An Affair of Vengeance (8 page)

After two blocks of walking, he sidestepped into a small shop, as she’d known he would. The wooden sign hanging above it read “Chocolatier.”

Chocolate! Of all things. He went from buying shoulder-fired antiaircraft missiles to bonbons? It’d be funny if it weren’t so strange. He hardly seemed the type of man who would enjoy
a pleasure as visceral as chocolate. Maybe he was trying to trip any surveillance. Classic espionage tradecraft dictated that one should meander through stores to detect a shadow. Perhaps criminals received the same sort of training.

Or maybe he was buying a present for a lover.

The notion jolted her, but of course he might have a lover. He was handsome. That much was objective fact. Authority radiated from him like heat from the sun. And he had plenty of cash, enough to buy custom-fitted suits and fine Italian-leather loafers. With power and money, for every woman his criminality repelled, another would jump forward to take her turn.

Gold-digging morons.

And yet, he was an attractive man, and he had held her sweetly enough the night before…

No. Women attracted to men like McCrea were victims of their own wishful thinking. They believed that a man could be changed by the love of a good woman. But men like Penard, who trafficked impoverished Russian girls into the slums of Marseille for forced prostitution, and Ménellier, who ran a knife across his last girlfriend’s face when she tried to break up with him, never changed.
That
was the sort of man whom she now followed. Not some mere bad boy with the capacity for reform if only he could meet the right woman. For men like this, there was no reform. To think anything else was the most dangerous kind of romanticism—the kind that could get her killed.

That he’d caught her when she’d fallen last night and not felt her up or thrown her down? Must have been temporary nobility. She’d see no more of it.

She walked past the chocolate shop and noted that its alleyaccess door was behind the counter. It’d be difficult for McCrea to make his way to it easily, and thus she judged it unlikely that he’d choose that shop to disappear through.

She paused a few storefronts away to look at a display of colorful women’s hats. The rich, yeasty smell of fresh bread
wafted down the street from one of many
boulangeries
. Her belly growled; she’d forgotten to eat breakfast, possibly dinner last night, too. But this was no time for diversions.

She’d lingered as long as would be rational in front of the haberdashery. McCrea was still picking his bonbons. Irritated, she swung into the shoe shop next door. Shoe shopping seemed a likely salve for a socialite who was just stood up for breakfast, and she could monitor his exit reasonably well from inside, as long as she stuck near the window. Just as she picked up a pair of red leather peep toes, McCrea strolled past, his hands tucked casually into his khakis, a tiny red bag from the chocolate shop hanging from his wrist.

Coolly, Evangeline dropped the shoes and walked toward the exit. As she rounded the door, her target’s long legs disappeared into another shop, this one a large corner market, too big for her to watch from outside, let alone spot its alley doors. In an ideal world, she’d have a couple of partners to trade off the surveillance with, but the Agency rarely set up ideal worlds for its officers. She had only herself, and a mission to find out where McCrea went after his meeting.

She’d have to follow him inside the store to be sure he didn’t slip out the back, but it seemed perfectly reasonable to her that the idle society girl she played might require a trip to a market.

She entered the store, packed with customers, with a charcuterie at the front and floor-to-ceiling steel shelves packed with wine and various French delicacies everywhere else. Deep in the aisles, she examined glass jars of preserved peppers and small tins of sardines, and tried to spot her prey.

There he was, standing near the back of the store by an employees-only door—very likely an exit to the alley—reading the label on a bottle of wine. Spine straight, head down, he looked relaxed and thoughtful, precisely like a man considering what wine he would serve with dinner that evening, or with the chocolate
he’d just purchased for dessert. His long thumb wiped the bottle like a caress.

She endeavored to give the impression of ignoring him, and walked farther down the aisle. Nearby shelves featured sherry, a strong, sweet wine that her mother had loved and that she’d only recently begun to appreciate. The dusty labels were familiar, but she searched for something special. Amontillado del Duque, one of the finest sherries in the world, one that called for a snowy cabin, a roaring fire, and a dangerously sexy man. Perhaps not quite what her Marseille playgirl might desire, but sometimes, honest interest did a better job of masking an operative’s intent than the best disguise.

She lifted the bottle off the shelf like it was a newborn baby.

“Del Duque is not for the faint of heart.”

Damn!
That cool Scottish ruggedness was unmistakable—McCrea had gotten behind her. The man was as stealthy as a stalking puma.

“Je suis désolée. Je ne parle pas anglais,”
she mumbled, feigning confusion at his English. She tossed him a friendly but dismissive smile of apology and tried to move away. Looking too closely at her might tip him off. Green contact lenses made her brown eyes a subtle hazel, and bright orange liner applied just outside of her natural lip line broadened her mouth a millimeter in every direction. A heavy dose of expertly applied foundation and bronzer had even darkened her skin tone a shade.

Because she normally wore very little makeup besides a heavy streak of black eyeliner, these little differences in application combined to make her look not disguised, but simply unlike herself. In her experience, looking unlike herself was enough of a disguise. Any effort at further concealment only drew unwanted attention.

But all of that required a certain distance to work, and McCrea wasn’t giving her any.

He reached around her and grabbed the bottle, temporarily embracing her from behind. The scent of his cologne hit her
nose. Richly spiced cedar this morning, with an earthy base that made her think of a lakeside lodge. Her senses liked it. A second deep breath sent her shoulders back into his chest. Startled, she whirled around.

“Bad drink for such a little mouse,” he said, not moving back an inch.

His dark tone and immobility conveyed a warning. He was on to her, but whether he merely recognized her from the hotel, or whether he knew her as the waitress from last night, she couldn’t tell.

