Femme Fatale

by Doranna Durgin

  “There,” she said, meeting his surprised look without concern. “If there’s anyone here, that should bring them running, don’t you think?”

  “You said there wouldn’t be.”

  “And there won’t. But you don’t believe me yet, so I thought I’d give you a little demo. See? No one.” She took a big bite of her cheeseburger, pretending it was actually juicy. “I know it’s a big comedown from that hotel food, but do you know how many calories they pack into one little French fry?”

  “No, but I’ll bet you can tell me.” He offered her something close to a rakish grin, an expression she hadn’t expected to see from him. His hair, conservative as it was, still managed to look rumpled and even a little scruffy, and it went perfectly with that grin.

  “Five hundred and forty total for a serving that size,” she informed him, pretending to be unaffected. Yeah, and that kiss didn’t curl your toes, either. “You can use ’em right now. So eat.”

  Normally she wouldn’t worry about her curling toes. She wouldn’t worry about her response to him at all—she’d just let it happen and enjoy the moments. But Chandler…her reactions to him ambushed her. Repeatedly. When she’d seen him in that hallway, the instant she knew he’d been shot but not just where—

  She’d almost lost it. She’d almost rushed to him instead of disarming the shooter. Superbly trained, highly experienced, and all she could see was the stunned look on his face as the bullet hit. Not a good sign, that distraction. Not good sign, the depth of her response to him. She thought she’d left those feelings behind when she’d walked away from her long-discarded fiancé, but now they hit her hard.

  So she worried about her toes.

  Chandler was oblivious, wrapped up in his pain and his sweat and his distraction. Thinking about their situation, no doubt. As a good spy should. He unwrapped the crinkly paper just enough to expose half the burger, and took a healthy bite. “I know this is an active theater. I don’t understand why—”

  “Because they’re just gearing up for production. I should know, I auditioned here a few days ago. Waiting for callbacks, now. They do the auditions in the morning, fight over them in the afternoon, and leave the theater to me in the evening. Not that they know about it. But honestly, did you think I’d bring you to a place I hadn’t checked out? Or bring me to a place I hadn’t checked out? This theater is perfect.”

  “It’s hardly secure,” he pointed out. “We pretty much walked right in.”

  “This part of it isn’t.” She stuffed a fry into her mouth and sucked the salt off. Ooh, so bad for her. No wonder it tasted so good.

  He gave her a baffled look. “Backstage?”

  Beth laughed. “You haven’t been around theaters much, have you? They’re wonderful when you want to disappear. This particular place has storage worthy of Phantom of the Opera. Once we go below, we’re off everyone’s radar.” A final bite of the burger, and she balled the paper up and stuck it inside the bag. “Lean this way,” she said. “I’ll fix that arm up while you eat.”

  “Not the best combination of activities.” But he did it, and she opened the kit on the seat beside her, twisting into a yoga-inspired shape to get a good working angle as they sat side by side. He said nothing as she worked, cutting the sleeve open and cleansing the wound. The natural distinct definition of his biceps had given way to swelling, and she wished she had antibiotics.

  “Thank you,” he said when she had finished, although she was certain she’d hurt him. Sweat daubed his face, gathering in the well-defined groove between his nose and lips. She snatched her hand back as it rose to follow an impulse, fingers drawn to trace those lips. The upper lip looked a little stern, but the bottom lip…sensuous and full and waiting for more kissing. God. What timing, Riggs. The middle of a cock-up mission.

  Oblivious to her wayward thoughts, he said, “It’s time to talk, Beth. Is that your name? Beth?”

  She hesitated, then nodded. And required no more prompting. He was in this with her one way or the other—he certainly wasn’t going to make any further easy contact with his handler. She didn’t think he’d noticed it yet, but while the first round fired had hit his arm, the second had gone astray and cored the laptop case. She said succinctly, “I met Lyeta to give her sanctuary in exchange for information. She was shot as we spoke. She told me she had a copy of the master security keycard that would give us open access to Krystof Scherba’s computer network. You know Scherba built Egorov’s system, right?”

