A Love For Always

by Victoria Paige

  The scrape of the barstool alerted him to Sylvie’s presence. He turned and noted in disappointment that she had changed back into her clothes from the night before.

  “I left your shirt in your bedroom,” Sylvie said. “I can bring it home with me and wash it if you want.”

  Nate sighed his irritation. “We’ve known each other for nine years. Don’t you think we’re past these bullshit niceties?”

  She arched a brow. “I’m just being a polite guest.”

  “Sylvs.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Cut it out.”

  “Okay, then, can I have bacon with those waffles?”

  “That’s more like it.” He opened the fridge, grabbed the packet of bacon, and tossed it on the kitchen counter. “Make yourself useful.”

  “Hey, I’m the guest.”

  “You’re the chef.”

  And cue the eye roll. Nate controlled his grin. His little firecracker was so predictable.

  “You don’t need to be a chef to cook bacon,” Sylvie grumbled, snatching the packet in question from the countertop. She bumped him with her hip. “Out of the way.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Can you get me that frying pan?” Sylvie ordered.

  Nate unhooked the cast iron skillet from the overhead pot rack. “Here you go, shorty.”

  She glared at him, but her lips twitched.

  “Looks like someone needs more coffee,” Nate observed teasingly.

  “If I remember right, I’m more of a morning person than you are,” Sylvie retorted.

  “That could be up for debate.” He was very adaptable, but having her wake him up with breakfast was reason enough to feign morning sluggishness. He lowered his mouth to her ear. “Do you want to find out the answer?”

  Sylvie didn’t answer him, pretending to be preoccupied with rendering the bacon fat, which would take a while since she was starting with a cold pan.

  “Well?” Nate prodded. This time he shifted behind her, his body a few inches from hers. He lowered his head, inhaling her and caught a whiff of his shampoo. Smelling himself on her invoked some deep-seated satisfaction.

  “Did you just sniff me?” Sylvie turned, her eyes twinkling in amusement.

  “I like smelling myself on you.”

  “Pee circles around me, would you?”

  Nate stepped back. “First of all, babe. Men don’t pee. We take a piss. Second, I have other ideas of marking myself on you, and third, yes, I like smelling myself on you. In fact, I’d like to rub myself all over you.”

  “You’re laying it on thick there, buddy.” Her elbow poked his abs. He barely felt it. She was such a tiny thing. He did feel a bit guilty for laying it on so thick. However, he had to remember who he was dealing with. Despite Sylvie’s barely five foot one height, she was formidable. Hours handling kitchen staff built her grit, and hours standing on her feet certainly built her stamina.

  “And fourth, you call me buddy again and I will kiss the fuck out of you,” Nate warned.

  Sylvie’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it again. No words came out.

  “Babe, that’s a cool imitation of a goldfish, but you got to let me know when I need to start the waffles.”

  She eyed him coolly. “Nate, you need to work on your follow-up. You got me soaking my panties at ‘kissing the fuck out of me,’ but you’ve just negated your advantage with that goldfish comment.” She returned her attention to the bacon. “Five minutes.”

  “What?” She sucker-punched him at “soaked panties.” Why couldn’t he shut his smartass mouth for a damned minute?

  “The waffles, Nate?” Sylvie leaned slightly, casting a sidelong glance. “What’s the matter, Mr. Reece? Think you’re the only one with a filthy mouth?”

  “No,” he muttered, his hands instinctively gripped her hips to pull her against him. He groaned. The contours of her body fit so snugly against him, it felt so goddamned right.

  “Nate—”

  “Relax,” he said softly. “I just want to feel you against me.”

  “The waffles—”

  He huffed in resignation, noting briefly the goose bumps raised on her skin where his breath fanned her neck. “Later.”

  “Later, what?” Sylvie asked warily, head angled at him, but not quite looking at him.

