Ultimate Weapon

by Shannon McKenna

  “They are beautiful,” he conceded. “Complimenti. Forgive me if this is an invasive question, but do you never create a beautiful thing just for beauty’s sake alone?”

  She sipped, her eyelashes mysteriously lowered. “Never. And besides, dangerous secrets are beautiful. Don’t you think?”

  He thought about that. “They can be, I suppose,” he said dubiously. “It depends on the secret. And your point of view.”

  She smiled. “And what is your point of view, Mr. Janos?”

  He lifted his glass to her in a silent toast. “That of a man whose lone secret weapon was confiscated by your security staff,” he said.

  “Ah. That.” She tilted her head to the side, amusement gleaming in her eyes. “Did the boys alarm you? They are very protective. Touchingly so. But I hardly consider you defenseless.”

  “No?” He swirled the liquor in his glass and inhaled the rich, complex smell of it. “With such deadly beauty, so many dangerous secrets massed against me?”

  “No. The way you move says it all,” she said. “Shaking your hand confirmed it. The enlarged knuckle joints and the calluses on your first and second finger are those of an experienced judoka. And your hands are electric, Mr. Janos. You are accustomed to channeling vital energy with them. You are an experienced martial artist with a high level of interdisciplinary training.”

  He was startled into a split second of blankness, but rallied quickly. “I do enjoy martial arts for exercise and recreation,” he said. “And I belong to a martial arts club near my home in Rome. But I would not presume to call myself a master. And I miss my knife.”

  “Your knife, I think, is overkill.”

  He injected a calculated hint of seduction into his smile. “I like overkill,” he said softly, letting let his gaze drop to the tangle of complicated jewelry at her cleavage. “And so do you, I think.”

  She conceded this with a brief nod.

  “I am tempted to procure some of your dangerous secrets for myself,” he said. “To combat my male insecurity.”

  “Bullshit,” she said softly. “You do not have a single insecure bone in your body, Mr. Janos.”

  He blinked. “Ah. Thank you . . . I think.”

  “Don’t thank me,” she said. “It was not a compliment, just an observation. And in any case, I do not design jewelry for men. Ever. It is against all my principles.” Her smile turned predatory.

  He knew when to back off. “Of course. I was surprised at your security procedures. Was all this elaborate choreography necessary?”

  She lifted her shoulders. “Who knows? I never do. Hence my caution.” Her smile widened. “Welcome to my world.”

  “I am honored, to have penetrated even the outermost defenses.”

  Her eyes flickered. “Che galantuomo,” she murmured. “Erin told me about your old world charm.”

  “I try to please,” he said. “Are you immune to charm, Ms. Steele?”

  Her smile tightened. “We shall see, hmm?”

  He had evidently overstepped his bounds by flirting with her. Val Janos allowed himself to be cowed.

  “Excuse me for getting straight to business, but would you show me the torque that you showed to Erin?” she asked. “Before we begin, it makes sense to verify that it really is one of my designs.”

  “Of course.” He opened his case and lay the flat black leather case on the conference table. Steele flicked it open and gazed down at it.

  Her head was inches beneath his face. The mingled scents of her perfume and her hair gel tickled his nose. The coils of her hair were gleaming and slick as varnished mahogany, gelled sternly into submission. No wisps allowed. Part of her armor.

  But he had seen her without it. He had already seen the thick, disheveled braid swinging down her back as she played with the child. He had seen it wet and loose, clinging to her neck, to her slender, naked back and shoulders. The damage was done.

  She looked up, rocking him with the sudden, blazing force of her eyes. “The provenance?”

  He looked politely regretful. “As is often the case in my business, the piece came to me by unofficial channels. I bought it from a woman in Rome who had received it from a mysterious foreigner in Prague on a mad weekend love affair—after which she could never contact him again. He evidently gave her a false name and cell number. She sold the piece to me out of pique. The card was with it. I recognized your name, since I’ve dealt with some of your pieces before. I have received many offers already. The price rises daily, you will be gratified to know.”

