On The Rocks (4 page)

Her best bet was to wait them out. Sit tight
to the end of the line a few stops away. That kept her destination
protected, and also increased her tail’s risk of exposure since the
faces of the riders would change.

A good shadow would know that.

A good shadow would
expect
that.
Maybe have someone new waiting there to pick her up.

Hm.

The train eased to a stop at an aboveground,
elevated platform, and the hustle and shuffle inside the car
started up before the pneumatic doors had even popped open. Once
they did, the real dance began, with people shouldering and
sidestepping to get on or off. Bags snagged legs, someone cursed,
someone else stood to give an older woman their seat.

Hand still on the overhead bar, Kizzie
gently rocked back and forth from her heel to the ball of her foot
and back again. Over and over. Sifting through the faces that
remained.

At the doors nearest her, the intense
push-pull of bodies trading places trickled to a stop. But the
faucet was still leaking at the exit farther away.

“
Doors closing,”
came across the
speakers, garbled and low.

Kizzie tugged the cap down lower, like she
could burrow inside of it and hide there. But the best way to hide
from a shadow? Drag it into the light.

At the last possible second, she stepped
between two people and darted for the exit. A commotion sounded
behind her, and as she glanced back she saw a couple more people
had made the last-minute leap.

Mr. Mirrored Sunglasses was one of them.

The other was a mother of twin curly-haired
girls, both rockin’ purple Doc McStuffins shirts and a head full of
barrettes. Unless whoever had sent the tail was recruiting
five-year-olds and harried moms, the guy in the glasses was
definitely her shadow.

Waiting in the crowd on the platform, Kizzie
watched from a distance as he casually looked around. Then he
headed to the stairs to get to ground level. She shadowed him now.
Kept her distance, letting it grow between them bit by bit.

He stayed straight for a while, glancing up
at the overhangs of different shops like he was searching for an
address. When he turned off 125
^th
St., Kizzie let him
go. She jogged a couple blocks east, deeper into Harlem’s main
shopping strip where more people would be gathered. Crowds were her
friends. The heavier the better. Made getting lost a whole lot
easier.

Three blocks away, she checked behind her.
The man wasn’t following. Had he ever been?

The people on the street were fully
engrossed in their own lives, conducting business, laughing with
friends. She was just another faceless person they’d pass in their
busy day.

The feeling of being watched hit her again
and she frowned. Looked around her. Checked the other side of the
street.

No one.

Paranoid much?

Yep. Kept her breathing.

Instead of picking up the pace, Kizzie
slowed, hell-bent on tagging her tail. An art store was to her left
and she stopped there. Perfect place to window shop.

Using the reflections in the glass, she
watched the activity on the street. Behind her, vendors hocked
books, oils, and handcrafted goods— right beside knock-off
“designer” handbags and bootleg movies. The flow of foot traffic
slowed to a knot at the tables as people stopped to survey the
items.

Still, there was no one who appeared to be
following her. She shook her head. Maybe Bill was right.

Not so long ago, he’d told her an agent
loses her edge going after what she thinks she wants. She couldn’t
even peg a shadow today, so clearly she’d dulled a bit since her
trip with Xander.

As she thought of her Dom yet again, her
gaze pierced the glass partition and landed on the six easels
spanning the display area of the store. Each tripod housed a piece
of framed art, each piece a seascape. One drew her attention.

In it, a small white boat battled the
raging, deep blue sea, navigating the narrow space between two
rocky outcroppings. Rough waters shot up over the sides as the boat
rode dangerously close to one of the craggy formations.

In the foreground, the sea was calm. A hint
of the shore crept along the bottom edge of the canvas, the swells
like tranquil ripples on a pond.

But in the background, a wave so big is
blocked out the sky threatened to swallow the boat whole and spit
out its bones. Made splitting those rocky sentinels look like the
easy part.

Kizzie frowned. Was that boat coming or
going?

Yep. That was exactly the type of shit she
wanted to hang on a wall at her house in Panama. Because all that
angst and foreboding was
just
what guests wanted to ponder
while chugging sorrel behind caramiñolas and patacones.

