by Wendy Rosnau
In a matter of minutes they were on the road to New Orleans, the air-conditioning in the Eldorado running on high. There was little conversation. They passed Le Mystère and within an hour they were in New Orleans, parking the car in an alley behind an iron gate crowded with foliage and blooming magnolias in the French Quarter.
They got out and Pierce led the way up a back stairway. It was late, but the city was still alive with music and revelry. She noted the building as she climbed the outside stairs. It was French in design and nicer than she’d expected, considering Lazie and his eccentric tastes.
She was further surprised when Pierce unlocked the flat at the top of the stairs and opened the door. He continued to lead the way, flipping on a light switch.
The flat was decorated in expensive antiques, rich velvet and thick rugs. It was spotless and smelled heavily of magnolias.
“Lazie owns this?”
“Oui. He also owns a home on the river.”
“The Glitterbug must be lucrative.”
“Lazie’s been an entrepreneur since he was twenty. He’s more than a bar owner. I’m going to make a phone call.”
“Who are you calling?”
“Someone I trust. I’m going to need a few things delivered.”
He was being too mysterious. Casmir shook her head. “I don’t like being the last to know how this is going to go down. I think I’ve earned the right to be your equal in this, Pierce. Partners should be equals. After all, I’m the one getting cut, and being sent off to die.”
“Would you stop saying that. Dammit, woman!”
It was the first time she had ever seen him lose his cool. He looked ready to explode, like a lit cannon with a short fuse.
“I thought you were the Sleeper. The man with no emotion. That’s what it says in your file.”
“Oui, me, too.” He rubbed the back of his neck. Walked to the window. After a minute, he asked, “You remember Frog?”
“Yes.”
“He and I go way back. I’m going to ask him to bring by some medical supplies. The last thing you need is an infection, oui?”
“You trust him?”
“I do.”
“Then call him.” Casmir made herself familiar with Lazie’s flat while Pierce made the call. She located the bathroom, a modern, almost feminine room complete with lace curtains and lavender towels. The bedroom was more masculine, still underscored with bits of feminine touches. It featured rich browns, accented with gold cords on the drapes and a gold velvet bedspread on a massive bed with an iron frame around it, draped in sheer gold curtains.
A fairy-tale bed, she thought.
Behind a set of drapes was a pair of doors leading to a balcony. She opened the doors and stepped outside. Below was a beautifully lit courtyard.
It was true that first impressions were suspect to reevaluation. Lazie was a romantic beneath his crusty eccentric exterior.
A rogue with a heart. “An interesting concept,” she whispered on the warm night breeze.
Her thoughts drifted to Pierce, and she wondered if he had a hidden side, too. Pierce Fourtier wasn’t just an Onyxx agent. He had a past, as well as a mother who had left him. But there had been no mention of his father.
Growing up she had wondered about her own father. What did he look like? Where did he come from? Mama said he had died before she was born.
The difference between her and Pierce was that Mama loved her. Loved her every minute of every day. She knew that, and more importantly, she felt it. Pierce, on the other hand, had lived a life without a mother’s love.
No wonder he was so careful with his feelings and so guarded with his thoughts. But he wasn’t unfeeling. His feelings were just buried deeper than most.
Cutting into her bothered him. He had refused the idea immediately, then after conceding, he’d slipped into a somber mood.
She heard voices in the other room. Frog must have arrived. That meant Pierce would be ready for her soon. She only hoped that she was ready for him.
Pierce let the big man with the backpack slung on his shoulder into Lazie’s flat. When Frog handed him the backpack, he offered the big man a sealed white envelope.
“I appreciate your help.”
“I owe you more than a few favors. You could have killed me years ago.”
Pierce grinned. “That would have been a waste. Loyalty is hard to buy these days. You’ve always been straight with Lazie.”
“Everything you asked for is there.” Frog gestured to the bag. “You need anything else?”
“There’s an extra grand in the envelope. I’d like you to drive out to the cabin and stand watch tonight. If anyone comes nosing around let Lazie know about it.”
“And then?”
“Back him up if things get ugly.”
“I can do that. Maybe I should be working for you, mon ami, instead of Lazie.” He smiled. “You pay better.”
When Frog left, Pierce checked the supplies in the bag. Satisfied that everything was there, he went to Lazie’s liquor cabinet behind the bar and mixed Cass a black drink—something that would knock her off her feet in a hurry.
She’d said she could match him in a drinking contest, but he doubted that. He’d been chugging hard stuff since he was fourteen.
He heard a door open and he looked up. The first thing he noticed was that she had twisted her hair up, and that she’d kicked off the black stilettos.
She tracked across Lazie’s living room, leaving her footprints in the dense white carpet. He set her drink on the bar, and she eyed it with curiosity.
“Not a French Kiss?”
“It’s called Spy’s Demise. I thought it was fitting.”
“You’re kidding, of course. I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s for real.”
“And you would know.”
“Oui, I would know.”
“What’s in it?”
“Vodka, gin, rum and a few other things.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“Aptly named for its knockout punch.”
