“Yes, do you remember his -”
“Of course I do. Really, Smith? Stop with the quizzes already.” When he gave her a doubting look she repeated the mobile number for Jean from memory, and he just smiled. “Anyway, why do you have so many contacts in France? Even your contact for Belgium is French, or at least he sounds French.”
“Henri is French, you’re right.” With a stiff movement Smith pulled the crossword out of his bag and started to scan it.
“And?”
“What?” Smith glanced up at her and she rolled her eyes.
“Why are all of your contacts French? Are they the secret badasses of Europe and the whole idea of them surrendering all the time is just camouflage?” Camille nudged him with her elbow when he continued to stare at the crossword puzzle.
“The French have a bloody history, C, you would know that if you read a book once in a while.” He sighed and fluffed out his newspaper. “But most of my European contacts are French because I used to spend a lot of time in France. Paris, specifically.” He reached up and pressed the call button for the flight attendant.
“Why? Were you -”
The flight attendant approached, her eyes a little bleary as they neared the end of the long flight, but Smith flashed his smile at her and she perked right up. “Je sais qu'il est tard, mais nous aimerions deux bourbon et deux vodka s’il vous plaît.”
“Bien sur, monsieur.”
“Je veus remercie.”
“You fucking speak French?” Camille asked, still in stunned disbelief at the beautiful words that had tumbled out of his mouth.
“Oui,” Smith smiled a little as he tugged out the table for the drinks. While most of it had been gibberish, she had clearly heard vodka, so she pulled out her table as well. “And as soon as we have some alcohol in front of us, I’ll tell you why I have so many French contacts,” a deep breath paused him for a moment, and then he continued, “and I’ll tell you about Nathalie.”
“Nathalie?” For the first time since Smith had told her they were going to Europe, to Paris, Camille’s mind emptied of images of the Eiffel Tower, and cafes on cobblestoned streets, and street-performing mimes – and zeroed in on an image of a beautiful French woman. All dark, glossy hair, perfectly dressed, in some of the high-end fashions she’d seen in one of the magazines she had bought at the airport.
Someone named Nathalie probably never cursed like a fucking street kid, or stumbled in high heels, or had to read magazines to know how to do her eye make-up. Dammit.
A minute or two of stunned silence later, the flight attendant dropped off two glasses of ice and four tiny bottles of alcohol.
“Merci,” Smith spoke softly and then transferred two of the bottles to her table, along with the glass of ice. “Go on, pour, then I’ll talk.”
Cracking open one of the bottles she poured it over the ice and then took a harsh drink of the cheap vodka. “So, who is she?”
“Was.” Smith corrected her as he took a slow sip of his bourbon, and Camille’s eyes widened at the revelation, the short surge of jealousy she’d felt waning as the vodka warmed her stomach. “She was someone I cared about. A long time ago now.”
“How did you know her?”
“We actually met by complete accident on the Métropolitain, the French subway system. It was late, I was tired, but something about her caught my eye.”
“Could it be that she was hot, and French?” Camille smiled when she asked it, but Smith gave her a slightly irritated glance.
“She was pretty, but it was more the way she held herself, the way her eyes scanned everyone on the train before she held on to one of the poles, even though there were empty seats. I had just completed a job a couple of days before, was enjoying my time in the city, and she was like a bright light in a dark room.” He smirked when Camille took another harsh sip of the vodka. “Similar to how you caught my attention, actually.”
“You mean you thought she was a hooker too?”
Smith stifled a laugh, wiping a hand down his face as he shook his head. “No, although to be fair, you were a prostitute when I met you.”
“Ass.”
He sighed. “It wasn’t what she looked like. It was just her strength, a complete lack of fear on the metro even though it was late at night. So, when she got off a few stops later… I followed her.”
“Stalker.” Camille laughed and he shrugged.
“Maybe, a bit, but I was curious. I followed her for a while, and eventually she noticed. Nathalie disappeared around a corner, and when I turned it she caught me with a knee to the stomach, and then put me on the ground. When I looked up she had a gun pointed at me, while mine was still tucked in the small of my back, and -”
“And?” Camille prompted.