Guests.

Eating a meal.

At a house she hadn’t been to in over six
months.

Pfft.

Time to move to a different window.

She waited a beat longer, sidestepped an
inch, and paused.

In her periphery, a figure stood one store
over. White male. Tall. Breathing a little heavier than would be
considered normal.

Kizzie angled her head and her own breathing
nearly stopped.

Mr. Mirrored Sunglasses.

The hairs on the nape of her neck stood
tall, and a wave of adrenaline honed her senses. Every thud of her
heart was a symphony, and she forced down quiet, deep breaths to
stave off her body’s natural inclination to panic.

Whatever this guy wanted, it couldn’t be
good. And nothing was less good than dead.

But it wouldn’t be with a gun. Too loud, too
many witnesses. So any attack would be short, quick, and discreet.
Small needle filled with dimethylmercury? Maybe a little
polonium-210 on her skin and clothes? Both easy enough to
administer. Both really slow, really painful ways to go.

Don’t let him touch you.

He started toward her, and her breathing
kicked up.

Forgetting discretion, she reached for the
gun at her low back, pivoting to track him as he strolled by.

But he didn’t make a move.

Didn’t seem to notice her at all.

Nope, he just kept on walking down the
street. A couple of storefronts away, he tipped his head back to
read the overhang, and then disappeared into a shop.

Kizzie’s gaze darted from person to person.
And still, not a soul was interested in her in the slightest.

Jesus, she was paranoid today. Did she even
have a shadow?

Enough of this. Time to get to the meet.

Tightening the straps of her rucksack melded
the bag to her back. She headed east once more to hail a cab to get
over to the northwest side of town.

Still laughing at her delusions, Kizzie
shook her head and glanced over her shoulder.

Four storefronts away, the guy with the
mirrored shades stared right at her.

And then, he started to run.

Paris, France

THE BLACK CAB inched its way along the
crowded streets, meandering in the rush hour traffic and headed no
place in particular. In the back seat, Xander Duquesne shifted his
shoulders, staring out the window. Paris was gorgeous in the
evening, with the sun going down and the lights coming up. And all
that beauty was wasted on him because his mind was on other
things.

Or, more precisely, on Kizzie.

“What
do you owe him?
”

“
Everything you think I am…”

Since he’d left her in Virginia, that brief
Q and A segment had been playing on an endless loop in his head. No
matter how hard he worked to dissect her answer, examining it in
the context of what little he knew about her, Xander was no closer
to understanding the meaning.

No closer to understanding Kizzie,
either.

Or his feelings for her.

The woman was maddening. Deliberately
difficult most days. Had a mouth on her that made sailors blush and
a tongue sharp enough to flay a man to the bone.

And she was his sub.

He grinned.

The particulars of that were still up in the
air —which seemed to be the constant state of their relationship—
but on this he was certain: This thing with Kizzie? He wanted
it.

Didn’t know what it was or where it was
headed. Didn’t know how it would work, given their current
occupations, but he wanted it.

Bad.

Probably more than he should.

Probably more than she did.

And at the intersection of those two paths,
things got dangerous, didn’t they.

“We go around again?”

Xander pulled himself from his thoughts and
his gaze from the window. Glanced at the reflection of the cabbie’s
thin face in the rearview.

The man hid his nerves behind a wall of
indifference, like this was an every day thing where someone got
into his cab and let him run up the meter. He’d taken advantage of
it, too, traveling past all the slow-moving, high-traffic spots —
the Arc, the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower. Down to the Seine, following
the gentle curves of the road along the river as far from the heart
of downtown as he dared before he doubled back.

And then they went again, carving a fissure
through the city that mirrored the infinite loop playing in
Xander’s head.

The driver eyed him suspiciously the entire
time, but Xander didn’t know why. Probably wondered why someone
would pay him to go in circles. Most people leaving the airport
were in a rush to get home or to a hotel. See loved ones and all
that jazz.