  Okay, not the entire truth. Nothing about the mini CD that Beth already had, and no hint of a definition of us— Stony Man. But all the same he seemed stunned to realize he was, at last and in one swift conversational dump, getting the information he’d been looking for. She waited until he nodded, and until his expression turned faintly eager at the thought of the keycard. Then she said, “All I know is that she stashed it somewhere to which the words Blue Crane, under, and table all apply.”

  Chandler plucked a French fry from the bag between them; a smile showed in the quirk of his lips as he chewed. “And so I found you crawling under tables at the Blue Crane Winery.”

  She shrugged, feeling her own amusement. “It was as good a lead as any. I’ve got a complete list of possibilities, but they’re extensive. The big problem is that we can’t find any record of where Lyeta spent her time the night before. If I could find that location, it might narrow things down considerably. If I could search it…”

  Chandler smiled the kind of smile that shouldn’t be coming from a man at the end of a fight-and-run scene and who still bled from a bullet wound. “You may have gone to meet her at that dock, but I followed her there.”

  He’d known? He’d known all along?

  He just hadn’t known it mattered.

  Beth said it out loud just to be sure, fighting the impulse to jump up right then and there, demand the information and run off into the night. “Then you know where she came from. Where she spent her last night.”

  In spite of her restraint, Chandler saw the impulse. “Easy there,” he said. “The answer is yes, as much as anyone knows. But now is not the time to act on it. You’re exhausted—you’re going to make mistakes. So am I, and I don’t trust myself to cover anyone’s back in this situation, not when we have options. Besides, the location doesn’t come with lighting, and nature won’t provide any until nearly six in the morning.”

  The location. “You’re not going to tell me,” she said flatly, narrowing her eyes at him.

  He winced. She didn’t know if it was from his arm or her glare and she didn’t care. He said, “As a matter of fact, no. Unless you tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you don’t want to dash off into the night and do something about it.”

  She bounced up out of the theater seat and into the aisle, where she shed the flip-flops she’d worn on their hurried exit from the hotel and put her foot up on the back of an innocent seat in lieu of a stretching bar. He wasn’t wrong. She did want to act, and to act now. But that didn’t mean she would.

  “I thought as much,” he said, jamming the litter from the meal into the bag it had come in and wadding the entire thing up with enough pressure to turn it into a diamond. “Don’t get a strop on about it. I had you pegged from the start. Why you think it’s perfectly fine to make impulsive decisions without consulting the other people involved—”

  “Get over it,” she snapped at him, straightening from the tight straight-legged stretch, unaccountably wounded by his words. As if she cared what he thought. “Your attitude is exactly why I know better than to trust rule-book boys. You think you have the right to control everyone else, and if a thing isn’t done your way, it’s wrong no matter what.”

  As if she cared what he thought.

  Evidently, she did. To judge by the wrench of the anger within her, the hot pain deep in her throat…evidently, foolishly, she somehow cared a lot.

  He had his mouth open to say something; she cut him off. “As it happens, you’re exactly right and exactly wrong. I
wanted to run off and check the place out. But I wasn’t going to. It’s the middle of the night, we’re exhausted, and you’re hurt. Do you even know how much blood you’ve lost? As it happens, I was going to consult you about how you wanted to proceed. So you can just—” Go to hell, she’d been about to say, except she realized how revealing it was, how personal she’d let things get. Beside herself in what would no doubt be labeled an impulsive little temper, she let her foot fall from the seat and stalked down the sloped aisle and then up to the stage. She had no particular purpose other than putting distance between them, enough distance so she had time to cool off. Official retreat, hiding the very personal retreat beneath.

  She couldn’t make it too personal. She still had to work with him, to wait until morning and start the chase again. In spite of her anger, the anticipation gave her a little thrill—finally, Lyeta’s keycard, her dying legacy, and the tool that would allow Stony Man to target not only the remains of the dying Egorov’s legacy, but master hacker Krystof Scherba.