“And I told her she was beautiful. In terrible French, I might add. But it made her laugh. I still don’t know why she didn’t just kill me, but we ended up in her flat, drinking wine and… doing other things.”
“You fucked some girl who put you on the ground and was carrying a gun?”
“Jesus, C.” He sighed and rolled his eyes. “I was young, she was beautiful, yes, I slept with her. But it was more than the sex, she was smart, strong. Someone had trained her well. She was as deadly as I was, more deadly than I was because no one would have suspected her.”
“She’s why you told me I could use my looks as a weapon.”
“Yes. I was thinking of Nathalie when I told you that. When she put on a dress and a smile, she could charm any hapless idiot into following her. They never felt threatened, if the idiot had security they never blinked twice. She was just a pretty face,” he shrugged, “you could do that too, with more practice.”
“How do you know how she acted on a job?”
“She let me help her out once. We’d only known each other a month or so, but she trusted me to have her back, even though she had no reason to. Nathalie was the first time I’d been around anyone who knew what I did, who knew who I was, and wasn’t remotely afraid. She was fearless.”
There was sorrow in his voice, and Camille was tempted to tell him that he didn’t need to share, but she was too curious. This woman had meant something to Smith, and it was a side of him she’d never seen – because although she had never imagined him a virgin, she’d also never pictured the women he’d been with before her. “Did you love her?” she asked, and he seemed to shake himself out of whatever memories were running through his head.
“That’s an interesting question. I don’t know if I ever thought about it.” Smith took a sip of the bourbon, the ice clinking in the cup as he tilted it up. “I cared for her. Hell, I spent a year and a half doing jobs in Europe just to stay near her, so I know I felt something. We would meet up whenever we could. Usually Paris, sometimes the UK, one time in Italy – but then one day we were supposed to meet in Nice. It’s a city in France, absolutely beautiful, and we’d arranged the time, the day, the place…” Smith trailed off, and she leaned forward to catch his jade eyes that were glued to the last bit of amber liquid in his glass.
Oh shit.
“Nathalie didn’t show, did she?”
He shook his head once, a bitter smile lifting one corner of his mouth. “No, she didn’t. I left messages with all of our mutual contacts, stayed too long after my job was finished waiting for an update, but she was gone. Finally, I got a call back from Jean at my hotel. Nathalie had never reported in, her target was alive, and that only meant one thing.”
“She was dead,” Camille whispered, and Smith nodded next to her as he cracked open the second little bottle of bourbon and emptied it into his glass. She did the same with her vodka, her stomach tightening just thinking what that must have been like. Before cell phones, before there was any way to reach out to someone. Just poof, gone. Forever. “I’m sorry, Smith.”
“It was a long time ago.” He blew out a breath and took a long drink, almost finishing the second bourbon in one go. When he spoke again, his voice was harsh, “This life do
esn’t end pretty, C. Not unless you leave it behind on your own. That was the lesson she taught me, and it’s one I’ve tried to make clear to you. I know you started this journey seeking vengeance, but that’s almost done with – and once it’s done you’ll have to decide what you want.”
“There’s nothing else I’m good at, Smith.”
A low laugh rumbled in his chest before he looked at her. “I think there’s a lot you’re good at, C, but I’m talking about what you want out of life.”
“You’re talking about your mountain hideaway?”
“Well, yes. A few more years doing this, saving up, and we – I mean, I – can do that.”
“Awww, Smith, are you saying you want me to be your bear hunting wilderness woman?” She grinned even though inside she felt like she’d been filled with steel winged butterflies, battering her insides with a razor-edged panic. What is he saying?
Smith forced a short laugh and then took another sip. “Well, you are good with a rifle.”
“I don’t think I’d exactly fit in when it comes to some small mountain town.”
“Whatever it is you decide you want, C. I just hope you choose it, and make it a reality. You deserve that.”
