“You really want to know?” He speared a piece of scallop.
“Yes.”
“Take a bite of this and I’ll tell you.” He held out his fork to her. “Come on, you know you want to.” The morsel on the end of his fork looked succulent—but the stare she gave him over it was totally affronted. He laughed. “Baby, talk about some Hungry Eyes. You’ve been giving my food lustful glances since it got here.”
“I have not.” But she knew she had. “Fine.” She took the fork, ate the bite of scallop—so, so good—and handed the fork back to him as “Hungry Eyes” thankfully finished and the music moved on. “So tell me.”
“I had ears in when I was following you in Moscow. I heard you say something to your buddy Doc about River Street Sweets. Google that, you get Savannah, Georgia, USA. Piece of cake.”
There you go—a pin drop on Mars. The earrings on the table suddenly seemed all-important.
“Have another bite. It’ll make you feel better.” He grinned at her as he passed over another forkful of scallop. An amused and totally charming grin that had her narrowing her eyes at him before accepting and eating—mmm, to die for—his offering.
“So where’s home to you?” she asked, refusing another bite with a shake of her head and a stern, I-really-mean-it-this-time look. Accepting her refusal, he ate it himself while she turned with determination to her salmon.
“Carlingford, County Louth. I grew up there.”
“Really?” That jibed with the research on him she’d read, but the principle to remember when it came to research was, garbage in, garbage out. As she illustrated all too well herself.
“Yes, really. Mam and Dad, two brothers. I was the middle one. A handful, so my mother tells me.”
“I bet.” She was entranced by this glimpse into his early life. Families did that to her. “She’s still alive? Your mother? What about your dad?”
“My father passed away five years ago. My mother’s fine, as are my brothers. I see them when I can.” He took another fake (?) sip of wine. “Scholarship to the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst, army officer, MI6, private contractor. There you have it.”
“Married? Children?” She couldn’t help it. She had to know.
“No. You?”
That one was easy. “No.”
He asked, “What about your family? I’ve found so many cover stories for so many identities for you that the only thing I’m relatively sure of is that you’re American.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“Your accent. When you’re just being you and not someone else.”
For some reason, the idea that he’d seen her as herself, as well as Sylvia No-Last-Name and Beth McAlister and Jennifer Ashley and Cara Levine and Brenda Smolski and Kangana Batt and Maggy Chance and now Lynette Holbrook and red-haired Alice Dunn, made her feel way too exposed. Almost naked. Not many people had ever managed to get that close a look into her life.
“So where’d you grow up?” he persisted when she didn’t reply. “I’m betting it wasn’t Savannah. You don’t strike me as a born-and-bred Southern belle.”
She shook her head. Adopted a playful tone that she hoped didn’t sound too forced as she turned the spotlight back on him. “Oh, no, you’re not finished. Tell me more. What’s it like to basically be—” she hesitated, recalled Doc’s description and fluttered her eyelashes at him teasingly “—James Bond?”
He laughed and shook his head. “James Bond was Her Majesty’s Secret Service all the way. I’m a dropout. Fewer constraints, way more money in the private sector. Plus you can pick and choose your jobs.”
“Like this one.”
“Like this one,” he agreed. His eyes gleamed dark gold in the candlelight and were impossible to read as he looked at her.
Meeting them, Bianca found to her dismay that her heart beat faster. She frowned—
“There’s a man over there near the fireplace,” he said. He leaned closer and picked up her hand. His hand was warm and strong and much bigger than hers, with long tan fingers that looked like they could break her pale slender ones in half with ease. She found the fact that she even registered that disconcerting and did a quick mental refocus. His businesslike tone was at total odds with his gesture, which was outwardly romantic. “He’s been watching us off and on for a while. Dark brown hair, long enough to hide part of his face, which is pale and square. About five-ten, stocky. Maybe thirty? Around there.”
