Femme Fatale

by Doranna Durgin

She grabbed his shoulders and kissed him with everything she had.

  And he liked it. She felt the hard edge of his hunger, felt the wild surge of his blood as his body thickened and pulsed against hers. And then his fingers speared into her hair, cradling her skull, pulling her head back.

  He dropped a warm kiss on her forehead. He brushed a soft kiss on her nose. He closed her eyes and teased her mouth with kisses, rubbing his lips lazily over hers until her breasts were full and aching. Until her heart beat high and wildly as a bird’s. Until she shook with want.

  She struggled to keep her head, scrambled for footing in the warm, dark tide of sensation. “Are you trying to prove something here, cowboy?” she murmured.

  “Yes,” he said flatly.

  Startled, she met his eyes. The fierce male possessiveness of his gaze stopped her breath.

  He kissed her again, longer, wetter, deeper. Her body recognized and responded to the suggestiveness of his kiss, to his blatant possession of her mouth. Still kissing her, he walked her backward until the back of her thighs bumped the mattress.

  “Wait,” she gasped.

  His arms tensed. He let her go.

  She dashed across the room. Dumping the contents of her makeup bag on the dresser, she searched frantically through the tubes and compacts and brushes until her fingers closed on a small, square packet.

  She held it up triumphantly. A condom.

  Bishop’s smile broke over her like the sun cresting a mountain, warming her to her bones. He shucked his shirt. He dropped his pants. He was gorgeous, hard and dark and heavily male.

  She stumbled toward him in her ridiculous high-heeled sandals, struggling to yank the gauzy white caftan over her head. “I feel like an idiot in this thing.”

  “You don’t look like an idiot.” He smoothed the silk from her shoulders, untangled it from her hair. “You look beautiful. Like an angel.”

  Her heart shook. So did her knees. “Don’t let the white fool you, pal. I’m no angel.”

  “I know what you are,” he said quietly. “I know what I want.”

  And it seemed, impossibly, that he wanted her.

  He kissed her, he touched her, he eased her back on the soft white bed. He filled his hands with her breasts and made love to her with his mouth.

  She was prepared for his strength. She understood his hunger. His tenderness destroyed her.

  He rocked her, rode her gently until she was soft and wet, until she was clawing at his shoulders and crying out. And then, only then, he plunged to the heart of her, again and again, taking her with slow, powerful, penetrating strokes.

  Be here for me.

  I’m here.

  She wound her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist, claiming him with her body as he claimed her with his thrusts. He pushed into her, all the way in, stretching her, filling her, until sensation swamped all her nerve endings, until emotion flooded her heart. She was overcome. Swept away.

  Bishop felt the crest take her, sucking the last of his control, roaring through his body like floodwaters through a dry riverbed. He groaned and pounded inside her, shuddered and came.

  Be here for me.

  I’m not going anywhere.

  But when he woke an hour later, wanting her again, Tory was gone.

  Chapter 7

  Tory slunk through the bushes in her little black catsuit. She was Jinx. She was Catwoman. She was Emma “in times of stress keep your bowler on” Peel.

  Bishop’s lovemaking—because that’s what it had been, making love, not simply sex—had left her feeling sexy and powerful. And almost believing in happily-ever-afters.

  The installation of the WiFi connector in Primo’s office had gone without a hitch. She’d scaled a tree at the far end of the garden—not so easy, even in the catsuit—to secure a second wireless access point to its trunk. The point in the tree would pick up the signal from Primo’s office and relay it outside the limestone walls where it would be easily read by the Stony Man network. Now all she had to do was slip undetected into the house, convince Bishop to give up his plans for vengeance and devise an exit strategy.

  She grinned in the darkness. Piece of cake.

  Her boots squelched in the mulch that bordered the path. Up ahead, it widened into one of the garden’s trysting spots. Orchids glowed in the moonlight. The air was fragrant with the jumbled scents of flowers and the sea. As settings went, this one was pretty darn romantic. Except, of course, for the goons with guns still making their rounds.