“What if what I want is to do this? Jobs, and spontaneous trips to Europe, and all the fun and excitement of this life?”
His eyes caught hers, and somewhere underneath his cool, controlled surface she could see an edge of tension that felt like words unspoken. Finally, he broke his gaze and raised his glass. “Then I better make sure you and Jean get to know each other, shouldn’t I? Cheers, to Paris and your first trip to Europe. First of many, I would wager.”
“Abso-fucking-lutely,” Camille smiled and tapped her glass against his before she finished off the vodka in one gulp. Words lingered between them unspoken. His awkward suggestion of a life, for them, after all this bloodshed, but Camille wasn’t ready for that. She was still learning, still getting better – and she still had another name on her list.
Whatever came after would just have to wait.
After the plane landed and they grabbed their bags amidst the business travelers and the loud, American tourists, Smith guided Camille outside to the long line of taxis. Forty minutes later they were pulling up in front of the Shangri-La hotel, and in the distance the spire of the Eiffel Tower could be seen over the rooftops. The wide-eyed look on C’s face as she glued herself to the window had him smiling. It was costing him a small fortune for the hotel room he’d wanted, but it was her first time in Paris – and they’d earn plenty from the job.
“We should go inside, the view is even better from our room.”
C didn’t even give the driver a chance to get out before she was out of the car and walking to the edge of the drive. “I can’t believe we’re so close to it! It’s huge!”
“Yes, it is. Now, come one.”
After a long check-in process he was opening the door to their room and she ran inside with a kind of fluid grace she was clearly unaware of. So much power in her legs as she leapt across the floor, instantly tearing the door open to the terrace, outfitted with chairs and tables, and an impeccable view of the tower – exactly what he’d requested. She turned to him, white blonde hair whipping in the breeze, her thin dress plastered to her curves, and he felt his cock kick against the fly of his jeans. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“What?” He laughed, enjoying her response as he set down their bags and joined her. “You said you wanted to see the Eiffel, didn’t you?”
Camille turned and threw her arms around his neck, kissing him hard and he indulged in it. Back in the one city he had promised himself he’d never return to because of a girl, and now he was back again – because of a girl. But Camille was more than just some occasional tryst like he’d had with Nathalie, she had burrowed her way so deep inside the barriers he usually maintained that there wasn’t a wall up she couldn’t knock down with a word. His hands seemed to find their way to her waist without his command, and then she jumped into his arms, wrapping her legs around his hips and she rubbed against him until he found himself moaning against her lips. Suddenly, all he could think about was testing to see if the ornate, king-sized bed in the other room was as soft as it looked, or if he should just skip that and bend her over the chaise lounge in the little living room.
“Holy shit,” she cheered as she leaned back from him, and then she kept leaning back and he watched her body bow backwards until her hands planted on the tiles beneath their feet and she delicately released him – one leg at a time – to continue her perfect walkover. The dress gathered around her hips, revealing her tanned legs, her polka-dotted underwear, and that’s when he noticed the couple one terrace over staring at them. She bounced back onto her feet, her sandals clapping against the tile as she rushed to the edge, and he raised one hand towards them, but they seemed uninterested as they walked back into their room. “It’s fucking beautiful, Smith! I can’t believe it’s real!”
“Just wait until you see it at night.” He stepped up behind her, placing his hands on either side of her so he could kiss her shoulder, her neck, the delicate spot just where her jaw began.
Turning in his arms those crystal blue eyes met his, so full of excitement and joy, her lips spread in a real smile that for a long time he had thought impossible. “When is the job?”
Of course she’s thinking about the job while you’re busy imagining a candlelit dinner out here.
Who the fuck are you, and where did you take the real Smith?
Shaking his head he smirked. “We need to get burner cells, and get gear from Bertrand, but the job will be tomorrow. Jean will update us today.”
“So, how long do we have?” Camille’s voice had that low purr to it that would have made him hard in an instant if his cock wasn’t already straining the zipper that her hands were currently toying with.
