An Affair of Vengeance (18 page)

“That’s why.”

“I’m glad to know.” He let the car speed down an incline. “But however personal this gets, don’t make me play guessing games for information again. It’ll get us killed.”

“Likewise.”

He didn’t respond, and she let the conversation die.

Several miles later, he slowed the vehicle to turn onto a side road. Goose bumps raised the skin on her arms as they drove into a scrubby forest that veiled the late-summer sun. Ten minutes later, the road took a sharp turn and cleared the forest, entering the mouth of a small valley. A gray-green hill slumbered hazily in the distance.

Two men in forest-camouflage fatigues stepped across their path to bar their progress. McCrea slowed to a stop and gave the men a nod.

One leaned close, keeping the muzzle of his Heckler & Koch assault rifle pointed respectfully at the ground. “Name?”

“McCrea.”

“And her?”

“Evangeline,” McCrea said.

The man frowned. “She’s not supposed to be here.”

“I say she is.”

“I’ll have to call.” The guard backed away. The second man didn’t blink as he stared the pair down from the front of the car. After a short, hidden conversation, the lead guard waved them through, and McCrea continued driving, heading toward the valley and hills beyond.

“No gate,” she said.

“I doubt anybody gets this far unless they’re invited.”

A quick movement to her right told her he was telling the truth. Three camouflaged men appeared at the edge of the forest and retreated just as quickly, clearly on patrol, or to inform McCrea and his guest that they were under armed surveillance at all times.

He shifted into a lower gear as the car began an ascent to a village carved into the side of a high peak. As they drove closer, she made out tight streets and alleys connecting the densely packed, red-roofed buildings of the town. Slatted shutters as blue
as the pale summer sky framed most windows. A hulking gray fortress capped the hill.

They crossed a single-lane bridge over a ravine and entered the hamlet. Stucco-walled buildings crowded the road, darkening the crannies through which their small car barely squeezed. Up they drove, past dusty squares and empty alleys. Here and there, Evangeline saw life. A wrinkled old woman in a black head scarf scowled at them through an attic window. Two towheaded boys kicked a soccer ball down a dead-end street. A handful of middle-aged women chatted while hanging laundry in a sunny lane.

Her jaw dropped when she heard them speak. “Those women were speaking Czech. Krai was born in Prague. That can’t be a coincidence.”

He glanced at her. “Agreed.”

Activity increased the closer they got to the top of the town. Around a corner she glimpsed a handful of girls riding bicycles, hooting and hollering just as she had when she was a kid. Three old men wearing black hats and vests sat in slatted wooden chairs under the shade of a striped awning, drinking tall, frosty glasses of pale beer.

What
was
this place? As much research as she’d done into Krai’s background, she hadn’t heard anything about a lost city of Czechs in the middle of France, but then, no operatives had ever gotten so close to the estate. From satellite imaging, they’d assumed that he only controlled the fortress at the top of the hill. Now, she realized the whole village was under his thumb.

After navigating the narrow road through town, they came to a tall metal gate that marked the boundary of the old fortress. Guards in burgundy livery—no camouflage this time—saluted McCrea before the gate rolled open with a well-oiled hum. A few flashy Italian sports cars mingled with a handful of sleek black Mercedes-Benzes, Audis, and BMWs in the parking lot.

McCrea pulled up the brake. Two men trotted out of the shadows to open their doors. Evangeline stepped onto the smooth
cobbles of the inner sanctum and waited for McCrea as he flung a khaki jacket over his shoulder and walked to her side. He took her arm without comment and led her across the courtyard to the large wooden door of the main building. The door opened by unseen hand.

A glint of sunlight on metal caught her eye right before they entered. A man in camouflage fatigues paced upon the wall above her, the business end of his G36 trained on the valley below.

It was comforting, at least, to have their guns pointed somewhere other than at her, but the sight was a sobering reminder that as dramatic and beautiful as this strange hilltop retreat might seem, it was nonetheless a dangerous lair.

A silver-haired gentleman in a formal cutaway coat greeted them in the dark foyer. He bowed. “Monsieur and mademoiselle, welcome. Your presence is much anticipated. If you please, I will take you to your rooms. Do not bother with your bags; they will be unpacked in your dressing room within the hour.”