Bianca fought the urge to glance that way. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Let’s give you a look.” Colin stood up and walked around the table, pulling her to her feet. “Come on, sexy Alice. Dance with me.”
16
Too easy for someone to steal her purse or go through its contents if she left it behind, so Bianca took it with her. She barely had time to grab her earrings, tuck them together—take that, eavesdroppers—into the outside pocket of her purse and sling the strap cross-body over her shoulder before they reached the dance floor and Colin pulled her around to face him.
“He’s watching. We need to act like we’re hot for each other,” he said under his breath.
Maddeningly conscious of a little kick in her pulse, a small hitch in her breathing, at the very idea, she smiled at him, a slow, come-hither smile that had his eyes widening with surprise and then flaring.
The song was Bob Dylan’s “Lay, Lady, Lay.” She started swaying to its beat, her movements slow, seductive. His eyes dropped to her mouth, then went all heavy-lidded and sensuous as they moved down her body. Finally they came back up to meet her eyes again. Sparks sizzled between them: unwanted, inconvenient, but nevertheless there. The electricity they generated was every bit as tangible as the lightning flashing outside.
He still held her hand. He used it to pull her close.
“You’re good at this,” he murmured, and wrapped his arms around her. That brought her smack up against him. He was all firm muscle on a six-foot-three-inch, broad-shouldered frame. His arms felt hard and possessive around her. As he danced her backward, she tried not to notice any of that.
Hot. Steamy. Oh, God, maybe this was a mistake.
Keep your game face on.
“I’m good at everything.” Full of bravado, she draped her arms over his shoulders and moved provocatively against him. His head bent toward her. His wavy black hair, long-lashed caramel eyes, straight nose with the bump on its bridge, wryly curving mouth, filled her vision, right before he traced the slightest of butterfly kisses just above her left eyebrow. If this was a game of turn-me-on chicken, she was pretty sure that nothing gesture took this round: she caught her breath, barely resisted giving in to a pleasurable shiver and glanced away. They were in the middle of the dance floor now, surrounded by other gyrating couples. She knew he’d placed them there deliberately. He was also keeping his body between her and the possible source of danger, and she knew he was doing that deliberately, too. She was no delicate flower who needed his protection, she wanted to remind him—but, she discovered, somewhere deep inside she found the fact that he was protecting her entrancing.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. His hands moved down until they were almost on her ass. She could feel the size and shape of them just a couple of inches north of being publicly indecent. She flashed him a warning look. He responded with a barely-there, teasing smile. She had to work to keep her pulse rate under control. And her sexy moves firmly on beat.
“You do that,” she said. Undulating against him as she was, there was no way to miss the evidence of his arousal. Not that it was a surprise. Being held so closely to him was—not optimum. She was keenly aware that her breasts were being sensitized by the pressure of his chest against them, of the intimacy of their pelvic contact with every bump and grind of the dance, of the elemental yin and yang of their bodies. She was having to exert every iota of her truly legendary self-control to keep it professional, to block out the physical, to not let herself get all hot and bothered, too.
Their eyes met. S
he could see from the look in his that he was aware she was aware of the effect she was having on him. She only hoped it didn’t work the other way.
“They’re playing our song,” he said, and that was the first time she realized the song had changed. It took her a second, but she managed to focus on the music and listen: Carly Simon’s “Nobody Does It Better.”
She had to smile. “I thought we already had a song.” She was referring to a joke—a sort of joke, a really aggravating sort of joke—he’d played on her when they first met.
He shook his head. “That was Sylvia and Mickey’s song. This one’s for us.”
Us.
Her lips parted. She felt an unexpected flash of pure swoon. Crap.
Who would have thought that a simple, two-letter word could punch such a hole in her defenses?
Keep it about the job.
“The earrings will work to block a listening device, but somebody close could still overhear,” she said, her voice low.