“Long enough.” Taking her by the arm he pulled her back into the opulent hotel room. A perfect blend of old world aristocracy, and new world taste. He would need to send his thanks to Jean for the recommendation – after he tasted every single inch of Camille.
Twice.
Chapter Twenty
“So, then, Smith turns around and punches this idiot. Knocks him out, and this guy is laying in the street, unconscious, and Smith turns to me -” Jean broke into a round of laughter again, barely composing himself enough to finish the story in his thick accent. “He turns to me and he says, Jean, weren’t we supposed to bring back bread?”
“He fucking asked you about bread?” She asked, unable to stifle the laughter as Jean recounted yet another story of Smith’s times in Paris.
“Oui! Yes! He reached for the bag I had on my arm and starts shouting in English about how the one thing he was not to forget was the bread, and now it’s late and all the bakeries will be closed.” Jean cackled at a blushing Smith and patted him on the shoulder. “He was so angry with himself he didn’t even care about the man on the street!”
“I didn’t kill him,” Smith muttered, and Jean burst into another round of laughs.
“You said the same thing that night! Do you remember? When I asked you why you were upset? You said it was because Nathalie had wanted bread with dinner, and I told you she wouldn’t care as long as you brought the wine! Then you said the man had distracted you, and you said ‘at least I didn’t kill him’. Ha! You were crazy!”
“Was Nathalie upset?”
“No!” Jean calmed down, taking another drink of the robust red wine in his glass. “No, she was not. She thought it was funny, just like I did. Told Smith he should watch his temper.”
“Smith?!” Camille laughed, looking over at the always-so-calm Smith in surprise.
“I was twenty-three.”
“He was always ready to fight in those days, not like he is now. I have not even seen him in over two years, three? Bah! He forgets all his old friends, but I can see why…” Jean leaned forward and captured her hand, pressing a kiss to her
knuckles, until Smith kicked Jean’s chair and he leaned back laughing. “Ah, still aggressive where it matters I see!”
“Are you trying to make me angry, Jean?” Smith asked the question in a frigid tone, but the tilt to his lips told her he was joking. This man was clearly an old associate, someone he wouldn’t cast aside over something frivolous.
“No, no, but you have always found the pretty ones. I must be happy with the leftovers!” Jean threw a hand up and then took another hearty sip of his wine. “Well, come, come, should we speak of business now?”
“That would be nice.” Smith responded, and Camille grinned as she leaned forward to look at the folder Jean dropped onto the table. They were in Jean’s flat, far from the bustling tourist-filled area of Paris. He had been the third stop of the afternoon – mobile phones, Bertrand for the hardware, and now Jean for the details.
“What about you, mon beau cherie? Do you have the stomach for talk like this?”
“Tell me who we need to kill, Jean, and I’ll pull the trigger myself.” She smiled, showing her teeth in a borderline feral smile, but he only laughed and leaned back in his seat.
“Vicieux petite fille!” He flipped open the folder and spread out some photos of a dark haired woman, some of her in sunglasses, and others of her sitting at a table in an outdoor café. “This is Sabine Moreau, soon to be ex-wife of the very powerful Thomas Moreau. She cheated on him, for a long time from what I understand, and ran off with this man.”
Smith reached forward to grab a printed sheet of paper with a photo attached. “Gabriel Richard?”
“Yes, and he is not a nice man. Both men are involved in… let us say imports, and they are rivals. It seems that Monsieur Moreau struggled whether to place the hit on Sabine or Gabriel, but he believes that Sabine’s death will be the greater punishment. Both for her treachery, and to take her from Gabriel.” Jean grinned over his wine glass. “Paris is known as a city of love, is it not? It seems her citizens take that to heart.”
“Smith mentioned she stole from Thomas, is that true?” She took a sip of the wine, but even though it tasted alright, Camille still glanced around the flat for a bottle of vodka.
Early Sins (Dangerous Games Book 0) Page 22