  He brushed his lips lightly on the shell of her ear. She inhaled sharply and stiffened as if waiting for him to answer her question. “Later I’ll prove what else I can do with this filthy mouth.” His hands left her hips to slide up her sides, stopping short at the swell of her breasts. Fuck, his body heated up. He wasn’t doing himself any favors by talking dirty to her, because it was backfiring big time.

  Down, boy.

  Nate dropped his hands and strode to the bowl containing the waffle mix he whisked up earlier. “Waffles coming up.”

  *****

  “I don’t like this.”

  Nate’s brusque tone stilled her hand on the Ferrari’s door. Sylvie turned to the man beside her. They had reached an impasse about her predicament and it took cajoling, pleading, and some threatening to convince Nate to take her to Sapporo Ramen this morning. He refused to hand over the pills; Sylvie refused to let him handle Hiroshi, refusing even, to reveal the name of her contact. She knew Nate would figure it out eventually, but she had to make sure the situation didn’t escalate needlessly.

  “Nate, handle the DEA for me. Get them off my back. That’s how you can help me while I manage things from my end,” Sylvie said. Thankfully, he didn’t have a choice. As Nate had expected, a wrathful phone call came in from the DEA demanding an immediate meeting.

  “I’ll see if I can pull one of my guys—”

  “Nate, I’ll be fine,” Sylvie said firmly, placing a hand on his arm to stress her point. “I’m in no danger from my father’s men. The worst they can do is make things uncomfortable for my business.” Her jaw tightened. “I can certainly manage that.”

  He expelled an irate breath and shook his head. “Stubborn woman.”

  “I’m my mother’s daughter.”

  “I wasn’t exactly being complimentary there,” Nate muttered.

  A car zipping into the back of the restaurant parking lot caught their attention.

  “Look, that’s Kato pulling in. I won’t be alone at the restaurant,” Sylvie pointed out.

  “What’s that kid gonna do when the Asian mafia comes calling? Beat them back with a soup ladle?”

  “Kato is twenty-one years old. You were about his age when you joined the army, right?” she retorted, opening the car door before she gave in to the urge to bean Nate with her purse. Getting out, Sylvie ducked her head back into the vehicle. “I’ll be okay. I promise.”

  “Call me or text me if you notice anything out of the ordinary. Keep your eyes peeled and your phone close to you. Get me?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Dad.”

  “Sylvs, I’m really serious here,” Nate growled, the planes of his face strained.

  Guilt washed over her. “I promise.”

  She could hear Kato singing in the kitchen as the sound of prep work echoed through the hallway. Sylvie was in her office, if one could call the small space as such. There were boxes of stock items stacked behind and in front of her. Most of her furniture was from auctions of pieces salvaged from business closures. She’d been frugal with non-essential items, but she would splurge on things like good knives. She bought her set during her stay in Japan. The cutlery maker’s ancestry and skill could be traced back to seven hundred years of Samurai swordsmithing. Forged of the finest carbon steel, Sylvie could consider this her greatest investment outside her restaurant equipment.

  She’d rather be honing her knives with her whetstone than dealing with the mundane chores of running a business. Her gaze drifted to the stack of papers before her—dealing with bills and payments. She sighed. Being a cash only establishment, she usually tallied her sales at night and dropped the money in the nighttime depository. Sylvie had b
een so tired Saturday evening, and she wanted to get an early start Sunday morning to visit Nana, she never got around to it. Then the fiasco of yesterday happened, and she almost forgot she had $6,000 in cash stored in her office safe.

  Sylvie glanced up when a quick rap sounded on her open door. Kato McMillan’s lean-muscled form stood before her. Her eyes narrowed at his attire. Jeans and a wife beater.

  “What did I say about wearing a tank top in the kitchen?” At least he was wearing the scarf on his head.

  “It’s broiling in there,” Kato answered sheepishly. “We’ve got the oven going for more soup bones and I’m making the tare for the ramen.”

  “That’s no excuse. Wear a t-shirt if it’s too hot.”

  “Aye-Aye, chef.”

