An Affair of Vengeance (23 page)

But after a full minute, he walked away, his footsteps fading.

She splashed her hands in the water. Bubbles flew into her eyes, but she didn’t care. She wanted to talk to him but wanted him to come to her, not the other way around. She didn’t want to go to him, sheepish and cringing.

Why had she let herself want him? None of this would have happened if she’d only managed to keep her lonely heart sewn up tight, as it’d been for the years since her parents had died. She’d done just fine, until she’d met McCrea.

She groaned and dunked her head underwater. Hot water seeped into her ears. The silence calmed her nerves.

Then the bathroom door crashed open, bringing Evangeline to the surface in terror. Heart thudding, she pushed wet hair out of her eyes and saw McCrea, wearing nothing but a pair of dark-blue briefs—
very
brief dark-blue briefs.

The wide-eyed look on his face was pure alarm. He didn’t speak, but stared, mouth hanging open.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

He frowned. “You moaned, like you were in pain, and I called to you. You didn’t answer. I assumed…”

“Assumed what?”

“That you might be hurt, or in trouble, or something,” he stammered. She enjoyed watching him squirm.

“What were you going to do, anyway? Fight off my attacker with your broadsword?” She flicked a soap bubble at his penis, not entirely erect but still large in his underwear.

He should have been angry or annoyed, maybe even embarrassed, but he didn’t turn away. He didn’t even hide his eyes. No, he made no secret of where he was looking. Straight at her body, which was no longer protected by a white sheet of bubbles.

Her dramatic movements had depleted her cover, leaving her nakedness exposed in the bathwater. His hot gaze ran over her skin, head to toe, pausing on her chest, lingering over her legs. Heat crept up her throat to her cheeks, but she thrust her chin forward with confidence she didn’t feel.

“Why are you half-naked?” she asked.

“You told me to take my pants off.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Outside, you told me to take them off. Something about ruining carpets.”

She paused and then remembered. “You pick a funny time to start listening to me.”

“I always listen. I just don’t always obey.” It sounded like a joke, but he wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t leaving, either.

Evangeline’s dark eyes trailed down McCrea’s body. He felt them like fingers caressing his skin. He waited for a motion, a gesture, an invitation. He wanted to go to her but wouldn’t unless she gave him permission.

She only sniffed. “Close the door when you leave, please.”

Humiliation burned his ears. He didn’t blame her for discarding him, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt to be cast off. He tried and failed to not slam the door as he stormed out.

That scene in the pool had just about blown his mind and he’d come within a half second of taking her then and there, but
he wouldn’t make love with a woman for a show. He wouldn’t do such a private thing in public, anyway. And in private? Not unless he was damn sure she wanted him, not the man he portrayed or the fleeting moment the passion captured.

The poor girl was lonely. Anyone with eyes and a heart could see that. She was in the mire and holding out a hand to anyone who’d grab it. He’d be sick and twisted to take it and suggest sex in return. Offering her his friendship wasn’t much better. A girl like Evangeline deserved a normal life with nice, kind people in it. He wasn’t any of those things, so it was best if he didn’t get attached.

He paced between the bathroom and the bed, hands clasped on his head in frustration. Damn it all. Couldn’t she tell the difference between her job and her life? That business in the pool was the job, though admittedly it had gotten out of hand. What he wanted to do with her in that bathtub was as genuine as anything he’d ever wanted in his whole life. Didn’t she understand that?

She probably did understand it, better than he did. With a cold flash, McCrea remembered how he’d found her in the first place—getting close to criminals. Of course she knew her job. He
was
the job. He told himself that this whole situation was the job, right down to that blisteringly hot kiss in the pool. That had been all for Kral’s benefit. Of course. He’d mistaken her professionalism for passion.

But to McCrea, there was a big difference between the way you kiss a woman for the job and the way you kiss her if you intend to make love to her. And he’d kissed her like a woman he wanted to make love to, at least at first. He’d started it, and when he saw her sitting in that bathtub, naked as the day she was born, he’d decided that he wanted to finish it. Slowly, deeply, and thoroughly. Her lithe little body had glistened underneath the bubbles. Heaven in a porcelain tub. Wet. Warm. Slippery…

He glanced at the bathroom door, but no. He wouldn’t try again. Too demeaning for both of them. Mostly for him. He’d been the one who’d had to climb out of that pool with a hard-on.
He’d been the one running into the bathroom like a git, in his underwear. But he’d honestly thought she’d fallen, and that she could be lying in there, unconscious, bleeding, needing help. He hadn’t given a thought to what he’d been wearing—or not wearing. Not until he realized that she was perfectly healthy did it dawn on him what it must have looked like for him to bust down the bathroom door. It must have looked like a demand.

Curse it all to hell and back! He didn’t want her to think that he’d push himself on her like that. It wasn’t his way.

Not that he particularly knew what his way was anymore. Now that he knew where his brother had been all these years, his brain was befuddled. To think that his sick, twisted, soulless brother had once walked through this castle as Kral’s henchman made McCrea’s stomach tumble and burn. Kral thought McCrea would make a perfect replacement. He’d continued to push that angle in their private meeting after dinner, dangling possibilities in the air. Millions of dollars. Endless numbers of beautiful women. Power beyond all law. He had only had to reach out and grab them to make them his.

