by Misty Evans
As he kicked the bike up a notch, he thought about how he never got to set off explosions anymore. Loud balls of fire rarely went hand in hand with covert missions. Too bad he couldn't sit back and enjoy this one.
Zara wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her head on his back. He glanced down at her bare thighs outlining his jean-clad ones and resisted the urge to pat one of them. Adrenaline still pumped through his veins from the night's work. He had a Ducati under his ass and a beautiful woman in a flip-and-go skirt and no underwear on the back. The memory of her soft lips and demanding tongue made Lawson draw in a sharp breath and smile into the night.
Explosions were damn good, but truth was, they were nothing compared to his Bond girl.
* * * *
Slowing the bike, Lawson took the turn Zara pointed to. For the first time in his life, he wasn't exactly sure where he was or where he was going. Technically, he knew he was in Switzerland and heading south because the sun was rising on his left. Geneva was north and east. Guessing at the distance he and Zara had already driven, they had to be getting close to the Rhône. But at that moment, he was guiding the Ducati up a narrow dirt path, flanked on both sides with some kind of jagged rock wall and behind that, acres of forest. Birds chirped and called overhead as sunlight began to push its way past the dense leaves of the trees.
"Christian's house is just ahead,” Zara said. “Up and over the next hill."
After the past night, Lawson had mixed feelings about hiding out at anyone's house. In their current state, however, he had little choice.
They needed to touch down somewhere and get their bearings. They needed sleep, a bathroom and some food. A hotel was out of the question, and while he could have easily stolen food and slept on the ground, he wanted his partner to have a real bed and something decent to eat. She wasn't complaining, and he appreciated that, but her silence told him all he needed to know. She was balls-to-the-wall beat.
They crested the hill and without warning the path widened and gave way to a breathtaking view of green lawn. Beyond the black wrought-iron gate, Lawson saw a nineteenth-century estate, house and gardens spread out over acres and acres of well-manicured land.
"Jesus,” he murmured as he brought the bike to a stop. “That's not a house. That's a freakin’ castle."
Zara slid off the bike and trudged up to the gate. A camera mounted on the stone column followed her progress. She pushed a button on a video monitor embedded in the column on the left side. A minute later, a woman's voice asked for identification. Zara gave a weak wave to the video camera. “It's me, Maria. Zara."
Several minutes passed and then Lawson heard a shriek. A husky shriek, if that was possible. Certainly not Maria. A voice, very male, said, “Zara? My Zara?"
A smile lifted the corners of Zara's lips. “Yes, Christian. Your Zara."
Another of those weird shrieks and then, “Perfect timing, love. Breakfast is on the veranda."
A loud grating noise came from the gates. Zara turned her smile toward Lawson and walked back to the bike. The gates swung out like giant arms reaching to gather the two of them into the estate.
Zara hopped up behind him and again laid her head on his back. Her arms snaked around his waist. “We're safe,” she sighed.
Lawson eased the bike past the columns and followed the two-car-wide driveway toward the house. The gate screeched behind him and he shot a look back over his shoulder as the giant, cage-like arms closed. The spot between his shoulders twitched hard, and he forced himself to keep the bike rolling forward.
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Chapter Eighteen
Villa de Bernier
Lawson watched as Christian Bernier grabbed Zara in a bear hug and swung her around in a circle. “Where have you been, love? It has been far too long since your last visit."
Bernier was five-ten with shoulder-length brown hair, wet from a shower or maybe an early swim. His long face held a straight slice of a nose. Zara laughed in his arms and Lawson instantly disliked him.
Depositing her back on the floor, Christian kissed her cheeks before he held her at arm's length to look her over. “You look like hell. Rough night?"
"Not one of my best."
Christian pointed at her feet. “White sneakers? Are you feeling okay?” He placed the back of his hand against Zara's cheek. “Running a fever? Been toking again?” He glanced at Lawson and made tiny hand gestures in the air. “A few ounces of pot and her fashion sense goes right out the window."