  That Chandler would be there had nothing to do with it.

  Damn toes. Stop curling.

  She sat cross-legged at the back of the stage, massaging her feet. Dancer’s feet, flexible and pampered and at the same time always just a little bit abused. Tough and tender. Like he is, said an unbidden little voice in her head, and with some irritation she slapped it away. Controlling, she told it, arguing with herself. Unyielding.

  It made her glad for the deep shadows. Even with the various curtains drawn up in preproduction openness, the low light of the theater—a light she’d have to remember to turn off soon—barely reached her. It hid the stacks of flats leaning against the interior brick and the selection of scrims off to the side and it hid her, although not so much that Chandler wouldn’t know she was there. He’d know she hadn’t committed some impulsive fling of a decision and left him there.

  Impulsive fling was perhaps not the best phrase to plant in her mind just now.

  Beth sighed and switched feet, massaging each toe individually, letting her mind go blank, or trying to. She concentrated on deep breathing, dispelling anger and making way for relaxation. There. That was better. She stood, hand against the painted brick wall for balance, and lifted her foot high above her head, pulling down on her toes. Stretching again. What she always did when she needed moments of calm.

  But when she looked away from the self-imposed focus point in the stage right wing where the dimly visible call board hung empty in preparation for the first list of callbacks, she found Chandler standing on the stage apron, immediately in front of the first row of seats. Gentle light from the auditorium limned his head and shoulders, leaving the rest of him in shadow. Amazing how much she could tell from that simple silhouette. That it was a non-confrontational stance, slightly hip-cocked; it lacked the precise squaring of the shoulders she’d seen him affect before action or argument. His arm bothered him; she could tell that, too, the way he unconsciously held it away from his body; in another moment she thought he’d tuck his thumb in his belt.

  Just standing there, looking at him, balancing in her stretch, Beth felt a familiar curl. It had migrated from her toes to her lower belly, and it hovered there, pulsing quietly. Ohh, I am in so much trouble…

  Quietly he said, “Dance for me.”

  That’s not what he’d meant to say. He’d meant to say, “I don’t want to argue with you,” and “I’m sorry, I jumped to conclusions,” and maybe something else besides, but when his eyes finally adjusted to the shadows of the stage, he lost those words entirely. She stood, stretching in a way to make her legs look impossibly long and her bottom impossibly firm. Instead of ballerina elegance she moved with lithe feline strength. Not a swan, but a panther—except for that impossibly long, graceful neck. A kiss me neck.

  And so he lost all his important words, his body stirring. His pragmatic nature fled before her, and his mouth said Dance with me.

  Slowly she lowered her leg. She took several pantherish steps his way and said, “What?” in a wary, puzzled tone that let him know she’d heard him…she just didn’t know what to make of it.

  He should just shake his head at her, and go back to his plan. The “I don’t want to argue with you” plan. The one where he didn’t embroil himself any further with a woman whose nature was so contrary to his, who was sure to rip new wounds over old scars.

  Except that wasn’t fair, was it? If it was entirely true, he wouldn’t have come up here to apologize for jumping to conclusions. She was creative…and impulsive and fiery and all the things that made his pulse pound in places other than his arm as he grew hard, painfully hard and painfully fast. Just thinking about her.

  Sod it all, I am in so much trouble…

  He said again, “Dance for me.” Part demand, part request, with an edge to his voice that she’d first thought was anger and now realized was anything but.

  Beth looked at him a moment, then closed her eyes, tipped her head back slightly, and listened. Waiting for the right music.

  “What?” he said after a moment.

  “Shh,” she told him. “I’m listening for the music. Your music.”

