Early Sins (Dangerous Games Book 0) (25 page)

“There’s nothing else I’m good at, Smith.”

A low laugh rumbled in his chest before he looked at her. “I think there’s a lot you’re good at, C, but I’m talking about what you want out of life.”

“You’re talking about your mountain hideaway?”

“Well, yes. A few more years doing this, saving up, and we – I mean, I – can do that.”

“Awww, Smith, are you saying you want me to be your bear hunting wilderness woman?” She grinned even though inside she felt like she’d been filled with steel winged butterflies, battering her insides with a razor-edged panic.
What is he saying?

Smith forced a short laugh and then took another sip. “Well, you
are
good with a rifle.”

“I don’t think I’d exactly fit in when it comes to some small mountain town.”

“
Whatever
it is you decide you want, C. I just hope you choose it, and make it a reality. You deserve that.”

“What if what I want is to do this? Jobs, and spontaneous trips to Europe, and all the fun and excitement of this life?”

His eyes caught hers, and somewhere underneath his cool, controlled surface she could see an edge of tension that felt like words unspoken. Finally, he broke his gaze and raised his glass. “Then I better make sure you and Jean get to know each other, shouldn’t I? Cheers, to Paris and your first trip to Europe. First of many, I would wager.”

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” Camille smiled and tapped her glass against his before she finished off the vodka in one gulp. Words lingered between them unspoken. His awkward suggestion of a life, for them, after all this bloodshed, but Camille wasn’t ready for that. She was still learning, still getting better – and she still had another name on her list.

Whatever came after would just have to wait.

After the plane landed and they grabbed their bags amidst the business travelers and the loud, American tourists, Smith guided Camille outside to the long line of taxis. Forty minutes later they were pulling up in front of the Shangri-La hotel, and in the distance the spire of the Eiffel Tower could be seen over the rooftops. The wide-eyed look on C’s face as she glued herself to the window had him smiling. It was costing him a small fortune for the hotel room he’d wanted, but it
was
her first time in Paris – and they’d earn plenty from the job.

“We should go inside, the view is even better from our room.”

C didn’t even give the driver a chance to get out before she was out of the car and walking to the edge of the drive. “I can’t believe we’re so close to it! It’s huge!”

“Yes, it is. Now, come one.”

After a long check-in process he was opening the door to their room and she ran inside with a kind of fluid grace she was clearly unaware of. So much power in her legs as she leapt across the floor, instantly tearing the door open to the terrace, outfitted with chairs and tables, and an impeccable view of the tower – exactly what he’d requested. She turned to him, white blonde hair whipping in the breeze, her thin dress plastered to her curves, and he felt his cock kick against the fly of his jeans. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“What?” He laughed, enjoying her response as he set down their bags and joined her. “You said you wanted to see the Eiffel, didn’t you?”

Camille turned and threw her arms around his neck, kissing him hard and he indulged in it. Back in the one city he had promised himself he’d never return to because of a girl, and now he was back again – because of a girl. But Camille was more than just some occasional tryst like he’d had with Nathalie, she had burrowed her way so deep inside the barriers he usually maintained that there wasn’t a wall up she couldn’t knock down with a word. His hands seemed to find their way to her waist without his command, and then she jumped into his arms, wrapping her legs around his hips and she rubbed against him until he found himself moaning against her lips. Suddenly, all he could think about was testing to see if the ornate, king-sized bed in the other room was as soft as it looked, or if he should just skip that and bend her over the chaise lounge in the little living room.

“Holy shit,” she cheered as she leaned back from him, and then she kept leaning back and he watched her body bow backwards until her hands planted on the tiles beneath their feet and she delicately released him – one leg at a time – to continue her perfect walkover. The dress gathered around her hips, revealing her tanned legs, her polka-dotted underwear, and that’s when he noticed the couple one terrace over staring at them. She bounced back onto her feet, her sandals clapping against the tile as she rushed to the edge, and he raised one hand towards them, but they seemed uninterested as they walked back into their room. “It’s fucking beautiful, Smith! I can’t believe it’s
real
!”