  And the man waiting for her on a bench in the moonlight was definitely the wrong man.

  Primo.

  Her stomach dropped. She took a quick step back.

  Too late. He’d seen her.

  He stood. And maybe he wasn’t waiting for her, after all, because his heavy brows lifted in surprise. Although that could have been because of the catsuit. He was either going to think she was into very kinky sex or know she was up to something.

  “I knew you were eager, querida. But not so eager you would follow me.”

  Oh, please. She wouldn’t follow Primo Valcazar if he were driving the hearse in a funeral procession. On the other hand, she really wanted to know why he was out here. Alone. In the middle of the night.

  So she fluffed her hair with her fingers and stepped out into the moonlight. “It got late. I got lonely. I wondered what you were doing.”

  “I am meeting someone.”

  “Should I be jealous?” she asked archly.

  He couldn’t possibly be buying this. But the man’s ego was amazing. Apparently he could.

  “No. This is business, querida.”

  She pouted. “You don’t do business in the garden, silly.”

  Primo’s gaze flicked toward the house. He didn’t reply.

  Tory moistened her lips and tried again. “This someone…can she offer you more than I can?”

  “This someone has a great deal to offer. If he can be persuaded to pay.”

  Unbelievable. She was actually getting somewhere. “Pay what?”

  “The price of silence.”

  Jeez. It was like trying to make sense of B movie dialogue. The guy really needed a new scriptwriter. Was he talking extortion? Blackmail?

  Bishop was convinced Primo knew or suspected something. Somebody’s benefiting from all these high-tech transfers… If I had millions of dollars switching columns on my computer, it would sure get my attention.

  Now who had Primo been spending enough time with to—

  “Are you meeting this person alone?” she asked.

  Primo’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well…I’d hate to think you were putting yourself in danger.”

  Come on, she thought. Brag to me. Tell me about the hold you have on your mysterious big moneyman.

  But Primo scowled. “Are you threatening me, querida?”

  “No, of course not. I’m just worried about you, darling.”

  Primo stepped closer. His hand came up to cup her cheek. She forced herself not to recoil.

  “You are worried,” he repeated.

  Her heart drummed in her chest. “A little.”

  “About me.”

  She widened her eyes. “Of course.”

  His hand slid from her face to her throat. He caressed her neck before his eyes changed, hardened. Before his fingers flexed and dug in.

  “Prove it,” he said, and tightened his grip on her throat.

  You could die from lack of air in about three minutes. Of course, you’d lose consciousness much faster. Constricting the carotid artery to cut off the supply of fresh blood to the brain was a danger. And a crushed windpipe was no joke, either.

  Tory windmilled her left hand and chopped Primo’s forearm below the wrist, clobbering his pressure point and forcing down his arm.

  Her right hand came up hard, the heel of her palm smashing into the base of his nose with enough force to break it.

  Not to kill. She didn’t intend to kill him. But she def
initely heard the crunch. The pain sent him stumbling back, both hands clapped to his face. He drew his palms away. Stared at his blood, black in the moonlight. Stared at her, his eyes dazed. Disoriented. And pitched forward on his face to the turf.

  Damn. She didn’t think she hit him that hard. Maybe he fainted at the sight of blood?

  Dropping to her knees, she grabbed his shoulder to roll him over. She should check for a pulse. But when she flopped him onto his back, she didn’t even bother to reach for his jaw. The large, gaping exit wound in his chest kind of made measuring his heartbeat unnecessary.

  Primo was dead. Shot in the back from under cover.

  And Tory was terribly afraid she knew who did it.

  “Bishop,” she whispered.

  No reply.

  My God, she was lucky the guards hadn’t heard the gunshot and come running. He must have used a silencer.

  “Bishop!” she hissed.

  Nothing. Her heart quailed. This was going to require one hell of an exit strategy.

  Hooking Primo’s body under the arms, she dragged it deeper into the shadows. The longer it took the guards to find him, the longer she had to find Bishop.

  He wasn’t in her room.

