Femme Fatale
Page 32
“Stop there,” Egorov interrupted. “Or I’ll shoot.”
“Drop your weapon,” Bishop ordered grimly from the doorway. “Or I shoot.”
Egorov’s gaze shifted. Just a fraction. Just for a second.
It was enough.
Tory crouched and went in low, hooking the back of his legs with her ankle. Her sweep caught him at the back of the calf. He went down, backward, hard. The Beretta choked. A bullet smacked the ceiling. Plaster rained down on them.
Tory rolled frantically across the carpet, trying to give Bishop a clear shot. But the bed was in the way, and Egorov was no novice. He reversed, grabbing her ankle in one hand, and raised the gun in the other. His cold blue eyes were murderous.
Tory’s heart stopped. Not good.
Before Egorov could steady his gun, another shot cracked through the room. Egorov jerked. His hand tightened convulsively on her ankle. His gun wavered. Blood dribbled from his mouth. And then his grip relaxed, and he collapsed facedown on the carpet.
Tory sagged in relief.
“Nice shot,” she said to Bishop.
“Body shot,” he said dismissively. His black gaze met hers, and something inside her melted. “I didn’t want to miss. Come on.”
She scrambled to her feet. “Where are we going?”
“I don’t know. But my gun doesn’t have a silencer, and Valcazar’s body is in the garden, so we better get wherever it is fast.”
She stooped for Egorov’s gun, shuddering as her fingers brushed his. “You didn’t kill him.”
Bishop raised his brows. “Sure I did.”
“Primo,” she clarified. She could feel herself grinning foolishly, but she didn’t seem able to stop. “You didn’t shoot Primo.”
“I didn’t have time. I was too busy looking for you.” Bishop swore and ducked back into the room. “Guards. We’ll have to go out the window.”
She could hear them in the hall: doors opening and closing, boots muffled by the carpet, voices raised in confusion. She hurried to unlatch the window.
Egorov’s room was on the north side, away from the courtyard. She looked down at the stone face of the building.
“Oh, cripes.”
“It’s not that bad,” Bishop said, close to her ear.
“Right.” Tory took a deep breath. “You go first.”
And it wasn’t that bad, really, not with his hands guiding her feet, not with his low, sure voice directing her movements. At least she was standing on the ground a few minutes later, heart pounding, fingers scraped, manicure ruined, but whole.
Lights blazed in all the windows. Shouts echoed from the courtyard. A car engine started in front of the house.
She touched Bishop’s forearm. “This way.”
He followed instantly. “Where are we going?”
“We can’t get through the gate. But there’s a place where the trees grow close to the wall. We could go over.”
Bishop nodded. “Let’s do it.”
They blundered through the grounds, heading for the far end of the garden.
“How did you know where to find me?” Tory gasped.
“Process of elimination.”
Flashlights danced on the path in front of them. They both froze. When the guards moved on, Bishop continued. “When I didn’t find you in Valcazar’s room, I checked the gardens. His body was there, but you weren’t. So I figured maybe you’d put two and two together and come up with Klauen.”
The limestone walls glimmered through the trees to their left. Tory angled toward them. “I only suspected Klauen because I read the e-mail from your IRS buddy. How did you know Klauen was involved?”
“I didn’t. But I’d put together Primo’s guest list when I was casing the house. I sent it around and asked if any of the names on the list were connected with Dellamer.”
“This is it.” Tory patted a familiar tree trunk. The smell of almonds drifted down to them in the dark. “We can get over the wall here.”
Bishop looked up. “I’ll give you a boost.”
They scrambled and clambered over the high stone wall, bruising knees and scraping elbows; dropped to the other side. Shells and gravel crunched underfoot. An empty ribbon of road gleamed at the bottom of the grass-covered hill.
“A car would be good,” Tory said.
Bishop started downhill. “We’re only a mile from town.”
“I hate walking.”
He slanted an amused look down at her. “What are you going to do? Call a cab?”
“Well, actually…” She dug into the pocket of her catsuit. Her fingers closed on something hard. She drew out her hand and showed him the transceiver, winking in the dark. “I thought I’d call a cleanup crew.”
Tory settled into the corner of the cab. Privacy glass separated the front and back seats. Bishop’s shoulder was propped against the opposite window. His arms were crossed. His hooded gaze was focused on her face. If the driver glanced in his rearview mirror, she would appear to be talking to him.
“The port number is 828,” she told Barbara Price through the transceiver. Bishop’s left ankle rested on his right leg. He moved his foot so that the sole of his shoe almost brushed her knee. “If it shuts down, tell Tokaido he can still access the accounts through the wireless network.”
“It’s done,” Price assured her. “In fact, he’s already frozen Valcazar’s accounts.”
“Oh. Great.” Tory shifted her knees, but Bishop moved again, subtly crowding her. She glared at him. “Well, as soon as I get back, we can get to work extracting Egorov’s investments from the Dellamer business.”
“Tokaido’s doing that,” Price said. “You’re not scheduled to come back yet.”
Tory sat up. “We’re not headed for the airport?”
“No, your cab is taking you back to the Meridian resort, where you have a seaside cottage reserved for the next several days. What you do with that time is, of course, up to you.”
Tory could barely bring herself to look at Bishop, listening intently beside her. “This is no time for a vacation.”
“On the contrary, it’s the perfect time. You’ve accomplished your mission. Egorov’s fortune is being turned over to our government, and Egorov himself has been eliminated as a threat. You’re overdue for a break. Enjoy it.”
“Did you hear that?” Tory demanded, affronted. “She’s taking me off assignment. She said I’m overdue for a vacation.”
Bishop smiled. “You are. We are.” He took her hand, lacing his long, strong fingers with hers. “About two years overdue.”
The gleam in his eyes made her heart pound harder than it had all night. It was one thing to give herself to him in the heat of action. This was something else. Something new.
Something she wanted very much.
She glanced pointedly at their clasped hands. “What is this?”
Bishop lifted her hand in his and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “This,” he told her, his smile spreading from his eyes to his voice, “is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
Special thanks and acknowledgment are given to Doranna Durgin, Meredith Fletcher and Virginia Kantra for their contributions to the FEMME FATALE collection.
FEMME FATALE
Copyright © 2003 by Harlequin Books S.A.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-8424-5
The publisher acknowledges the copyright holders of the individual works as follows:
SHAKEN AND STIRRED
Copyright © 2003 by Harlequin Books S.A.
THE GET-AWAY GIRL
Copyright © 2003 by Harlequin Books S.A.
END GAME
Copyright © 2003 by Harlequin Books S.A.
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