“Well, before I start drinking to my…demise, we should discuss the placement of the tracker.”
Pierce poured himself a shot of whiskey. “I still think I should call Merrick and explain the situation. Maybe we could come up with—”
“I should be the one with cold feet, not you.”
“Because I’m an unfeeling asshole.”
“I may have used the word asshole once or twice since we met, but not unfeeling.”
“But that’s what you think.”
“Since when do you care what I think?”
He stepped around the bar. He was out of sorts, while she had decided to stop complaining. They were never on the same page.
Damn opposites, and probably always would be.
He went to check that the door was locked, and when he turned back he caught her sampling the drink he’d made her. She was wearing the black shift and he knew what was underneath it.
“I like lime. This is good.” She took the drink with her and curled up on the couch, hiking the dress up to her thighs. “I’ve been thinking about where I’d like my scar. You know, it’s funny, but for twenty-eight years I’ve been scar free. So I’ve been asking myself, do I want it visible, sort of a badge of courage, or should we tuck it away and keep it our little secret?”
She was too damn calm, and it was irritating the hell out of him. He was supposed to be the calm one, dammit.
He headed back to the bar and poured himself another whiskey.
“Is the whiskey to steady your hands? If not, lighten up. I don’t want a big X marking the spot.”
He tossed back the shot of whiskey, then turned around. “On your neck. Under your hair. There are scratches there from this afternoon, and a small bruise.”
“That would work.” She took a sip of her drink, then uncurled her legs and raised the shift higher. She was still wearing that damn black G-string, and it didn’t hide the dark bruise on her hip. �
��Or here. What do you think?”
What he thought was that he needed another poker-stiff whiskey.
“Finish the damn drink and I’ll make you another.”
“Which spot do you like better?”
Pierce didn’t answer. He made two more drinks for her in the next hour—strong enough to grow hair—and she drank the last one wearing a smile, but she didn’t look like she was going to pass out anytime soon.
He said, “Maybe you should go into the bedroom and lie down.”
“I guess that means I should lose the dress.”
She stood, swayed.
He dived at her and rescued her from landing on the floor. “It looks like one more drink and then—”
“Help me off with my dress. I’m too weak to raise my arms.”
He worked the straps down, then helped her step out of the dress. The swell of her breasts sent his heart racing. Her perfect ass and long legs had him growing a hard-on.
She leaned into him. “My head’s spinning.”
“That’s good, amant. That’s what we want.”
“Don’t worry, Pierce. After tonight, I’ll still love you, even if you make an X.”
She was past drunk. He held on to her, pulled her close. His body was humming, and he couldn’t have changed that fact with a bucket of ice or a hammer.
“This is crazy,” he whispered.
“What’s wrong with your voice?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
She looked up at him. “You have nice lips. Did you know that? Did Linny ever tell you that?”
“No.”
“Good. So I’m the first?”
“You’re the first.”
“Do you like my lips?”
“Very much, amant.”
“I like it when you call me your lover.”
“Cass…”
“Shh… It’s time to kiss me or cut me.”
She was going to hate herself in the morning if she remembered any of this.
Still wrestling with the idea of using a knife on her delicate skin, Pierce bent his head and covered her mouth with his.
Chapter 13
The kiss lasted too long and he enjoyed it too much. But that was no surprise. Cass’s lips were as sweet and warm as Louisiana sunshine.
He lifted her into his arms and carried her into the bedroom.
“Another kiss, or is this the part I’m not going to like?”
“You liked the kiss?”
“I can tell a lot about a man from his kiss. It’s one of my specialties.”
“And what did you learn about me just now?”
“That you like me. Like me more than you want me to know.”
He laid her on the bed. “Maybe I was just taking advantage of the situation.”
“You’re not a trifler.”
“Is that a word? I think you’re very drunk. And that means it’s time for me to go to work.”
He left her and backtracked into the living room for the backpack Frog had brought him with the surgical supplies from Lazie’s infirmary below the Glitterbug. When he stepped back into the bedroom, he couldn’t ignore how beautiful she looked. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing slowly, her lovely breasts rising and falling with each lazy breath.
His eyes locked on her flat stomach, lower…
He shook off the image of lying down beside her and pulling her close, of stripping her naked and enjoying her inch by inch.
He opened the backpack, then sat down next to her on the bed. She opened her eyes, looked up at him.
“You know, Pierce Fourtier, you’re a very sexy man. And you have a great ass.”
“That’s my line.”
She giggled. “I didn’t like you in Austria. You pissed me off. You really can be an asshole, you know.”
“I know. But you can rub a man wrong without half trying.”
“And what’s the secret to rubbing you right? Give me a hint.” She giggled again, reached out and laid her hand on his crouch. “Hmm… I think I’m too late. You feel—”
He took her hand away from his pulsing cock. “That’s enough talk.”
“I agree.” She sat up and nuzzled his chin, then trailed her mouth over his warm lips. “What else do you want to do? Do you want to touch me?” She took his hand and laid it on one of her lovely breasts. “It’s okay, you can.”