  Quiet strength in waiting. Low music, maybe cello with subtle drum work as foundation. She drew herself up and started in adage, in slow, controlled movements that showed his order, his structure, but also his strength. Strength in following the rules without giving up the passion of his goals, an aspect of his character that she only this moment truly understood. Strength in waiting for just the right moment to act. And when that moment came…

  The drums shifted to a slightly higher pitch, and violas joined the cellos; a whisper of wind music layered in the background. Her movements quickened. She saw not the backstage, not the dimly lit auditorium, not even Chandler’s form downstage of her. She saw only her mind’s eye, where he came alive with the charm of his grin and the unexpected dry lick of words, British humor in wry sarcasm. She picked up the tempo, adding quick-footed chassés and a few jazz undulations—nothing too developed, but understated. Held within.

  But only until he burst into action. The drums turned heavy and fast, the strings sweepingly full. She leaped into a fan kick, coming down into a series of turns and jumps and falls, all economical but powerful, three men scattered around a lobby at his feet. Only when she turned to their most intense moments together, that scorching more-than-just-a-kiss against his hotel door, did she release herself into full expression of movement, full-flung leaps and tight spins, eloquent arms flung wide to expose her body at its most vulnerable…riding the energy to completion.

  Beth came down from a final leap to land before him, a perfectly balanced halt. Breathing heavily but not harshly, her muscles flushed with warmth and exertion. She had a glimpse of his face, an expression she couldn’t quite identify. Something profound…something touched. Something beyond verbal communication.

  Wordlessly he reached for her. He cupped one hand around her cheek and kissed her. Kissed her deeply, unhindered by her panting breath; working with it. When she needed to come up for air, gasping at exertion and arousal both, he moved on to her cheek, her earlobe, the soft outside corner of her eye. He’d shaved before the wine tasting; his scant stubble scratched her face only enough to create tantalizing friction. He tipped her head slightly and ran a line of kisses down her neck, murmuring against it, “Cor, I love this neck.”

  Beth lost herself to the exquisite sensation he created along that neck, the tingling that rippled down her spine and along her shoulders and somehow gathered at her breasts and at her loins. She found his ear, nibbled it, and smiled when he stiffened from head to toe, right down to the fingers twining in her hair. That was a good spot, was it? Delicately she licked the inner cusp of that ear, and he growled into her neck. The sound undid her. Mr. Controlled MI6, growling in helpless lust. Her mind and body spun closer to that place where nothing in the world mattered but their hands on each other and their bodies locked together.

  But before she
grabbed his shirt to bring him in closer, before she lost herself altogether, she put a hand on either side of his neck and ever so slightly held him off. He responded immediately, if not without effort, his eyes looking lost and dazed and slightly fevered. She said carefully, “I know what I’m doing—” As if. You won’t be able to walk away from this one, Bethany Riggs. Not without leaving something of yourself behind. She could live with that. She’d have to, because it was already too late. But this…this couldn’t be something he regretted. Or that he thought had been her decision. She waited until he’d focused on her eyes, though his body remained quivering and attentive, barely restrained. “Do you? Know that you truly want this?”

  He didn’t answer right away. He pushed her hair behind her ear, ineffectively smoothing the mess he’d made of it, slightly clumsy with the want of her. He looked at her long enough to make it clear he’d heard her, and then very deliberately leaned over to take her mouth and plunder it so thoroughly as to leave her breathless all over again.

  Her entire being sighed with relief. And still— “Come with me,” she said.

  “I plan to,” he muttered, one hand busy finding its way up the soft fleecy sweatshirt he’d bought for her, letting a tunnel of cool air rush up against her spine in delicious contrast to the heat of his hand.

  She giggled, a rare sound that suddenly felt like freedom. “Downstairs,” she said, catching his hand as it found her bare breast, leaning into it with luxurious greed. “Mattress. Privacy. A place to throw your clothes when I rip them off your body.”

  Not that she cared about the privacy per se…what was a Stony Man agent if not a thrill-seeker? But for two spies on the run…two spies about to become intensely, irreparably distracted…privacy meant safety.