“Just wait until you see it at night.” He stepped up behind her, placing his hands on either side of her so he could kiss her shoulder, her neck, the delicate spot just where her jaw began.

Turning in his arms those crystal blue eyes met his, so full of excitement and joy, her lips spread in a real smile that for a long time he had thought impossible. “When is the job?”

Of course she’s thinking about the job while you’re busy imagining a candlelit dinner out here.

Who the fuck are you, and where did you take the real Smith?

Shaking his head he smirked. “We need to get burner cells, and get gear from Bertrand, but the job will be tomorrow. Jean will update us today.”

“So, how long do we have?” Camille’s voice had that low purr to it that would have made him hard in an instant if his cock wasn’t already straining the zipper that her hands were currently toying with.

“Long enough.” Taking her by the arm he pulled her back into the opulent hotel room. A perfect blend of old world aristocracy, and new world taste. He would need to send his thanks to Jean for the recommendation – after he tasted every single inch of Camille.

Twice.

Chapter Twenty

“So, then, Smith turns around and punches this idiot. Knocks him out, and this guy is laying in the street, unconscious, and Smith turns to me -” Jean broke into a round of laughter again, barely composing himself enough to finish the story in his thick accent. “He turns to me and he says, Jean, weren’t we supposed to bring back bread?”

“He fucking asked you about
bread
?” She asked, unable to stifle the laughter as Jean recounted yet another story of Smith’s times in Paris.

“Oui! Yes! He reached for the bag I had on my arm and starts shouting in English about how the one thing he was not to forget was the bread, and now it’s late and all the bakeries will be closed.” Jean cackled at a blushing Smith and patted him on the shoulder. “He was so angry with himself he didn’t even care about the man on the street!”

“I didn’t kill him,” Smith muttered, and Jean burst into another round of laughs.

“You said the same thing that night! Do you remember? When I asked you why you were upset? You said it was because Nathalie had wanted bread with dinner, and I told you she wouldn’t care as long as you brought the wine! Then you said the man had distracted you, and you said ‘at least I didn’t kill him’. Ha! You were crazy!”

“Was Nathalie upset?”

“No!” Jean calmed down, taking another drink of the robust red wine in his glass. “No, she was not. She thought it was funny, just like I did. Told Smith he should watch his temper.”

“Smith?!” Camille laughed, looking over at the always-so-calm Smith in surprise.

“I was twenty-three.”

“He was always ready to fight in those days, not like he is now. I have not even seen him in over two years, three? Bah! He forgets all his old friends, but I can see why…” Jean leaned forward and captured her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles, until Smith kicked Jean’s chair and he leaned back laughing. “Ah, still aggressive where it matters I see!”

“Are you trying to make me angry, Jean?” Smith asked the question in a frigid tone, but the tilt to his lips told her he was joking. This man was clearly an old associate, someone he wouldn’t cast aside over something frivolous.

“No, no, but you have always found the pretty ones. I must be happy with the leftovers!” Jean threw a hand up and then took another hearty sip of his wine. “Well, come, come, should we speak of business now?”

“That would be nice.” Smith responded, and Camille grinned as she leaned forward to look at the folder Jean dropped onto the table. They were in Jean’s flat, far from the bustling tourist-filled area of Paris. He had been the third stop of the afternoon – mobile phones, Bertrand for the hardware, and now Jean for the details.

“What about you, mon beau cherie? Do you have the stomach for talk like this?”

“Tell me who we need to kill, Jean, and I’ll pull the trigger myself.” She smiled, showing her teeth in a borderline feral smile, but he only laughed and leaned back in his seat.

“Vicieux petite fille!” He flipped open the folder and spread out some photos of a dark haired woman, some of her in sunglasses, and others of her sitting at a table in an outdoor café. “This is Sabine Moreau, soon to be ex-wife of the very powerful Thomas Moreau. She cheated on him, for a long time from what I understand, and ran off with this man.”