“Thanks for the warning.” He bent closer, spoke in her ear. “To the left of the fireplace, in a party of four. Probably put together by the hostess like she tried to do to you.” His lips barely brushed the delicate swirls. That slight touch of his mouth on her skin sent a jolt of sexual awareness through her that went clear down to her toes. Oh no. She tried to rebuild her own personal, private, internal wall. Didn’t know if she succeeded. “Check him out.”
He dipped her, his eyes blatantly eating her up as she arched her back and shook everything she had to shake—and shot a covert look at the man in question.
He was exactly as described. And he was indeed watching them.
She’d never seen him before in her life.
Colin pulled her upright, and they swayed from side to side. She tightened her arms around his neck, went up on tiptoe to press her cheek to his. The heat of his skin, the sandpapery feel of his jaw, the scent of rain and man, made her breathing quicken. She wanted to turn her head the little bit it would take to press her mouth to— Oh no. Not going there. No.
Bad news: the wall was still breached.
“He’s watching us,” she agreed. Dear God, had her voice gone husky? If so—okay, it had—she hoped he couldn’t tell over the music. “I don’t recognize him.”
“Not a remnant from your murky past?”
“What murky past?”
He smiled. Because they were cheek to cheek she felt rather than saw it, in the rasp of manly stubble against smooth feminine skin.
“I don’t know—the one you won’t talk about?”
She pulled back a little, pulled her cheek away from his. That left her eyes on a level with his chin. She registered the sheer masculinity of that square, black-bristled jaw and shifted her gaze. It landed on his mouth: a little too thin, maybe a little cruel looking. She happened to know from personal experience what it felt like to kiss that mouth, have it kiss her back. Have him kiss her—
No. No. No.
Keep emotion out of it. It was one of the rules. This was a textbook illustration of why: it was the emotional impact of that us that was threatening to do a number on her life.
“I prefer to focus on the present,” she said, and was proud of how cool and collected she sounded. “And as far as our watcher’s concerned, I don’t feel like he’s a threat. At least, I’m not getting the same vibe I did on the street.”
His arms tightened around her. His lips moved back to her ear. “Then look around, see if you can spot anyone else we need to be worried about.”
She did not melt against him. She did pull her head away from his mouth, but not obviously, not in such a way that he would know that what he was doing was getting to her. She plugged the gap in her defenses, righted her listing ship and got on with the job. With his back between her and the vast majority of the tables, she adopted a glazed expression that she hoped said I’m so into my partner and looked over his broad shoulder to cast covert glances at the packed tables.
The next song up was the Mike Reno–Ann Wilson duet “Almost Paradise.” Registering that, Bianca almost shook her head. Whoever was in charge of the playlist (God? Probably not) seemed to have a wicked sense of humor coupled with uncanny insight into her life.
With thunder rumbling and torrents of rain still audibly pelting the window, everyone who was inside was staying put. People had settled in, were eating, drinking. The dance floor grew more crowded by the minute. Surrounded by shimmying, shaking, gliding couples, she and Colin danced their way around the floor. She clung to him, matching him move for sexy move. Endured his body curved around hers, his arms holding her so close a sheet of paper wouldn’t fit between them, his cheek brushing hers, his whispers in her ear. Endured all that friction. All that heat.
And determinedly kept her mind on her business despite the fact that her blood felt like it was turning to steam.
“Anything?” he asked. The mouth-on-her-ear thing he kept doing was really hard to resist. She had to fight to keep her heartbeat under control, to keep her breathing even, to keep from tilting her head in silent invitation to his lips to explore the sensitive side of her neck. Was he aware? Was he doing it on purpose? Her guess was, yes. She thought about calling him on it, but the last thing she wanted to do was let him know how vulnerable to him she apparently was.
So suck it up, buttercup.
Her eyes collided with those of a man chugging from a beer mug in front of the red curtains. No sooner did their eyes meet than he looked swiftly away. He, too, was seated at a four-top. Short dark hair, beefy build. Dark shirt. It was difficult to see more detail because he leaned back in his chair, which put him deep in shadow.