Never. He didn’t know what he’d do with himself once this mission ended and he had to return to London, but he’d figure it out. It could be years before the prosecution of this case was all over, anyhow. He could be sitting behind a desk in some stuffy cubicle in London for the rest of his life.

Sounded like a nightmare.

Buzzing with unspent energy, McCrea walked a circuit of the room, half-tripping over the pile of clothing he’d brought in from the pool. Her discarded shoes lay on their sides. He picked one of them up, tossed it from hand to hand. A light thing, for as chunky as it was. Huge heel. He remembered seeing them float in the pool. Must be real cork. Idly he wondered if they contained secret compartments. His didn’t. He’d been too deep undercover to risk anything so dangerous. But she was CIA. They loved tricky business like that.

Which reminded him that he’d found her sneaking around the cellar earlier. What had she found, and where had she put it?

He moved to within inches of the wall as he tried to pry her shoes apart. If there was a camera in the room, it could not film him from such an angle. After a bit of fiddling, a slice of rubber on the right sole flapped open. He stared at the exposed, raw cork. No irregularities that he could see, certainly no cavity or indication of any button to press for a super-secret slot to pop out. But there was something there. A short, straight fiber, rather like a dog hair, had gotten snagged underneath the crepe rubber sole. Probably nothing. He wiped at it, but it didn’t fall away. Again, with the same result. Was it attached to the shoe? He grabbed it and pulled. It didn’t give, but it was definitely attached to the shoe, and it wasn’t a hair, because it didn’t break when he tugged on it. He wrapped it around his index finger and jerked. It gave way, taking a cylinder of cork with it. A tiny metal device slid into his hand after it.

A camera.

McCrea frowned at the little plastic rectangle in the palm of his hand, and then glanced toward the bathroom door, wondering how much time he had before Evangeline would come to bed. He heard nothing—no splashes, no angry sighs. No sounds of a woman readying herself for sleep. He guessed she was staying away from him for as long as she could.

He popped out the camera’s memory card, a micro SD about the size of a dime and weightless in his hand. It wouldn’t take much to tuck it into the slit on the inside of his belt. She’d never know. She’d think, maybe, that she’d forgotten to load the memory card before shoving the camera into her shoe. She wasn’t a forgetful woman, but finding a camera where it belonged but without a memory card might make her doubt herself.

He knew what his commanding officer would say.
Take the card. Don’t hesitate. CIA will never give up the goods once they take them in-house
.

But could he? Should he? She’d been bugging him and stealing his stuff since he met her, but once they landed on the same side of the battle, she’d been nothing but loyal. Strong-willed, yes, but utterly faithful and compassionate.

She wouldn’t do it to him. And he wouldn’t do it to her.

He slipped the card back into the camera, and the camera back into the shoe. The shoes he returned to where they’d been dropped on the carpet. He turned, walked to the window, and looked out on the moonlit valley. Deep indigo blue draped over the landscape. Billions of stars twinkled above the quaint town at the base of the fortress.

His mission might be wrapping up, but the dull ache in his gut told him that this wasn’t the only moral challenge he’d have to face before it was over.

When morning broke, McCrea had been up for an hour. As soon as he heard the silvery clatter of breakfast being served in the courtyard, he exited the stuffy suite, leaving Evangeline asleep on the bed in acres of red silk. He marveled at her ability to sleep so soundly amid such chaos. He’d barely closed his eyes all night.

Walking on the terrace that overlooked the courtyard, he saw that few other guests were awake so early. Just the men. A brisk breeze blew through the compound, bringing the warm, woodsy smell of rosemary.

“Good morning.” Kral greeted him from the head of the breakfast table. He wore another off-white linen suit. His smile was a viper strike, all teeth and seeping venom. “Did you and your lovely enjoy your evening?”

McCrea did not return the smile. “Of course. The suite is more than adequate, thank you.”

“More than adequate, indeed.” Kral laughed, his eyes keen and penetrating.

McCrea met his glance levelly, unemotionally, before reaching to serve himself a piece of warm quiche.

Not surprisingly, the other men at the table were already hitting the bottle. A particularly chubby, red-faced man gave him a wide grin. “Can I interest you in a Bloody Mary? It is particularly bloody this morning,” the drunkard said with a slurred French accent, pointing a chewed celery stick to a highball of thick red liquid.

“No.” He turned away and poured himself a glass of orange juice from a chilled carafe. It was fragrant and fresh, thankfully free of alcohol, with pulp that popped deliciously in his mouth.

“We have not met before,
oui?
” the Bloody Mary man said, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. He stuck that hand out over the table to McCrea. “I am Pierre-Louis.”

“McCrea.” He had to shake the man’s wet hand.

Pierre-Louis waved an index finger at the two other men sitting at the table, one short and fat, the other tall and skinny. “Over there we have Claude and Jean-Marie. Gaston still sleeps.”

“Pleasure.” McCrea nodded at each in turn. “What brings you here?”

“Peace and quiet,” Claude bellowed, lifting his glass in a half toast. “No chattering women. No screaming children. No blasted accountants. Just men of stature, card games, and plenty of liquor.”

“There are women, too, you know,” Kral said. “Did you see them? I believe you had one in your bed last night.”

“Yes, but she wasn’t my wife, so I forgave her for the intrusion.”

Riotous male laughter echoed in the courtyard.

“And what business are you in?” Pierre-Louis tilted his head in question to McCrea.