“Je ne vous connais?.”
she said, asking him if they were acquainted.

“I thought you couldn’t speak English.”

She stared at him, taking in the gentle curve of his mouth, the hard ridges of his cheekbones, and the intensity of his golden eyes, and considered her options. She could keep pretending to be French, but it was harder than simply being an American. Lying was easier when you kept it simple and changed as few details as possible about your actual identity. And if he did, by some device, recognize her from last night, he’d know she was an American already. It’d be almost impossible to think of a story to explain it all.

So she reverted to her native tongue and accent as she said, “To strange men who try to speak to me while I shop, I don’t.”

He almost smiled. The corners of his mouth twitched, at least. “That’s wise. Forgive me. I was looking for del Duque, and when I saw it in your hands, I felt…possessive.”

“Of the wine?”

“Naturally.” His low, rumbling voice feathered her skin.

She reminded herself that Penard had run away bleeding from La Banque last night, and she swiveled away to put more space between them. She waved an orange-manicured hand toward the shelf. “There are more bottles. No need to get possessive.”

“I’m sure.” He kept pace behind her as she walked down the aisle. “But it’s unusual to find anyone hunting for the same thing that I am.”

Cold sweat ran between her breasts. He wasn’t just talking about the sherry. He knew, or at least suspected, that she was following him. This was a dance, then, as each tried to see just what the other wanted.

“My mother loved sherry,” she said, letting a touch of sadness break her voice. “Particularly this one. She died eight years ago. I wanted to toast her memory with her favorite drink.”

“I’m very sorry.” His light-brown eyes darkened. “I can’t relate. My mother’s choice of oblivion was slightly less sophisticated.”

She didn’t know how to take that. Was it a brush of honesty, or a play for her sympathy? “I’m afraid it’s my turn to not relate. My mother didn’t drink to oblivion.”

“Our mothers would have had nothing in common,” he said darkly, but then seemed to make an effort to brighten his tone. “But yours had excellent taste. Drink her a toast for me.”

“Who should I say wishes her well?”

Whatever smile may have been loosening his mouth vanished. “Call me a fellow lover of fortified wines.”

Of course he wouldn’t give her his name. She hadn’t planned on any of this, but she was nothing if not opportunistic. The surveillance op had turned into a potential recruitment. Mason would be pleased. She pointed to the black bottle, which still rested in his hands. “I was thinking of having it as a cocktail, before dinner. Care to join me?”

His jaw loosened. Surprised. “Join you?”

“Yes. For cocktails.” She liked his perturbation. It gave her confidence to see him off balance. “Are you free tonight? We could meet. Say, around eight?”

He coughed a brief, hard laugh. “You are a cocky little sparrow, aren’t you?”

“C’est grossier!”
Evangeline gasped, commenting on his rudeness. “What do you mean by that?”

“Enough,” he said, stepping closer. “We are not strangers. I saw you at the hotel. I recognize you from last night. And I don’t believe in coincidences.”

So it was as bad as that. Blown, both times. She didn’t move backward but stared up at him through her eyelashes. The recruitment might have to be a crash, rather than a slow seduction. But she would try to keep her options open by convincing him that she was what she claimed to be. “The hotel? You were at the Metro?” She tapped her lips with her forefinger. “Where did you see me?”

“I’m not playing this game. You were in the lobby, talking to those two blondes.”

She laughed. “No wonder, then. Those girls never shut up long enough to breathe, let alone let me see who else might be wandering around. Sorry, must have missed you.”

“And last night, at La Banque?”

She arched an eyebrow. “I work there. Still waiting for my tip, by the way.”

“You don’t get much for bread and water.”

“I’d have brought you anything you wanted.” In the silence that stretched between them, she realized the implications of what she’d said.

He watched her for a second, and then grabbed her long ponytail and stroked it to its tip. “Your hair. It’s different.”

Her breath hitched as his hand on her hair drew tension through her neck. “I hate doing anything the same way twice.”

His eyes narrowed. “And why were you in my hotel?”

“They do a great fake high tea. We were in the mood for scones and Devonshire cream.” She tossed her head, flipping her hair back over her shoulder. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. Are you done with the twenty questions?”

“Just one more.” His lips nuzzled her neck as he leaned close and set the wine back on the shelf behind her. “Why are you following me?”

“Please. I don’t even know you. Hell, as far as I can tell, you’re

the one following me.” She brushed her cheek against his and

whispered, “Are you spying on me?”

He pulled back and laughed, but the sound was harsh and

lacked amusement. “Spying on you? No, I was not spying on you.”

The sensual angle was working. It felt natural, and if she had no further hope of staying beneath his attention, at least she had his interest. So she pressed on with it. “Too bad. I like being spied upon.”

He eyed her speculatively. “You American girls are aggressive.”

“The ones who choose to waitress in dirty European cities are.”

“Only when they choose to follow men like me.”

They stared at each other, as if each were daring the other to break first. Finally, she smiled. “So, are you on for tonight? Don’t make me drink alone.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, and then turned and exited through the alley door.

M
cC
REA STALKED THE
narrow alley behind the market and wondered what in the hell he was doing.

This woman—whoever she was, and whomever she worked for—was an unnecessary complication. He’d be best off losing her. It wouldn’t have been hard. He’d been seconds away from disappearing through that back door when she’d entered the market. He could have vanished, but he’d chosen to stay. Worse, he’d chosen to approach. To talk. Hell, to flirt.

Because when she’d walked through that door, he’d been more intrigued than irritated. It’d been years since he’d been pursued by a woman, and he found himself liking the chase.