Smith reached forward to grab a printed sheet of paper with a photo attached. “Gabriel Richard?”

“Yes, and he is not a nice man. Both men are involved in… let us say
imports
, and they are rivals. It seems that Monsieur Moreau struggled whether to place the hit on Sabine or Gabriel, but he believes that Sabine’s death will be the greater punishment. Both for her treachery, and to take her from Gabriel.” Jean grinned over his wine glass. “Paris is known as a city of love, is it not? It seems her citizens take that to heart.”

“Smith mentioned she stole from Thomas, is that true?” She took a sip of the wine, but even though it tasted alright, Camille still glanced around the flat for a bottle of vodka.

No such luck.

“Ah, yes! He gifted her a variety of jewels in their time together. Necklaces, bracelets, rings – worth a lot of money. If you can recover those as well, he would be even more grateful.” Jean rubbed his fingers together, another laugh bursting from his lips. “However, he cares most that she is dead.”

“Alright, where do we find her, Jean?” Smith dropped the papers back onto the table and scooped up his wine glass instead. Skimming the page Camille saw nothing extraordinary. Just another dirty businessman, in another country. Nothing new.

“My contact says he believes she is staying at the Hotel du Louvre, but she and Monsieur Richard have been seen at restaurants in Châtelet for several nights.” He shrugged. “As usual, you will need to choose your own moment to
make your move
as the Americans say.”

“Merci, Jean. We’ll take care of it. I had mentioned we would want –”

“The car, of course.” He stood up and walked into his kitchen, digging in a bag before he returned and tossed a set of keys to Smith. “It may be better to handle this on foot, Paris is a busy city as you remember.”

“Is the car clean?”

“Picked up by one of my friends and made ready for use. Just return it when you’re done, yes?”

“Of course.” Smith smiled and reached towards her, his knuckles brushing her arm. “If you don’t mind though, I promised C an evening to remember in Paris.”

“Well,
C
, I guess I do not get to know your name any more than I know Smith’s?” He chuckled and waved his hand. “It is no trouble to me, enjoy the city. She is a beautiful mistress.”

“Thank you, Jean. This was a lot of fun.” Camille leaned over and planted a kiss on his cheek, just before Smith tugged her back, but it sent Jean laughing again.

“Oh, tsk tsk, mon vicieux petite fille! I cannot even think to challenge Smith for your affections, and your kisses are simply cruel! Go, both of you, enjoy Paris!”

Smith pulled out the little burner mobile they had picked up and checked the time with a sigh. “Yes, we do need to go. Thank you again, Jean.”

It took a while to meander back through the city as the sun set and the rose gold light seemed to set the city on fire. The closer they moved back towards the Eiffel Tower, the more Camille’s heart raced. It was like a dream, all of it, and she didn’t even want to risk pinching herself because she might wake up. There may be a duffel in the back with guns, knives, bullets, and documents condemning some stupid woman to death – but this was still a dream.

Smith navigated the car confidently through narrow streets, and busy thoroughfares, all the way back to the Shangri’La hotel. His fingers entwined with hers above the gear shift.

Finally, as they were heading down the hall to their room he cleared his throat and spoke up, “You know, Shangri’La was first referenced in a novel called ‘Lost Horizon’ by James Hilton. It was supposed to be a mythical paradise.”

“If this is paradise, I’d be glad to end up here.” She smiled as she leaned back against the wall, watching as Smith hiked the heavy duffel up on his shoulder to open the door.

“I’d give you paradise if I could, C, but since I can’t I wanted you to have some memory not steeped in training, or pain, or bloodshed, so…” He pushed open the door, and she could see the flickering light of candles on the walls as she leaned in.

“What is this?” Taking a step into the room she saw tea lights forming a path strewn with rose petals, out to the open terrace. The Eiffel Tower glowed between the doors, lit up at night like something out of a photograph, and she barely noticed the two waiters standing outside as she followed the tiny candles towards the beautifully set table.