The butler led the way up tightly spiraling stone stairs. Bright yellow sunlight sliced in through slit windows cut into the walls. At the first landing, he opened a door and proceeded onto a loggia overlooking a large courtyard.

“You’ll find most guests by the pool in the inner courtyard, just there. Dinner will be served by the pool at eight o’clock.” Their guide pointed a bony forefinger down to a rectangular pool ringed by a forest of potted plants. A handful of women in bikinis reclined on chaises. A group of men sat under an umbrella playing a game of cards. Strains of gypsy music reached her ears.

“It’s lovely,” Evangeline said, letting herself smile, for it truly was.

A grin split the man’s wrinkled face. “Yes, mademoiselle. It is.”

“Oh, McCrea! I can’t wait to go swimming.” She tugged at his sleeve, wondering exactly what sort of public affection he’d give her.

“Indeed.” He was impassive.

“Here are your rooms.” The butler opened a door at the far end of the promenade. “You will find a bath through the door to the left. Is there anything else I can do to be of service?”

“No, thank you.” McCrea gave the man a brief nod of dismissal and he disappeared at a speed that belied his wrinkles and gray hair.

McCrea abruptly pulled Evangeline into the room and closed the door. Mellow afternoon sunlight shone through two tall windows, highlighting a canopied bed that sat two steps up on a pedestal in the center of the room. Silken red-and-gold blankets and innumerable fluffy pillows made her think it was fit for a harem.

She was suddenly, uncomfortably, very aware of McCrea’s strong grip on her arm. He must have sensed the increase in tension, too, because he dropped his hand so quickly it slapped against his thigh.

Her cheeks flushed hot. The last thing she needed to think about was slapping that man’s thighs. “I’ll just be in the bathroom freshening up.”

His hand caught her elbow as she passed him. “Not yet,” he said and spun her around.

She softened against his body as if she’d embraced him a thousand times before. Easily, smoothly, like a habit she couldn’t break. His teeth nipped her earlobe.

“Showtime,” he whispered.

Of course. They stood together in front of the huge windows overlooking the town, highly visible for anyone who cared to wonder about their relationship. She exhaled, and her chest hurt. His sudden desire was a charade. But what else could it be? Passion was their assignment. It got her to Krai. That was its only function, and for her to view it in any other way was foolish. Not only would her desire confuse and distract her at a time when she most needed to be sharp, but to grow dependent upon McCrea’s presence would only leave her bereaved when he left. One way or the other, they’d separate when the mission ended. That was the
way of things in the clandestine world. Though they were forced to pretend a physical relationship, which was in itself no small thing to cease, emotional dependences were harder to break and rightly avoided.

Her partner’s competent hands skimmed her belly and around her backside. He applied pressure, dragging her closer. His hips bumped her stomach, and he ducked his head to kiss her. Shades of last night’s lust blew into the room, but this was different. Oh, his mouth felt the same, smooth and soft, and his tongue was equally skilled. But he held something back. She couldn’t know what it was, but the coldness in his kiss made her eyes well up with unexpected tears. His professional detachment felt complete, and though she admired his strength and focus, she’d never felt lonelier.

Which was exactly why she had told herself not to get physically involved in the first place. That aching dejection in the pit of her belly meant that she’d already become hooked on his touch, and she had no idea how to break herself free. So she cursed him for touching her like he’d meant it last night and kicked herself for wanting him to do it again. If only he hadn’t kissed her like a lover in his hotel room and on the dance floor, maybe she’d never know what she was missing now.

One of his hands rustled into her hair and seized a fistful of knotted curls as his tongue played against hers, more delicately than before. His touch seemed to thaw and gather intention. Her pulse raced to where his hands warmed her skin—the back of her head, the rise of her butt. That palm on her rear slid down to cup her gently, his fingers spread wide over her cotton-covered flesh. He was so unbearably close, she couldn’t stop her hands from running down his thighs, from hips to knees. Hard as extruded steel under her fingertips, his legs flexed and vibrated against her touch.