Xander was in a hurry to get a break.

He buried a yawn inside a deep breath. The
time changes were catching up to him. In less than a week he’d seen
Tokyo, DC, Paris, Nice, Monaco and was now back in Paris. Phil was
already gassing up the jet to have him back in Monaco in a little
over twelve hours, and the road didn’t end there.

Sleep wasn’t the only thing he’d lost in
that short time frame. There was the six million dollar hit from
investing in Harvey and the ten million he’d planned to sell it for
that he’d never see. Plus he’d had to smooth things over with a
pissed off buyer who really didn’t seem to care that he’d almost
been vaporized while ensuring the bomb didn’t explode.

No wonder he felt like a ping-pong ball,
bouncing from place to place and crisis to crisis. This extended
cab ride gave him a minute to slow down and collect his thoughts.
Maybe he
should
do another circuit.

Angling toward the center of the cab, Xander
checked the meter, then the clock above it. As it stood, the fare
was close to two hundred euros and he wasn’t even near his
destination. The money wasn’t the problem.

The issue was time.

Story of his life.

“Again?” the cabbie asked, growing antsier
by the second.

“No.” Xander rattled off the address he
wanted and glanced down at the phone in his hand. Pressed ‘2’.
Hovered his thumb over the icon to connect them.

He really wanted to call her.

Actually, he really wanted Kizzie beside
him. Fundamentally, he understood why she’d stayed behind. She was
a good agent —though she’d be better working with him— who fully
believed in the work she was doing. Still, knowing the reasons
didn’t erase the sting of her decision.

Or the constant ache in his groin over her
choice.

Just the thought of her and his cock jerked.
His abs clenched tight like he was doing hanging sit-ups, and his
jaw locked down hard, teeth grinding. He would
not
get hard
in the back of this cab, dammit. One public erection was
enough.

He'd done a little shopping in Monaco the
day before, and as the salesman walked him through the second deck,
going on and on about the lush appointments and plush furnishings,
all Xander could think about was fucking Kizzie on the couch. For
starters.

That had him hard in a heartbeat, and Tokyo
replayed in his head— her mouth on his, her nipples against his
tongue, the smell of her sex after he’d spanked her. It took all
kinds of deep breathing to get himself under control.

Kind of like now.

He dragged a slow and steady through his
nose and adjusted in the seat.

Kizzie might be all hard edges and badassery
wrapped in a beautiful package, but when she softened…?

Damn,
when she softened…

She’d given him a nugget of hope that
another try at a full-on D/s relationship was worth it. Pending, of
course, that’s what she wanted. Then they just had to overcome
things like distance, his criminal past, present, and future, and
her working for the CIA under that asshole Bill Connolly. For
starters.

Minor details.

The cabbie pulled the car to the curb and
spun in the seat. “Two hundred twenty-seven.” He smiled, showing
small, grayish teeth.

Resting the phone on his thigh, Xander
pulled his wallet from his coat pocket. Frowned as he riffled
through the bills inside, searching for euros he’d forgotten to
exchange at the airport.

“I accept credit…?” the cabbie said, tone
making it sound like a question. Worry clouded his eyes as they
shifted from Xander to the rear door, like he thought Xander would
skip out on the fare.

Xander lifted a brow. He’d never stolen a
thing in his life. Now, what he had other people steal on his
behalf was a different story.

“Also,” the cabbie offered tentatively,
“traveler’s cheque…?”

Eyes on the man, Xander tugged out four
hundreds and passed them over. “All hail the mighty dollar…”

The man’s brows shot up and his face lit
like the Eiffel Tower. “Merci! May I help you with your bags,
monsieur?”

He only had the one. A leather duffel on the
seat beside him. Without a word, Xander palmed the phone, hooked
his bag, and stepped out into the evening air.

As the cab pulled away, he turned on his
heel and headed two blocks in the opposite direction. The
neighborhood was quiet, which was why he’d chosen the area. Far
away from the center of the city, but also the type of place where
people who didn’t belong stood out.