by Julie Leto
“Who is our angel of mercy?”
“Single mom, from what I can tell. Two kids. I didn’t think she was going to answer the door for me at first,” he explained, “but luckily, those euros you stuffed into my pockets did the trick. She also speaks enough English so that I could convince her I wasn’t going to hurt her and not to call the cops.”
“Yet,” Brynn said.
He nodded. “We shouldn’t overstay our welcome.”
Brynn moved to get up, but when she winced, Sean pushed her back into the lumpy pillows.
“I’m pretty sure she’ll tolerate us while she’s feeding her kids breakfast. Give yourself a minute for the pills to take effect and tell me what happened.”
Brynn relaxed into the mattress, thankful for a couple of minutes to recharge. Though she must have fallen asleep on the fire escape, exhaustion still flooded her veins like liquid lead.
“I was just coming over the bridge when they shot out behind me. They must have been waiting. I tried to lose them by jumping the sidewalks and navigating between buildings. I thought I’d shaken them off and was making my way back toward the rendezvous when they came around a corner and smashed me from behind. I laid the bike down as close to an alley as I could then climbed up the fire escape and hid under the tarp. As soon as I thought it was safe, I activated the tracking device so you’d find me.”
“It worked,” he said. “I figured they might be watching me, so I led them away then doubled back.”
Sean’s blue-gray eyes darkened like storm clouds. He’d made the right choice for the mission, but he’d paid a price for leaving her behind—a price she’d never wanted him to dole out on her behalf.
“Did you see them?” she asked.
Sean looked away. The break in eye contact lasted a split second, but it was long enough for her to understand that he’d not only seen the men who’d attacked her but he’d stopped them.
Permanently.
“Who were they?”
He patted his jacket pocket. “I don’t know, but I have their photos. We’ll look at them later. Ready?”
The painkillers had taken the edge off. He helped her stand, and once satisfied with her control of her balance, he let her limp unassisted into the tiny living area where their Spanish-speaking guardian angel was blowing on a mug of hot chocolate for her…son?
Brynn wasn’t sure. The child had long, dark, curly locks and brown eyes with lashes a mascara model would kill for, but the imp was dressed in a bright blue T-shirt emblazoned with a stylized gold and red S—the universal symbol for Metropolis’s favorite superhero.
Not that the clothing was gender specific. For Christmas, Ian had gotten her an Iron Man sleep shirt. She’d always had a soft spot for Tony Stark.
She smiled at the memory, which their hostess took as a signal to invite them to eat.
They begged off politely, but Brynn couldn’t refuse when the woman offered her a pair of jeans that didn’t have one leg missing. A size larger than Brynn normally wore, the jeans did not rub so badly against her bandage. She changed in the tiny washroom, taking time to wash the grit off her face and brush out her hair. By the time she’d donned a fresh white button-down blouse and denim jacket, also provided by their generous savior, Brynn looked almost normal.
She slipped as many euros as she could spare into the woman’s bathroom cabinet before they exchanged hasty good-byes. Despite the language barrier, Brynn did her best to warn the woman against telling anyone that she’d helped them. Judging by her earnest nods, Brynn trusted that she understood.
They slipped down a back stairwell then went around to the front, anxious to blend in with the locals heading out to work. Sometime before he’d retrieved Brynn on the fire escape, Sean had exchanged the leather jacket he’d taken from the safe house in Barcelona for a gray wool coat that was cut somewhere between a trench and a blazer. The look on his trim body was heart-stoppingly European. When he dragged a pewter-gray scarf out of his pocket and wrapped it carelessly around his neck, Brynn thought she might faint from hormonal overload.
“Where did you pick that up?” she asked, lightly fingering the wool-blend material of the sleeve.
His wicked grin made her knees tremble. “El Creador has a taste for high fashion.”
“You’ve already been to see him?”