  “I see.” She stared down at the torque, a tiny dent marring the smooth skin between her perfect brows. “Were you aware that the last known owner of this piece died three weeks ago in Paris? She fell to her death from a penthouse terrace. Thirty-four stories.”

  “I am shocked to hear it,” he said, his voice respectfully subdued. “Was it . . . ?”

  “Suicide?” Steele’s elegant shoulders lifted. “Murder? Who can say? Perhaps she saw or heard something she shouldn’t, perhaps she slept with the wrong person. I imagine it’s best for you that the story not be widely known. People might consider the piece cursed.”

  Val made a noncommittal sound. “Forgive me if this sounds calculated, but considering the type of people who are most drawn to your work, it may enhance the torque’s value. Risk makes people feel alive. Danger is an indulgence for many of them.”

  “Yes, of course. Carefully controlled danger. Like an amusement park ride.” Her tone was delicately contemptuous. “Do you like danger, Mr. Janos?”

  “I am here, am I not?”

  Her chilly smile pushed him away. She lifted a telephone set into the wall near the table. “Have you eaten? The food here is excellent.”

  “I rarely eat in the evening,” he said. “But rules can be suspended. When temptation beckons, it is wasteful to resist.”

  She ignored his flirting. “I had originally thought to invite you to a place that specializes in Italian food, in case you were homesick for ragú, or gnocchi,” she said. “Then I changed my mind, decided to range a little further afield.”

  “You did well,” he said. “I seldom eat Italian food outside of Italy. No matter how talented the chef, la cucina italiana loses much of its magic out of context.”

  “I agree,” she said. “Well, then. Your choices are the classic Japanese haute cuisine of Mr. Takuda, or that of his wife and associate, Mariko Takuda, who specializes in a more modern style of pan-Asian fusion dishes.”

  “Choose for me,” he said gallantly. “I put myself in your hands.”

  “Ah, you do enjoy risk.” She picked up the phone and spoke at some length in what sounded like fluent Japanese to whoever was on the other line.

  “How many languages do you speak?” he asked.

  Her gaze slid away. “Oh, I lost count long ago,” she evaded. “The question becomes irrelevant at a certain point. Shall I show you the pieces, while we wait for dinner?”

  He assented. She turned on a light, and laid out her pieces.

  Her work was stunning. The designs were bold and yet delicate, imbued with a sense of simmering danger, and the hidden weapons were as cunning and ingenious as they were effective. He understood why Steele’s work was becoming a hot investment. It was unique, timeless. The businessman inside him that desperately wanted to be let out was intrigued, already calculating the profits that could be had by organizing a private auction to select clients of Capriccio Consulting.

  He tried not to dwell on how badly he wished his act was real.

  A discreet knock indicated that their meal had arrived. Two attractive Asian women entered, clad in skintight, jewe-toned silk brocade dresses, pushing a rolling tray full of fragrant, steaming dishes.

  Dinner was essentially a duel. He continued his attempt to flirt with her. She would lead him on for a few dance steps and then slam the door in his face. She ate little, despite the savory perfection of the food, and preferred the steaming green tea to the sake that accompanied the
meal. He was pouring her another cup when her cell phone chimed.

  She pulled it from some hidden pocket in her pants and glanced at the display, frowning. “Please excuse me for a moment.”

  She retreated to the far corner of the room, and stood with her back to him, muttering in Portuguese, in a tone he wasn’t meant to overhear. “. . . yes, I told you she needs a bath . . . well? So? She always has a cold! If I only bathed her when she didn’t have a cold, she’d never be bathed at all . . . so heat the bathroom, and dry her hair . . . Cristo Santo, Rosalia, you’ll survive if she screams. I survive when she screams . . . no, not the yogurt. She’s constipated. Give her the fruit, and the bran cookies if she wants another snack . . . how should I know where the fuzzy pink blanket is? Look in the laundry room, or under the covers of my bed . . .”

  The hot buzz that had been building up in his balls vanished.

  The child. He’d been so titillated by his seductive role, he’d let his lies and his lust become almost real.