Zara smacked his arm. “Lawson, meet Christian, the best instructeur de danse in all of Europe. Christian, my friend Lawson."
Christian held out his hand. “Is that a gun under your jacket or are you just happy to see me?” He laughed and waved Lawson's scowl away. “Sorry, I couldn't resist. I don't get to do my Mae West impression very often."
He shook Christian's hand and was surprised by the man's strong grasp. Under the colorful silk robe, Lawson guessed he was built like rhino. “I have a gun, yes. Is there a problem?"
Christian raised a brow at Zara. “He's gorgeous, mysterious and he carries a gun.” He pointed at a white wrought-iron table and chairs overlooking a kidney-shaped pool. A maid was arranging two more place settings on the table. “Why don't we sit down and you can tell me what happened last night over breakfast. Gunther is fixing omelets. Looks like you could use some nourishment, and I'm dying for a good adventure story."
"First,” Zara said, “I need a toothbrush and a toilet."
Christian put his arm around her shoulders and faced her back to the open French doors. “Take the Tower Room for yourself and"—he threw Lawson a look over his shoulder—"put your bodyguard wherever you please. Sundries and toiletries are in the cabinet above the vanity in the bathroom. Help yourself."
"Thank you.” Zara hugged him and crossed the threshold into the house.
"And shoes, love,” Christian called after her. “Hit the shoe closet and find something decent for your feet."
Lawson picked up his leather bag. “The bike we rode in on needs to be kept out of sight for now. You got a garage or a barn?"
Christian rubbed the end of his chin between one slender finger and his thumb. “This story of yours is quite good, isn't it?"
Lawson held his gaze and didn't smile back.
Christian dropped the routine and nodded. “I'll have one of my men put the bike in the garage."
"Thank you,” Lawson said before he went to catch up with his partner.
Zara stood in the columned Great Room and stared at the gold-framed Degas above the fireplace. In the group of ballerinas onstage in the picture, two seemed suspended in air. One in particular floated without effort.
Sunlight spilled through the arched windows on each side of the room. She felt jittery and wild from the past night's events. Like the woman in the pastel work of art, she too seemed suspended in air and time, wondering if, when her toes touched down again, she would land gracefully or fall. Her world at the moment was surreal. None of her personas seemed to fit.
Lawson's hand touched the small of her back and she jumped. “You're sure we're safe here?” he said.
"Yes."
The palm of Lawson's hand stayed possessively on her back, and she found herself relaxing into it a little as she kept her attention fixed on the ballerina's face. “Ballet has a basic law. Aplomb. It means perfect balance. It's what every ballerina strives for every minute of the dance, even when her feet aren't touching the dance floor."
"Do you miss it? Ballet?"
Zara thought about the music, the stage and the costumes. She'd been out of the dance world for years, but she did miss it on occasion. “Every movement of the ballerina is a story within itself. A story of dedication, persistence and love for the art. I think ballet is the most beautiful form of dance there is. Once it captures you, it never lets you go."
She shifted her weight and Lawson's hand stayed with her. It was so strange to have him there with her in Christian's
house. Yet at the moment, it was comforting. A little too comforting. She slid sideways away from him. “Have you ever seen a ballet?"
He dropped his hand and assumed his usual crossed-arms pose. If she hadn't known better, she would have sworn she saw color flush the tan of his cheeks. “Not unless you count my sister Opal's dance recital when she was nine. Ballet isn't my thing."
But apparently blowing up cars, stealing motorcycles and shooting people were. He'd been quite adept at those things. “What do you do when your op plan goes so far off track?"
His attention refocused on the Degas. “You switch to an alternate one."
"Plan B?"
"Yeah."
"Do we have a Plan B?"
A beat of silence went by. “Sure."