She had no concept of how long she’d slept under the tarp. Long enough, clearly, for him to neutralize the men who’d been tailing them, double back to el Creador’s loft and not only retrieve the papers they’d been waiting for but also acquire a new wardrobe.
The man was remarkable.
“He was very cooperative.”
“Is he still breathing?” Brynn asked.
Sean winked in reply, and Brynn read that as a good sign. He hadn’t been so jolly when he’d avoided telling her how he’d dealt with the men who’d knocked her off her bike.
A crowd of tourists, each rolling luggage across the sidewalk, filed past the building. Sean took Brynn’s arm and led her into the center of the group. They walked a half block before the group stopped in front of a luxury tour bus, the lower compartments open to receive the bags.
“Did you arrange for this, too?” she asked him.
“I’m good, but sometimes, I just get lucky.”
Taking into account all that had happened to him since he was kidnapped from the States, Brynn figured he was due for a turn in fortune.
Sean finagled two spots on the tour bus for them. He helped her up the steep steps like the dutiful newlywed he was pretending to be. He even deferred the aisle seat to her so that she could stretch out her injured leg, despite how the spot by the window put him at a strategic disadvantage. She gave the tourists a quick once-over but got no negative vibes from any of the mostly middle-aged Americans chattering about topics as varied as the octopus they’d had for dinner to the wine they planned to drink the moment they arrived in France. Brynn allowed the conversations to chip away at her nerves, while at the same time, she was fully aware of how Sean scanned the street through the window, waiting and watching for anyone who might pose a threat.
She couldn’t forget where she was or why she was here. From a technical standpoint, her mission had been an unmitigated disaster. Yes, she’d saved Sean. Yes, he’d recovered from his injuries. But at this point, she should have been back in the States, bonding with her brother and overseeing the continued fiscal health of her business, not plotting to sneak illegally over a foreign border while on the run from an anonymous force for evil.
Not that Brynn was in the mood to complain, particularly not after she lifted the armrest separating her from Sean and snuggled into the tobacco-scented lapel of his GQ coat. “Relax,” she said, sliding her hand onto his. “Whatever happens next, we’ll handle.”
His grin was half-cocky and half-skeptical. “Do you always get this confident after one lucky break?”
“Not usually,” she admitted, “but you have a strange effect on me.”
His smile vanished from his lips but not from his eyes.
“That should worry you, you know.”
Brynn turned in her seat, away from his handsome face and those devastating blue-gray eyes.
“Who says it doesn’t?”
Seven
When they experienced their third lucky break in twenty-four hours, Sean started to worry.
He’d never been a big believer in Fate, but he had a fairly decent understanding of odds. Sooner or later, the tides were going to turn, and he had to make sure neither one of them fell into a fall sense of security.
That could get them dead.
First, they’d successfully blended in with a tour group, booked passage on the bus and crossed into France without a second glance from the border guards, who’d also missed the handguns Sean had hidden in the coach’s air-conditioning unit when everyone else had stopped to take their last photos of the Basque countryside.
Then a stop at a tiny French vineyard had crossed their paths with
a trio of teenaged brothers joyriding in a truck that had rolled off the assembly line long before they were born. Brynn had drained the last of her cash buying the jalopy. With batted eyelashes and a naughty joke, she’d also procured the two sacks of groceries they’d picked up at the market for their mother.
The third break came after they’d navigated the winding, densely forested roads toward Dante’s estate and arrived, six hours later, long after dusk. They’d agreed that crossing onto the highly secure property after dark wasn’t a good idea. Instead, they took refuge at a long-abandoned caretaker’s cottage on the southern-most corner of the property, which was actually owned by Dante’s wife, a former spy named Macy Rush. Sean had told Brynn he’d discovered the refuge while walking off his buzz after the wedding reception, but the whole truth was that Dante had shown him the spot so they could indulge in cigars and aged Scotch on the eve of the nuptials. Apparently, massive French chateaus did not come with man caves.