  And this was his chance when she wasn’t looking. Her jewelry carrying case sat on the floor within arm’s reach. He had no idea if the room had hidden cameras. He weighed the risks and made his choice.

  He poked the tiny, missile-shaped RF beacon needle tip right through the black leather of the case and insinuated it beneath. It left a tiny misshapen bulge, but by the time she noticed, it would no longer matter. It would only monitor her for maybe thirty-six hours, having so little battery power.

  But Imre only had a couple of days, in any case.

  “. . . so tell her I’ll be back soon. And only Elmo, or Pooh. The other ones give her nightmares. Yes. Just a couple of hours. ’Til then.”

  She clicked the phone shut. He sensed rather than heard her sigh of frustration.

  “You have a child?” he said quietly.

  She whipped around, alarmed. “You speak Brazilian Portuguese ?”

  He shrugged. “Romance languages,” he said lightly. “Spanish, French, Italian, Romanian. You learn one, you learn them all.”

  “Hmmph.” She gazed at him, eyes wide. He had scared her.

  “Tell me about your daughter,” he urged.

  Her haughty chin lifted. “I do not discuss my private life with strangers.”

  He gave her a coaxing smile. “I am still a stranger?”

  “Let’s focus on business,” she said crisply. “Why am I here, Mr. Janos? Talk. And be succinct, please.”

  He displayed appropriate good-humored disappointment at being frozen out. “Very well. I am interested in organizing a private auction. Many of my clients are already eager to acquire your work. Once I put out the word, there will be a quiet stampede. And I have the perfect setting for it, too. A friend of mine owns a restored medieval masseria in San Sebastiano, near Naples, where we could organize a weekend event, and if you came—”

  “Why the hell would I come?” Her voice was sharp.

  “Your presence would be a huge draw,” he assured her. “Your mystery, your secrecy, your beauty.”

  She gave him a disdainful look.

  He persisted. “I am serious. Nothing stimulates people to spend money more than feeling part of an exclusive club. The commissions you will get for future pieces will keep you busy for years. You could earn hundreds of thousands, Ms. Steele. Perhaps seven figures.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and pondered him. “And you?” she asked. “What do you earn, Mr. Janos?”

  He shrugged. “A modest percentage, of course.”

  “Modest,” she purred. “A dangerous word. Very subjective, especially when it comes to money.”

  “Never mind the money. We can hammer out the financial details later. For now, think about it. You come to San Sebastiano, enjoy a sensual, profitable weekend, and then disappear again to your secluded privacy with a sack of money. Why not?”

  “It sounds dangerous,” she said.

  “Not at all,” he assured her. “The place is private, the guests hand-picked, the security good, the time interval brief.”

  “It’s dangerous because you are dangerous,” she said.

  “You are more than what you seem. Or less. Shall I tell you why?”

  Her words chilled him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Let me tell you all about yourself.” She gave him a coaxing, overly sweet smile. “Then tell me if I hit the mark. Think of it as a get-to-know-you game. Wasn’t that what you wanted? To know me better?”

  He sensed a trap, but threw up his hands, galantuomo to the last gasp. “How can I refuse a lady?”

  Chapter 7

  Tam cupped her tea in both hands and inhaled the steam as she studied his face. She didn’t like to admit it to herself, but it was taking more energy than she’d expected to withstand the gale force of this man’s sex appeal. Not just the language but even the way she talked changed in his presence.

  Erin had not been kidding. For some reason, Tam had been expecting a generic, male-model sort of handsomeness. Which was unfair. Erin was married to Connor, after all, and even Tam could appreciate his craggy, fierce good looks. Even at her moodiest.

  But still. She was utterly unprepared for . . . well, him.

  Lethal. It was the first word that came to mind, even though it embarrassed her. He was so solid, so hard looking. Dynamic, and yet calm and focused. Nothing soft about him, except for the gloss of that thick brush of black hair. She wanted to touch it, just to see if it really was as soft as mink. Gypsy dark eyes, inky brows and lashes. The planes and angles of his face were starkly masculine, arrogantly sensual, but that smile was pure temptation. She’d considered herself impervious to men’s lures, so why was she marveling at the lines carved into his cheeks when he grinned, or that blinding flash of teeth against his dark skin? Get a fucking grip, Steele. This is unacceptable.

