ignore. He wiggled his toes against the soft leather of his loafers, which were as comfortable as slippers and cost more than the first-class, round-trip airfare from London to the tiny Greek island where they were made for him last summer.

All in all, he wore nothing that didn’t come with a designer label and exorbitant price tag, and the fact that he was accustomed to it made him want to smash his reflection to bits.

He turned away. He didn’t recognize himself anymore. He saw only the ugly, twisted man he’d had to become to survive in the underworld. Exactly the kind of man who’d take advantage of a woman while undercover. Disgust became a lump in his throat that he couldn’t swallow.

He had to get out. He would be hours early for his meeting with Ménellier, but he needed a change of scenery to clear his head. He shoved his cell phone and wallet in his pocket before he pushed through the door and jogged down the stairs.

“A car to Avarice,” he commanded the concierge, who looked up as McCrea approached the small desk in the hotel lobby.

“Certainly. Shall I call ahead?”

“Of course.” As he palmed a fifty-euro bill and handed it to the man behind the desk, a steely cool descended over McCrea’s body. His movements became smoother, more cunning; his posture straighter, more assertive. More like a criminal than a cop.

So be it. This was who he’d chosen to be, and he’d do well to forget that any other side to him had ever existed. He nodded to himself as he walked to the curb and into the back of a waiting sedan. He could blame no one for the empty and anxious life he’d chosen to lead. He had to hold his head up and live it for as long as necessary.

Even if that was only a week more. What was he supposed to do when this job ended?

The driver caught his eye in the rearview mirror.

“Êtes-vous bien, monsieur?”

What had he done to grab the man’s attention? “I’m fine. Just drive.”

McCrea gripped the leather car seat with both hands, willing himself to not think of her. He rolled the window down. Cool evening air blew across his face, and he closed his eyes.

He had the sudden sense that he was coming unglued, like a sheet of cheap plywood left to rot in the rain. Health, good judgment, and honor—the only things he’d ever been able to count on—seemed to be abandoning him. What would be left once they were gone? What substance of himself would remain?

Was this how men became animals?

The rumble of a passing train pulled him out of the mental pit he’d begun to slither into. Grateful, he straightened, glaring at the driver. Everything was fine. Just fine. He was completely, totally together.

He rolled up the window as the car rolled through a tunnel beneath the main train line out of the city. Seemingly out of place in the largely abandoned industrial district, a thick crowd socialized in a parking lot in front of an old, ten-story building that ran the whole length of the long block. Most of the former factory’s bottom windows were cracked or absent, giving it a vacant air. Stunning graffiti—not just signature tags, but full-fledged, complex murals—covered the walls surrounding the lot. A dozen or so skinny men in jeans and ragged T-shirts skated around, popping tricks on the scattered handrails, stair sets, and quarter pipes assembled around the lot.

Muted booms of hip-hop spun by the DJ on a platform in the center of the action rattled the sedan’s tinted windows. The car rolled to a stop at the gated entrance to the fenced yard. McCrea bypassed the skateboarding and strode straight for the factory
door, at which a hundred or so finely dressed onlookers waited to be let in. For although a lively bar was set up in the open-air lot, the real party was inside.

McCrea bypassed the line and went straight to the bouncer.

“Monsieur McCrea?” inquired the enormous man.

McCrea nodded once.

The big man opened the door with a flourish. The rapid-fire break beats of jungle-style electronica exploded into the night. The crowd tittered enviously and angled their necks to see inside.