Dusty with cobwebs and inhabited by a family of beech marten who’d taken up residence in the roof, the rustic hideaway wasn’t exactly five-star, but it would do for the night.
It did, after all, have a bed.
Not that he intended for them to use it. Their parting was coming nearer and nearer, and sooner rather than later, Sean was going to have to stop indulging in behavior that was going to make their separation harder to bear.
For both of them.
“Brrr,” Brynn said, tugging the tattered tartan blanket she’d found in the back of the pickup around her shoulders while Sean removed grimy sheets from over the battered chairs and lumpy mattress. “I’m missing sunny Spain already.”
In this region of France, the air was thinner and colder, perfect for growing grapes but anathema to Sean’s native New Orleans blood. When he’d been there for the wedding, he’d grumbled about the weather constantly, if only to himself. But with Brynn around, the chill came in handy.
“It’s been a while since I was a Boy Scout, but I think I can manage a fire,” he announced.
She snorted, which was both adorably un-Brynn-like and saucily alluring. “You, Sean Devlin, were never a Boy Scout.”
“I could have been,” he insisted.
“Only in an alternate reality.”
With a nod, he conceded her point. Other than venturing into the swamp with his mother’s brother to collect gator heads to sell to the tourists, his childhood hadn’t featured much by the way of outdoor excursions.
“True,” he said, “but I was Special Forces. Building a fire is Survival 101.”
He collected the needed supplies, including some straw for kindling and a lighter Brynn had packed into the go-bags. He used what was left of a three-legged chair for firewood, first clearing the chimney with a sooty broom handle.
“Won’t the smoke give away the fact that we’re squatting on Macy’s property?” Brynn asked, tugging hard on an iron hook hung over the grate. She leaned her whole weight on it until both she and the hook were screeching from the resistance. In the end, she won the battle, though she nearly tumbled into the flames.
Luckily, Sean was there to catch her.
The scent of smoke clung to her hair, along with the earthy scents of soil and salty sweat. They’d been on the road for hours. She hadn’t freshened up since before their encounter with the triplet teens, and yet, the feel of her body affected him as if she’d just walked out of a steamy shower in sexy lingerie.
“It’s a chance we’ll have to take. To keep warm,” he whispered.
“There are other ways to get me hot.”
“Don’t I know it,” he replied, then gently but firmly pushed her aside.
He and Brynn had toyed with fire long enough. Sex may have started as a means of buying time and trust, but now it had thrust them into a relationship that neither one of them could afford. In the morning, Sean would meet with Macy. Through her contacts, he’d obtain the information he needed to pursue his kidnappers and discover, once and for all, how and why Jayda had dragged him back into her orbit, even after her death.
Brynn, on the other hand, needed to go home. She had a business to run and a life to live that would someday include a relationship with a man who wasn’t going to let her down.
“If Macy’s men see the smoke, they might come and check it out, but they won’t do it with guns blazing. Dante uses this place to decompress. They’ve been instructed to give it a wide berth. In the morning, we’ll head up to the main house. And we’ll ditch the truck. If we go on foot, we’ll be less of a threat.”
Brynn listened to his efficient mission review, her glossy eyes wide and her mouth open with surprise. She’d made a move. He’d turned her down. As much as it killed him, he had to start the separation process.
No time like the present.
Sean moved to the door. “I’ll get more wood. Looks like that pump might work,” he said, pointing at an iron contraption attached to a sink by the boarded-up window. “Maybe if you find a pot in a cupboard, we can eek a couple of cups of coffee.”
He didn’t wait for her to acknowledge him. He pushed himself out of the warmth in the cabin and into the frigid night air. He focused on the task of collecting wood and piling it up by the door, no matter how much he wanted to go back inside, out of the cold, into the heat of Brynn’s embrace.
Hard as it was, he resisted. He had nothing to give her. In another time or place, he might have managed to gift her with a piece of his heart, but as a whole, it was still too bruised and battered to be of any use to anyone, particularly an amazing woman like Brynn.