  Tory stopped just inside the door, her gaze panning from the balcony to the bed where she’d left Bishop sleeping. He wasn’t there. No, he was still out on the grounds somewhere, having successfully blown away Primo, her hopes and his future with a single shot.

  So much for happily-ever-after.

  It was time to get the hell out of Dodge. Now that she’d completed the wireless connection to Primo’s computer, her job was done. The longer she stuck around, the greater the risk of discovery.

  But for the first time in years she was more worried about someone else’s safety than her own. For the first time, she had someone she didn’t want to leave behind.

  You’re good at getting rid of people.

  She sniffed. She didn’t even know if he was coming back. Self-important cowboy jerk. The only evidence he’d ever been in her room was the laptop he’d left running by her chair.

  The laptop. What was he doing with her laptop?

  She crossed the room. It was a simple matter for her to scan the computer’s memory and retrace Bishop’s steps. There were e-mails, several e-mails, to colleagues he’d met through the Special Operations Division, a joint law enforcement unit comprised of attorneys, analysts and agents from the Justice department and an alphabet soup of other agencies: DEA, FBI, IRS and Customs. In his e-mails, Bishop made no secret of the fact that he was in the Caymans investigating his mentor’s death. He’d even included a list of Primo’s houseguests.

  Tory’s stomach sank. She wanted to believe Bishop’s e-mails proved he was resuming an official role in an authorized operation. Except now everyone and his kid brother knew Bishop was gunning for Primo. When Primo turned up dead, Bishop was going to look very, very guilty.

  She opened the final e-mail, a two-paragraph report on Dellamer Enterprises from an IRS analyst named Epstein.

  You’ve got several investors on that list you sent me, Epstein had typed. No surprises there. Dellamer stock is in every mutual fund portfolio I know, including yours and mine. But the big stockholder is Eric Klauen. Word on Wall Street is he’s positioning himself for a move to take over the company.

  Whoa. Tory blinked. Klauen and Dellamer? There was a connection she hadn’t looked for. But Bishop had.

  Primo had to have known that Egorov’s illegal fortune was being used to buy up shares in Dellamer Enterprises.

  Klauen was Primo’s houseguest and a player in Dellamer stock.

  Which meant…well, she didn’t know what it meant. But it was a pretty fishy coincidence. She read on.

  Shane Dellamer’s a tough son of a bitch, Epstein had written. I don’t see him giving up control of his company that easily. But if there were another scandal and stock prices fell, your boy Klauen could probably pick up enough shares to swing it.

  A scandal. Okay. Tory’s teeth worried her lower lip. Like Enron. Or Microsoft. Shane Dellamer’s giant financial empire was already under investigation for anticompetitive practices and antitrust violations. If word hit Wall Street that its CEO was also accepting large infusions of cash from a known arms smuggler and international terrorist, well, that would certainly be a blow to the company’s reputation. Dellamer might even face criminal charges. Investor confidence would go down. Stock prices would plunge.

  And Eric Klauen would swoop in and make a killing.

  Bishop’s voice echoed at the back of her mind. Somebody’s benefiting from all these high-tech money transfers. The key is to figure out who.

  And he had. At least, he’d known what rocks to go poking under to find a snake.

  She was impressed. And pissed off.

  This was her case. Her assignment. If Klauen was a bad guy, then he was her bad guy, damn it. Why hadn’t Bishop leveled with her?

  The thought that he’d hardly had time crossed her mind, but she squelched it.

  The fact that she’d pretty much cut him out of the action while she played computer whiz in Primo’s office was irrelevant.

  And the idea that he could be putting himself in danger right this minute and she didn’t know where he was made her crazy with worry.

  She glanced again at the e-mail, but it didn’t offer a clue. Let me know if you’re thinking of making adjustments to your 401K. Best, Joe.

  If Bishop was planning for retirement, maybe he didn’t intend to deep-six his career. Tory frowned and shut down her computer.

  He could still die before he collected his pension.

  Eric Klauen’s room was clean. Either he was innocent, or he was a professional.

  No guns. No drugs. No knives. No explosives. No communication devices beyond a cell phone.