  Sylvie nodded and arched a brow, prodding Kato to state his business.

  “I thought the Ma-Kombu was coming in last night?”

  “It was.” Sylvie frowned. Ma-Kombu was the highest quality dried seaweed used for making her stock, and she had sourced it from a small-scale harvester in Osaka. “I put it in . . . shit . . . no, it’s still in my Cherokee. Passenger seat.” She grabbed her keys and tossed them at Kato.

  Catching the keys, Kato gave her a chin lift and swaggered out her office. Sylvie’s lips hitched. The boy made her smile. He had so much energy; he was the life of the kitchen. When any of her kitchen or waitstaff was having a bad day, Kato had a way of making them laugh, helping to make their difficult day easier. She knew the reason she took a shine to the young man was because he reminded her of herself. Kato didn’t take the job as her prep-chef because it was another job to earn money. The kid had shown real passion. He was meticulous and understood the importance of quality in craft and ingredients. From her chats with him, Sylvie was thankful he didn’t suffer from the prejudice that plagued her growing up.

  Sylvie’s unusual almond-shaped green eyes were frequently ridiculed in school. Her hair was dark with auburn highlights, her skin normally milky white in the winter, tanned easily in the summer. Her Japanese-Scottish heritage certainly graced her with unique features kids at school thought were queer. Shunned by the white kids and grudgingly accepted by the other Asian kids who were obviously just too polite to turn her away, she had a lonely childhood. Her mother traveled a lot, leaving her with Nana for months at a time. One day, when she was about twelve, one of the bullies taunted her, announcing in the lunchroom that she was adopted. Sylvie ran into the girls’ room crying and stayed there for a while. By second period after lunch, a teacher came and got her and called Nana to pick her up.

  Her grandma kept her from school the next day. It turned out, she had called Mom who immediately returned to Goochland from God knew where. Nana and Pru sat her down and told her the truth about her father. Her mom didn’t mince words. Sylvie was an illegitimate daughter simply because Pru refused to marry her dad. He didn’t exactly have business on the right side of the law, and her mother never hid that fact.

  “Your dad is a dangerous man who has enemies. At the time when you were three years old, the power struggle in the organization was vicious. That was why I took you away from him, but do not doubt that he wanted you. He loves you in his own way, Sylvie.”

  “Did you love him, Mom?”

  “Yes, but I love you more.”

  Afterward, her mother quit traveling and built her workshop at the back of Nana’s house. The next summer, she took Sylvie to D.C. to meet her father for the first time since they’d left Japan. It was awkward to begin with, but Daichi Yoshida was larger than life even if he wasn’t a very tall man. The man exuded confidence and power. He had thick dark hair, a smooth clean cut face, tall nose, and shrewd slit eyes with large dark irises. She could see the tattoos peeking out from his long sleeved shirt.

  A loud thud brought her out of her ruminations. Kato was too quiet, and he should have returned from her car by now.

  “Kato?”

  As if on cue, light footsteps treaded down the hallway, but Sylvie knew in her gut they did not belong to Kato.

  She stilled herself as a figure appeared in the doorframe.

  “Good morning, Sylvie San,” Hiroshi Mori greeted her with a malicious smile.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Drake Lassiter was not who Nate had expected. He’d dealt with DEA handlers before, but it was fairly evident, Cade Bowen’s boss was no bureaucratic pansy. The man was dressed in faded torn jeans, a tight white tee, and combat boots. He appeared to be shorter than Bowen, but it was hard to tell since he was leaning against a black Suburban. He was bulky, but not exactly ripped, with arms covered in sleeve tattoos much like Cade, and aviator shades shielding his eyes.

  Nate turned off his bike and engaged the kickstand, lifting his chin to acknowledge the two men. Up close, he noticed a scar running along the side of Lassiter’s face. Shaved head, scruffy goatee, all Nate needed to complete his initial impression was a look into the man’s eyes. Obviously both of them knew the game well, because Nate himself was wearing shades.