She covered his hand with hers and guided him on a tour of her chest. First one breast, then the other.
She would pass out soon. Dammit, she better.
“Make love to me?”
He pulled his hand away. “You don’t mean that.”
“Why? Because I’m drunk? Maybe this is the real me. Maybe I’ve been waiting for an excuse to stuff the actress in a drawer. Maybe I’m dying to have you, but I’ve been afraid to say anything.”
“You’re not afraid of me.”
“If you say so.”
God, he hoped she didn’t remember any of this in the morning. She would hate him for sure.
“I think I’m going to have to mix you another drink.”
He urged her to lie back down. She sank into the mattress stretched out like a cat waiting to be stroked.
God, she was beautiful.
He left the room, mixed her the drink.
The idea of cutting into her porcelain skin had him looking down at her as he came back with another drink.
He held the glass and made her take a healthy swig. Then another and another. When the drink was gone, he opened the bag, laid out the surgical knife on the end table.
He’d wasted enough time debating the situation. She was right; if they were going to go forward with the mission, he was going to have to make damn sure that he could find her once she was out of his sight.
He turned her head to examine the soft skin just behind her ear. She was breathing slowly, her eyes open, but glassy. The booze was taking over, but not enough to shield her from the pain he was about to inflict.
He opened a bottle of pain pills, strong enough to put her out for several hours. Mixing drugs and liquor was a no-no, but he had done it more than once and he’d survived.
She was a survivor. They would get through this together.
He fed her two pills, chased them down with more liquor. A straight shot of whiskey. She didn’t like it. She screwed up her face and tried to sit up again.
“Relax,” he said softly. “I’m here with you. You know I won’t leave you.”
“I’m hot.”
He leaned over her. “It’s okay, amant.”
“Amant…we’re not lovers. Are we ever going to be?”
“Not like this,” he said, stroking her hair away from her face.
But he couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to feel her wrap those lovely long legs around him. What kind of lover was she? Did she moan for it? Fight it? Want it hard and fast? Slow and deep?
What was Casmir Balasi’s M.O. in bed? What had made Yurii Petrov fall in love with her? Was it her body, or her beautiful smile?
He shook off the thought, pulled on the surgical gloves and picked up the scalpel. Swabbed her neck with alcohol.
He made the incision seconds after she passed out—a little less than a half inch long. Carefully, he set the tracking device, then slid the flat round disk beneath the skin. After he’d finished making a dozen small stitches to close the incision, he made two superficial cuts next to the scratches adjacent to the incision, as if something had raked the side of her neck in the accident.
He was sweating by the time he finished. He stood and left the room. Peeled off the bloody gloves and tossed them as he headed for the bar and snagged a bottle of Lazie’s best whiskey.
When he went back into the bedroom, he opened the doors leading out onto the balcony and stepped out into the warm dark night.
He wasn’t afraid she’d wake up. She would easily be out until morning. He spent an hour drinking and smoking, and when he’d drained the bottle, he went back inside and stri
pped off his jeans and T-shirt, then lay down on the bed beside her and pulled the gold satin sheet over both of them.
He lay there wishing he was drunk enough to pass out, but it never happened. And while he waited for sleep to end his torture, her soft breath teased his cheek and kept his body stone hard.
Casmir woke up with a headache and a warm body pressed against her. She lay still until she came awake fully.
She was in Lazie’s bedroom and someone was in bed with her. She turned her head slightly, and felt a tightness in her neck. She raised her hand and brushed her fingers over a small bandage high on the side of her neck.
It was done. Pierce had planted the tracker, and now he was in bed with her.
She rolled to her side so she could look at him. He was sleeping hard and she studied his handsome face, then his tanned bare chest. He wasn’t the sort of man she was used to. She’d spent most of her life dancing around rich men with jowls and bellies that had gone to fat. Men accustomed to enjoying the fruits of their political and financial excess. Men with criminal minds, white bodies and soft muscles.
Excluding Yurii. He had taken pride in keeping himself fit.
She’d never taken the time to enjoy her youth, or the attentions of men her own age—the “wild bucks,” as her mother had called them, with only one thing on their minds.
She’d been a virgin when she’d been recruited by Quest. And from that moment sex had become a game of survival. It hadn’t been real—two bodies tangled in equal passion.
She’d faked her desire countless times, and even though she’d had orgasms, they had been of the flesh, not of the heart.
That was until she’d met Yurii. He’d pulled her out of her safe box. He’d changed the way she’d responded to sex. The way she’d always reacted to a man’s touch.
Still, her time with Yurii had all been centered around a single purpose—to deceive him. And that had brought her an enormous amount of guilt.
What would it be like to make love just because she wanted to? Because she wanted the man in bed with her? Because she desired him?
She raised her hand and stroked Pierce’s chest, sent her fingers experimentally over his hard body. His chest was lightly dusted with hair and it was as solid as granite. It was also scarred. She recognized the scars for what they were—Pierce had been shot numerous times in the line of duty. It was amazing that a man could survive so many bullets.