She didn't believe him, but she did believe in him. She believed in herself as well. “Okay, then.” She headed for the French doors which led out of the room to the Great Hall where they'd entered the house. “I suppose we should get cleaned up and have some breakfast with our host. Then you can fill me in on our alternate course."
Lawson followed her into the spacious entryway. Two matching staircases led to the second floor. Zara slipped off the Nikes and dug her toes into the plush red carpeting as they climbed the stairs. “What do you think of the house?"
"I think being a dance coach pays pretty damn well."
She found the energy to laugh. “Like I told you, Christian is the best in the business. He handpicks the most talented young girls and boys in Europe and brings them here to study. They usually go on to successful careers in the most elite dance troupes. My mother brought me here every year to supplement my stateside dance education."
On the second floor, she led the way down the hall toward the west wing. Her eyes skimmed the familiar family portraits decorating the walls between rooms. “The house has been in Christian's family for over a hundred years, but Christian grew up in London with his mother. That's where he studied various forms of dance."
Lawson simply nodded, not seeming to care. Zara, however, needed to talk ... about anything other than what had brought them here.
"His father was your kind of guy. An adventurer. He was always on safari in Africa or sailing the West Indies or some such thing. Got killed in a skiing accident in the Alps. Two months later, Christian's grandparents were killed in a car accident on their way back from the opera in Geneva. Very sad. At twenty-one, Christian inherited this house and the grounds."
She stopped in front of a set of closed doors. “At that point, he already knew he would never be an elite ballet dancer, but he had a choreographer's eye. He started working with other choreographers and coaches and found his niche. After a few years, he renovated a section of the east wing on the ground floor and put in a studio. The rest, as they say, is history."
Once she opened the doors, she crossed the marble floor of the sun room, taking in the view of the grounds from the towering window wall. She could see the water fountain in the patio below the balcony, a marble statue of Poseidon in the center. Beyond that was a formal garden adorned with more statues of gods and goddesses, an herb garden and a neatly trimmed boxwood maze.
"There's a bedroom and bath through there.” She pointed to the door in the northwest corner. “You can clean up and stow your stuff."
She continued on her path to a different door. “I'll be upstairs in the Tower Room, through this door and directly up the steps. Think you can find your way back to the patio for breakfast?"
Lawson glanced over his shoulder at the way they had come. “Of course."
"I forgot. You never get lost."
"No."
Lucky you, she thought, and then before she could stop the words from coming out of her mouth, she said, “Do you ever get scared?"
"Everybody gets scared once in awhile. Mostly, I get...” he paused, “...concerned."
"Concerned? Sounds almost human."
One side of his mouth lifted. “Surprised?"
"Yes, and relieved. I was beginning to think you actually believed you were immortal."
"You only get one life, Zara. You can't shrink away from the challenges just because you're scared."
"Or concerned?"
He smiled. “Or concerned."
Even after the night they'd had, she could see the confidence in Lawson's eyes. She knew he wouldn't have killed any of those people if he hadn't thought their own lives were in danger. Yvette had pointed a gun at her head and Zara had no regret over the woman's death. The others had also meant her harm and she trusted Lawson knew the line between the good, the bad and the ugly just as well as she did. “I'm doing the best I can, but I have to admit, there were a few times last night I almost peed on myself."
His gaze dropped from her face, down her chest and stopped at her skirt. “I can't see the Zara Morgan I know ruining a kick-ass piece of clothing she just bought in some fancy French boutique because she was scared. That's like sacrilege or something to you, isn't it?"
A small laugh again passed her lips. Her real self stopped digging for a persona to hang on to. “Hell yes."
Leaving Lawson behind, she made her way up another set of stairs, this one narrow and circular, to her favorite place in the whole house.
After showering and shaving—without interruption for the first time in two days—she lathered herself lovingly with some expensive body lotion she'd dug out of an antique glass-fronted cabinet in the corner.
She felt almost normal again. Rummaging through another cabinet, she found a new, unwrapped Sanogyl toothbrush and some toothpaste and went to work on her teeth, even scrubbing her tongue. She rinsed and wiped off her mouth. Much better.