By the time he’d reentered the cottage, she was standing at the sink, pumping water into a pot she must have found in the door-less cupboards. He ramped up the fire in the hearth, scooting out of her way when she carried the filled pot to the hook. Without words, he took the cast iron vessel from her and swung inward.
“I guess we should go make a space for sleeping,” he suggested.
She didn’t reply, instead taking her tartan blanket to a corner of the room, beside where they’d stashed their bags. She retrieved a pocketknife and took a little too much pleasure cutting away a large swatch of fabric. He almost asked what she was doing then decided he didn’t want to know.
Okay, so she was giving him the silent treatment. Maybe it was better this way. Maybe the break between them would be easier if she was pissed off. Or hated him. Shouldn’t be hard to get her all the way there. He was a master at turning women against him.
He grabbed the sheets that had been tossed over the furniture and went outside to shake them out. He had no fancy duvet to offer her, so these would have to suffice. He doubted Brynn had ever slept anywhere so filthy, but she wouldn’t complain—not if complaining meant she had to talk to him.
But by the time he returned, Brynn had finished her surgery with the blanket and had used one thick swatch to swing the hot pot of water out of the fire. She dipped the other cut-away corner into the scalding water, wincing as she wrung out the excess, then gingerly wiped her cheeks, neck and décolletage.
He tried to concentrate on turning the lump that had once been a mattress into a decent bed. His eyes, however, had other ideas. They could not resist watching Brynn wash, particularly when she allowed the water to drip enticingly down her skin until her braless nipples were visible through the saturated fabric of her shirt.
“Do you mind?” she asked, shamelessly whipping the shirt up over her head.
His mouth dried. “Do you want me to leave?”
Her narrowed gaze nearly knocked him on his ass.
“Actually, I was hoping you’d watch.”
His knees weakened as if she’d kicked him from behind. He dropped to a crouch against the far wall, his back braced against the bed frame. She turned to the side and slowly, purposefully, peeled off the rest of her clothes. Swirls of orange light caressed her naked skin as she piled her hair on top of her head with a clip, allowing tendrils to snake down and curve around her shoulders and nape.
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Her eyes downcast, Brynn dunked the swatch of tartan into the heated water, dipping and wringing until she achieved the desired saturation. Sean was transported back through the centuries, to a time when luxuries like running water hadn’t been conceived. When women had bathed in the open. When men had to have earned great trust for the privilege to watch.
The cottage was sparse but had what they needed—just enough chilled air to prickle her nipples to ripe peaks and sufficient heat from the fire to chase away the bitter cold.
And the water. He suspected it was crystal clear and sweet, sucked from the spring that ran deep under the earth.
He watched her wash, stroke by stroke, up her arms from wrist to shoulder. He licked his lips, his tongue desperate to lap up the drops clinging to the tips of her breasts after she swirled the sopping cloth down her neck. She lifted her foot onto the pocked top of a hobbled stool and squeezed a stream of water over her thighs.
“You’re killing me,” Sean said.
The fire crackled cozily, but the air blazed as if they’d stepped into an inferno.
“That wasn’t my intention,” she replied.
“Wasn’t it?” he challenged. “Your strategy is sound. Fall back on what worked before. Seduction.”
She leaned forward to wash her ankles, her breasts bouncing forward so that their sweet pear shape nearly drove him mad.
“So you think I’m trying to seduce you to keep you from leaving me after we meet up with Macy? That’s a little arrogant. What if I just want one more night before we say good-bye?”
If Sean lived to be one hundred, which he doubted he would, he’d never meet a woman as remarkable as this one. They were nothing alike, and yet, she knew precisely what to do and what to say and what to feel to bend him to her will. One more magical night wouldn’t change his resolve to release her from her obligation to him. He no longer needed her help, but damn, he needed her more than he wanted to admit.
Sean stripped off his shirt, nearly tearing the fabric. He kicked off his jeans, half hoping they’d disappear in the dust and filth.