  Disgusted, Tory went through his shaving kit one more time. Nothing there that would hold up the search line at an airport: pain reliever and cold remedies—she checked them both out—razor with replacement blades, toothbrush and dental floss, some high-end guy’s cologne, nail clippers and a bottle of bronzer. She unscrewed the top of the bronzer and squeezed a dab onto her finger.

  It was green. Well, greenish. And very thick. In fact, it looked just like the makeup she used to cover the scars under her jaw.

  Tory’s teeth clicked together. Interesting. But nothing else suggested Eric Klauen was anything but what he represented himself to be, a middle-aged German businessman with neat habits and expensive tastes. His shirts were silk, his shoes Italian leather, his money clip platinum with his monogram.

  She rubbed it with one of his handkerchiefs to take her prints off. KE. Now that was odd. Shouldn’t it be EK? Unless—

  “Do you like it?” the German asked in his soft, almost unaccented voice.

  Tory froze with her hands poised above his open dresser drawer. Boy, it was really too bad he didn’t keep a gun in there. “Very nice.” She squinted over her shoulder to see if he happened to have one pointed at her. He did. A Beretta 9mm, it looked like. Her pulse speeded up. “Where did you get it?”

  “It was a gift.”

  “From your wife? Girlfriend?”

  “Mistress. You can turn around, Miss Grayson. I have no intention of shooting you. Yet.”

  The nail clippers made a lousy weapon. So did the razor. Tory turned, a pleasant expression pasted on her face. “Right. Thanks. Why isn’t your mistress traveling with you?”

  “She is dead.”

  Tory hoped he hadn’t shot her for snooping through his drawers. “Gee, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It was fitting.” He smiled without humor. “You might say I am dead, too.”

  Tory stiffened. “I don’t understand.”

  But she was afraid she did.

  “I am Kapoch Egorov.”

  Tory took a deep breath and looked him straight in the eye. “Who?”

  Klauen/Egorov shook his head. “Unconvincing, Miss Grayson. You know ver
y well who I am. In fact, you and your colleagues almost forced me to make a change in my plans.”

  “I don’t really—” Oh, the heck with it. “What plans?”

  “Retirement.”

  She nodded toward the Beretta in his hand. “That doesn’t look like you’re retiring to me.”

  “It is a problem. Kapoch Egorov, who made his fortune in the ruins of the Soviet state, has too many enemies to retire. However, Eric Klauen, an honest investor, could live out his life quite comfortably. Assuming he could get his hands on Egorov’s money.”

  “And that’s what all this was about?” She was disgusted. Incredulous. “Lyeta’s death, the terrorist threat, the secret bank accounts, the financial transfers were all about protecting you and your money?”

  “Yes. It was a good plan,” he insisted. “The only two to suspect me were you and Primo. And Primo is not alive to talk about it.”

  Her heart started to thud. “You killed Primo?”

  Egorov shrugged. “Who else?”

  Hope tingled through her like circulation returning to a numb limb.

  He didn’t know about Bishop.

  Bishop had not killed Primo.

  Maybe some kind of sappy happy ending was possible after all—if she could stay alive.

  Tory stuck out her chin. “Why are you telling me this? Are you going to kill me, too?”

  The gun never wavered in Egorov’s hand. The black hole at the end of the barrel focused on her forehead like a third eye. “I could. It would be a good idea. Or I could find another use for you.”

  Something moved at the corner of Tory’s vision. She blinked, trying to see without turning her head, but it was gone.

  “Do I get a vote?” she asked.

  “You get a choice. I miss Lyeta. Even in my new life, I could use a woman of your…talents.”

  That sounded creepy. She took a step forward anyway. “You don’t know me.”

  “But I understand you better than you think. I investigated you, Miss Grayson. You only accepted the job with Stony Man to avoid jail. I can offer you much more. You can be rich and useful, even appreciated. Or you can be dead.”

  Dead was looking more and more likely.

  She fluffed her hair with her fingers, moving closer. “Which of my talents are you particularly interested in? Because—”