He felt the pull of attraction, too. She knew it. That telltale quiver in his muscles gave him away. At least he wanted her,
she thought, as she melted into him. At least she wasn’t the only one adrift. They were lost together. Her loneliness abated—sweet, blissful reprieve! The full-throated rasp of his tortured groan sent her limbs trembling and brain spinning.

She remembered the enormous bed, so nearby, and pushed him back toward it. Get it done, she thought. Get it over with, and perhaps afterward they could think clearly. She had little left to lose, at any rate. She was already his.

But his head snapped up as he stumbled backward. A dark cloud twisted his features before he reacquired his usual straightfaced cool. “Good work,” he mumbled, hardly loudly enough for her to hear. “Now find the bugs.”

He was right, of course. But how she hated that he was always the first to realize that they’d gone far enough. Next time she’d pretend to be the professional one, she swore to herself as she walked into the bathroom. Ignoring the beauty of the white marble floors and glowing bronze fixtures, she stared at her reflection in the gold-framed mirror.

Her eyes were wet, still. Damn it. She looked overcome and felt undone. He had to know how deeply this all affected her, and she hated exposing her secret weakness.

She found a towel and washed her face, patting it dry as she poked around the room, assessing the high-end French toiletries but really looking for cameras and microphones. She investigated casually at first, nothing more than the opening and closing of cabinets that a curious girl might do when she arrived at a new place. But when she found no obvious surveillance devices, she searched with greater intensity. The bathroom looked clean, sparkling, and secure.

When she returned to the bedroom, McCrea stood by the bed, running his hands over the layers of canopied fabric.

“What’s up?”

“How did you find the bathroom?” he asked generically.

“Oh, lovely. Clean,” she added, with a quick meaningful nod.

“Likewise.” He glanced around, his golden eyes darting from the rich wood floor to the carved-plaster ceiling. He took a few steps closer to her and spoke into her ear. “I found nothing. He may not bug his own home.”

“We can’t assume anything.”

His chin brushed her forehead. “I know. We’ll stay on our toes.”

“Agreed. Now what?”

“I go see who we’re dealing with. You stay here.”

“Stay here? No way.” She pushed away far enough to give him a glare. “I’m not twiddling my thumbs while you do the dirty work.”

“Fine. Go to the pool. Mingle, as playthings do.” He turned on his heel and strode out the door, slamming it behind him.

She stared after him, feeling snubbed. He’d grown mean again, as he had been when they first met at La Banque. She wondered why he was so changeable around her, but she couldn’t know what he was thinking and sure as hell wouldn’t ask him for clarification. Talking about their feelings seemed absurd. Focusing on her mission was the only course of action.

She found the dressing room, which was nearly as large as her whole apartment back in Marseille. Her bag had yet to arrive; she imagined that it would spend a while being thoroughly searched by a security team. They would find nothing, but she would have to make do until it arrived. In a drawer she found a white bikini with its sales tags still attached. Gulping at the price, she slipped it on and found it fit well enough with a few adjustments. A quick tour through the shoe selection won her a pair of high-heeled, Italian-made sandals. Leather insoles caressed her feet when she slipped them on. She analyzed her reflection in a full-length mirror and realized that she looked naked. Did she need a skirt, maybe, or some kind of cover-up?

No. None of the other women by the pool were modestly dressed. It’d have to be jewelry. She pawed through a large velvetlined case and found a sparkly crystal necklace and jingly silver bracelets that made her feel less exposed.

No more excuses. She took a deep breath and strode out to the courtyard to cavort with the maidens.

Women lounged around the pool like cats in the sun, languid and bored, barely lifting their heads as Evangeline approached. The men sitting around an umbrella-shaded table ignored her, too, each focused on his hand of cards.

Conjuring up a lazy smile, she spread a towel across an empty teak chaise and sat. Warmth from the wood radiated through the towel and relaxed her bones. To her right, a lithe brown-skinned beauty who looked to be about nineteen turned her head and grinned.

“Nice, isn’t it?”

Her English was clear, but lightly accented with something that sounded equal parts Spanish, French, and Italian. Must be Portuguese.

Evangeline sighed. “Absolutely. I couldn’t wait to get down here.”