  His face looked hard used for a rich business consultant. There were bumps on his slightly crooked nose, a white diagonal scar sliced through one thick, slashing eyebrow, and subtler scars that only a trained eye accustomed to evaluating the effects of cosmetic surgery could catch. And the hands, of course. He’d fought in his life. Fought hard. Won, more often than not, judging from his vibe.

  And what a vibe. It blasted out of him, full force. It was out of human range, a frequency that only a fucked-up freakoid with a weird, checkered past like hers could perceive. But so different from the danger waves that had throbbed out of the sicko madmen she’d had the misfortune to get close to before, like Novak, Georg, Drago Stengl. Their vibration had made her recoil.

  Not so with Janos. In him, the danger was blended like a cocktail with seductive, predatory male sexual energy that assaulted her at every level. It silently said, beneath the smooth veneer of perfect gentlemanly courtesy, that he wanted to fuck her, left, right, up, down and sideways. And that it would be well worth her while.

  She didn’t doubt it. But she wasn’t going to listen, not even with her nerves jangling, her skin prickling, her heart thudding. Back off, boyo. This was business, and that was how it was going to stay.

  “You’re not what you try to appear,” she said. “You are charming and flirtatious and inscrutable, Mr. Janos, but tiny details betray you. Your hands should be soft from handling nothing heavier than a pen and a computer mouse, but yours are scarred and calloused. And your face. Your nose has been broken. Several times it wasn’t set. You can’t blame the martial arts club. If it happened during sparring, why would a rich, image-conscious businessman neglect to get his nose set? Of course he would not.”

  “I did not see the point of—”

  “So it happened when you were a boy,” she went on smoothly. “No one set your nose then, either, which implies poverty, neglect, or both. I’m thinking an urban environment, judging from your basic vibe. And those scars on your face, the tiny one above your lip, the one cutting through your eyebrow, the one on your forehead that you almost hide with your hair, it makes me wonder what other scars you hide with the beautiful six-thousand-euro sui
t you’re wearing. You’ve had laser treatments, dermabrasion, but the ghosts always remain.”

  “I’m glad you like the suit,” he said blandly.

  “You’re no country boy,” she went on. “But you’re not from Rome. You don’t have the accent of the Roman periphery. Your Italian has a Roman cadence, but to my ear, it is a studied one, not a native one. You grew up somewhere else, speaking something else, and learned your perfect Italian later. And you grew up rough. Very rough.”

  He stared back at her, frozen into stillness. His eyes were chips of black, opaque glass. “Go on,” he said.

  She set down the teacup, threaded her fingers together, and rode the swirling current deeper into wild speculation. She felt like she was drifting on a boat into a night-dark cave of mysteries, and only the currents of air, the echoes, the flutter of distant bats’ wings could hint at its true vastness. It was dangerous. And . . . exciting.

  She pondered his stark face for a moment, and went on. “You are a ladies’ man, and your charm is practiced. You are accustomed to controlling women with sex, but unlike other men with that ability, your ego doesn’t rest on it—although your looks and your body would entitle you to—”

  “Thank you,” he murmured.

  “I’m not complimenting you,” she said, her voice impatient. “This is an analysis, Janos. Not flattery. Not flirting.”

  “My error,” he said, after a brief, startled pause.

  She did not acknowledge his sarcasm. “Sex is a tool for you,” she said. “But when seduction does not achieve its goal, you just change tactics without getting your pride hurt and try again, and again, and again. This suggests a lack of machismo not normal in a man from any culture I know—particularly not one who professes to have grown up in Italy. Italian men aren’t known for their humility, or their self-control. This coolness, this calculation regarding sex is a trait I associate with high-end sex professionals.”

  His gaze flickered.

  She pounced. “Ah. I’ve hit a sore spot,” she murmured. “Have you ever been a gigolo, Mr. Janos? Do you have a more colorful past than you lead people to believe? Some dirty, dangerous secrets of your own?”