She scrunched her towel-dried hair before digging out a couple of tiny glass pots of rich eye shadow and a brush. More cabinets and drawers yielded more makeup brushes and bronzing powder.
Using a fat brush, Zara stroked the light bronzer on her cheeks and forehead to give her face a bit of color. Then she took the eye-shadow brush and dipped it in a pot of smoke-colored eye shadow, using it to line her upper eyelids along her lashes. Her tired eyes looked less tired. Now if she just had her lip gloss she'd be all set.
Of course that had gone up in the explosion with her favorite handbag and everything else, including her cell phone. Flynn would be expecting a message, but right now, she was glad she had an excuse not to send one. She was ninety-nine percent certain he would never betray her, but ninety-nine wasn't a hundred.
She forced her mind not to dwell on the explosion or the car chase. Like she'd admitted to Lawson, she'd been scared, but she'd also felt alive. Even though the tightrope under her feet had wiggled and thrown her off balance, she'd stayed on and rode it out. She'd survived.
Lawson's kiss had thrown her off balance as well. Boy, oh boy, the man could kiss. Another praiseworthy skill to add to his list. Too bad she couldn't explore that list a little more.
Zara always had nagging doubts about the men who romanced her. Some wanted to find out if she was a natural blonde, and once they knew, she never saw them again. Others wanted to sink their fingers into her bank accounts, give her investment advice or get her to invest in their capital ventures. A few were bold enough to use her to get to her father, skipping her modest assets to get to Charles Morgan's empire.
During her wild college years, she'd envisioned herself as a woman of the world, enjoying and partaking of the international male smorgasbord, but the truth was, casual sex wasn't her style then and it still wasn't now.
And that's where the problem was with Lawson and his wonderful lips. She could see him, pumped with adrenaline like he'd been the night before, stripping her naked in the heat of the moment. Raw and passionate head-banging sex up against a car.
She could also imagine him hiding her away and making love to her in a protective, gentlemanly manner. Passionate, but slow and tender and attentive to her every whim. His body comforting and reassuring her with his expert touch and luscious kisses.
He might
even tease her into a sexual encounter just to take her mind off a bad situation or yank her chain. Sexy and provocative, he'd make her hate him for wanting him so much. As competitive as he was, he'd probably do everything in his power to make her come first so he could prove he was more in control than she was. The thought made her laugh out loud.
What she couldn't see, didn't want to imagine, was the future after the sex. After the mission ended and they were no longer partners ... where Lawson told her he would call her for that dinner rain check, and she went around for weeks with her heart doing double-time every time her cell rang only to find it was her mother on the other end.
Where she primped every morning in the mirror just in case she ran into him at Langley. Where she deluded herself with imaginary conversations that would never take place and made up excuses for his absence.
He was attracted to her, his kiss had told her that loud and clear. But a kiss in the heat of an adrenaline-pumping getaway was just a kiss. It probably never would have happened if Zara hadn't broken down in the first place. He'd tried to console her and gotten carried away because of the heightened stress of the night.
She had too. That was all it was.
Hour by hour, though, Lawson was getting under her skin. He was forcing her to face her past and yet protecting her at the same time. Every time he looked at her or touched her, a strange drumming took up residence in her rib cage. A drumming she recognized as sexual attraction and something else she couldn't quite define.
She knew about hostage situations, knew about transference. Was it possible to have a crush on the man who'd saved her life two months ago? Was it the previous night's heroic acts making her feel this way?
No, it's not transference.
Sex with Lawson could be fun, but she couldn't do it. A short-term fling on this mission was out of the question. For her and for Lawson. It would undermine their professionalism and endanger the success of the operation.
Pushing him out of her mind, she considered what still needed to be done. First, she had to find some clean clothes and get some food in her stomach. Second, get some sleep. Sleep would give her perspective and help her figure out this mess.