Deliberately? Impossible to know.
She didn’t think she’d ever seen him before.
He didn’t seem to fit with the Christmas-sweater-wearing trio of wine drinkers seated with him. But then, the rain made for strange tablemates.
What struck her was how quickly he’d glanced away.
“Over near the window. Four-top, third table from the hostess station,” she said in Colin’s ear, and described the guy. “We need to get closer so I can get a better look.”
“Hang on.” He danced her toward where they needed to be. When they stopped to kind of sway in place, his back was once again between her and the possible source of danger. The marshmallowy reaction that engendered in her was something she thrust out of her mind. Right now she had more important things to worry about than the possibly calamitous state of her feelings.
Like identifying somebody who maybe wanted to kill her.
“Close as we’re getting,” he said in her ear. “Look him over.”
A fair number of couples still boogied down between them and their target, providing cover and, if necessary, protection. Human Kevlar, anyone?
“I don’t want him to catch me staring at him over your shoulder again. Turn me around so that my back’s to him, and let’s do a dip.”
“You got it.”
He turned, then supported her with one hard arm while she let her head and upper torso fall back and shook what God gave her. He slid his thigh between her legs. Then he lifted her hips right up against him and rocked into her. Full contact. Bulge to notch. Unexpected. Impactful. She sucked in air. Her bones threatened to melt. Deep inside, her body took it to a whole nother level: it clutched and began to throb. The wave of desire that washed over her instantly made her weak-kneed and dizzy and so, so hot.
She wanted, she wanted—
Oh, hell, no.
Keeping her focus required a Herculean effort, but she did it. Gritted her teeth, swayed to the beat, ignored how hot he was getting her and checked out the target.
Guy was mid to late forties. Brawny. Short dark hair. Face of a bulldog: small eyes, loose mouth, jowly cheeks. He was looking at the dance floor, but not at Colin and her.
She didn’t recognize him.
Colin pulled her upright.
She shook her head. He knew what she was saying.
H
e bent his head, touched his mouth to her cheek. His target, she knew, was her ear.
She felt the warm crawl of his mouth against her skin all over, everywhere there was to feel it, with every nerve ending she possessed. For such a relatively insignificant caress, the effect was phenomenal. Against her better judgment, against her will, she was turned on to her back teeth, and not only was it all his fault, not only did she suspect his actions were meant to achieve just that, this was absolutely not the moment.
Something was niggling at her.
Turning her head, and not incidentally putting her ear out of reach of Colin’s mouth, she directed one more covert glance at the target.
He still wasn’t looking at them. Instead, his attention was on the server, whom he was signaling with an uplifted hand.
He was left-handed, she saw, and the ring finger on that dominant hand was missing. What remained wasn’t a smooth stump, but a jagged one, as if the digit had been—chewed off by rats.
Four-fingered Franz.
The memory came flooding back: she was ten years old, and she and her father—not her father, Mason—were in Paris. They were robbing a bank vault. Correction, she was robbing a bank vault, because she was the only one who could fit through the bars of the enormous iron gate that closed off the section of the vault that held the safe-deposit boxes. Mason and the gang he had put together were staging a robbery of the bank itself as a distraction, but the items he was really after were in six of the safe-deposit boxes. Assuming that a silent alarm would be triggered when the cover robbery commenced and the tellers were ordered from their cages, she had three minutes to get in, open the safe-deposit boxes, dump the contents into a bag and get out with the loot before the outer door of the vault slammed down and locked, sealing her inside. She made it, Mason got what he was after, and the crime was officially chalked up as just one more bank robbery. But the salient point was that one member of the gang was Four-fingered Franz. She didn’t know if that was his real name, but that was Mason’s name for him. That, and the story of the rats chewing off his finger, which Four-fingered Franz had told her with macabre relish when he’d caught her looking at his damaged hand, had stayed with her to this day.
The Fifth Doctrine: The Guardian Series Book 3 Page 16