“Madame…” One of the men stepped forward and pulled out her chair, and she wished she were in something more elegant than a sundress as she took her seat. Smith had left the duffel somewhere in the room and took his seat opposite.

“
This
is me making sure you never forget Paris.” Smith smiled, all charming male-model, but she was sure he still had a gun tucked somewhere just in case. It only made her smile back harder, as she tore her eyes from his perfection to look out at the tower.

“This doesn’t feel real.”

“It is, madame.” The waiter to her right smiled as he poured wine for them both, the other waiter pulling the covers off two piping hot dishes.

As they ate the meal, drinking too much wine, Smith kept the conversation light. Discussing how after he finished his business they could tour the city, climb the tower, tour the Louvre. When she corrected him that they
both
had business in Paris, even the waiters cracked smiles. It was perfection, and as he dismissed the waiters with the last of the plates – they were left with dessert, the candles on the table, and a beautiful suite. Alone.

“So?” Camille asked, dragging a finger through the chocolate of the whatever-the-fuck dessert was on the table.

“Are you tired? I’m sure the jetlag is killing you, and we both need our energy tomorrow.” Smith’s eyes tracked her finger as she slipped it between her lips, clearing the chocolate away with a swipe of her tongue.

“Oh, I definitely think we need to go to bed, but I’m not tired yet.” She smiled when he immediately stood up from the table.

Elegantly, he extended his hand to her to help her stand. “Then may I request you join me?”

“Like you need to ask?” She grinned as he stepped forward and threw her over his shoulder, laughing when he dipped down to grab the dessert off the table before he walked them back to the bed. The room was impossibly fancy, and when he flipped her onto the bed she bounced on the fluffy, cloudlike bedding. “What exactly are you planning?”

Smith placed a knee on the bed between her thighs, setting the plate of chocolate-whatever to his left. “I plan on devouring every single inch of you, and then making you come loud enough to bother the guests next door.”

“Didn’t you do that earlier?”

“I’m not sure they were in their room earlier.” Smith pulled off her shoes, and then slid his hands up her thighs, pushing the dress out of the way until he could hook his fingers into her underwear and draw them down. He moved excruciatingly slowly, watching as the polka-dotted fabric ran over her thighs, her calves, and then she lifted her feet so he could rid her of them.

“I think you should strip too, it’s only fair.”

“Are we playing fair, tonight?” he asked, as he grabbed the hem of her sundress and shoved it up past her waist, his mouth landing between her thighs, immediately zeroing in on her clit to make her gasp and moan. When she tried to pull back he grabbed onto her hips, teasing her with relentless swipes of his tongue until she was repeating his name over and over, so close, so close – and then he sat up. “Strip.”

“Smith!” she whined, the tension at her core was a brutal taunt, but his eyes held no pity. He was enjoying himself. With a huff she sat up and tore the dress over her head, throwing it off the bed.

“Bra too,
mon vicieux petite mademoiselle
.” Almost the same words Jean had used earlier, but they sounded like more of a growl from Smith, and she grew wetter just hearing them.

“What on earth does that mean?” she asked as she unhooked the bra and tossed it as well, leaning back on her hands, naked in front of a fully-dressed but still impossibly sexy Smith.

“My little…” he nipped at one thigh, “vicious…” he nipped at the other, “miss.” With a lick at her core she arched her back, but he held her in place to focus in on her clit again. Ecstasy stormed through her as the haze of alcohol only amplified each devious flick of his tongue, driving her higher and higher until she was barely able to whimper his name, her fingers finding their way into his hair to hold him in place.

With a swift movement Smith grabbed her wrist and shifted up her body, his clothed hips between her thighs. He held her one wrist against the bed, and she gasped, needy as he rocked his hips against hers. “Please fuck me,” she whispered, and he groaned, leaning down to kiss along her collarbone, before finding her neck and eventually her lips. She could taste herself on his tongue, and it made her want him more.

She was always first. Always.

“Smith!” Her voice was a plea, but when he sat up, all vibrant green eyes and good looks, she was stunned into silence.