  The meet was set up on a piece of land abutting a deserted warehouse. Trees in full spring bloom, patches of grass, and loose dirt completed the isolated landscape. Returning his attention to Lassiter, Nate wondered if he should have brought backup. However, he trusted Cade, but then again, an agency like the DEA had seen its fair share of corruption.

  “Nathan Reece,” Lassiter said his name with a trace of a sneer.

  “Lassiter,” Nate acknowledged. Then nodding at Cade, he said, “Bowen.”

  “I’ll cut to the chase, Reece,” Lassiter said. “Why exactly is a security specialist sticking his nose in DEA business and fucking up a sting operation that took us two years to build.”

  “I’m sure Cade filled you in.”

  “I’d like to hear it from you. I reckon, an ex-spook like you, this couldn’t be all about pussy.”

  Anger spiked through his system, but Nate maintained an impassive face.

  “Not sure what you’re talking about, Lassiter.” He didn’t elaborate.

  This time, Lassiter took off his glasses and stepped closer to Nate, invading his personal space. Nate’s lips tilted up in a lopsided grin.

  “Think you’re so smart,” the other man sneered. “On record, you’ve spent four years with U.S. SpecOps. Left the army at twenty-seven to do what? Be a security consultant for various companies that don’t really exist. But I’m sure your background’s airtight, isn’t it?”

  Nate gave a brief huff of derisive amusement. He took off his own sunglasses and stared Lassiter in the eye. No question, this had devolved into a pissing contest.

  “Get to the point, Lassiter.”

  “Where are the pills?”

  “Don’t have them.”

  Lassiter stepped back and barked with mirthless laughter. Wagging his finger at Nate, he said, “Oh, you’re good. Looked right the fuck at me and baldly lied to a federal officer. You know I can arrest you for obstruction?”

  This time Nate was the one who stepped into Lassiter’s personal space. “Try.”

  “Guys, let’s hide the ruler, okay?” Bowen said wearily, speaking up for the first time.

  “Off the record, we know you were CIA and you think you can use your connections to get away with bloody murder,” Lassiter said, glancing briefly at Cade. Of course Cade knew Nate was CIA, but he’d never admit it openly to Drake Lassiter. He just met the guy. “Well, not on my watch, Reece. Daichi Yoshida is going down, and if I need to use his daughter to get his attention, I will.”

  “What is your agenda, Lassiter?” Nate asked. “How exactly will getting his attention take down the ACS? It’s a damned hydra. Multiple heads. You cut off one, another sprouts in its place.” His eyes narrowed, gauging the other man carefully. “I’d hazard a guess, it has nothing to do with shutting down the Asian Crime Syndicate, but more of using Sylvie as leverage. Blackmail. What exactly does Yoshida have that you want?”

  It had something to do with the Glutathione Derivative Enzyme serum. Nat
e would bet his left nut on it.

  Lassiter’s eyes flickered with uncertainty, but his face didn’t twitch a muscle. Long seconds passed between them as they continued to size each other up. It almost felt like they were in some Western duel. The only thing missing was a blistering sun beating down on them.

  “I wanted this meet to appeal to your sense of duty to country,” Lassiter finally said, backing away with a look of disgusted regret on his face. “I see that man is gone. Your woman is mired in her father’s dirty business. She’s as guilty as every member of that organization.” Cade’s boss turned and walked toward his the SUV. Cade followed suit, casting a resigned look at Nate.

  “You can’t protect her forever,” Lassiter threw over his shoulder.

  Nate contemplated his next words, clenching his fists, which itched to wrap around the other man’s thick neck.

  “Lassiter!” Nate called out.

  The DEA boss had the SUV door open, but shifted his attention to Nate.

  “Leave Sylvie Yoshida alone,” Nate said. “The only way you’ll get to her is through me. You don’t know what I’m capable of and you’ll only find yourself in a world of hurt.”

  Nate pivoted, walked toward his bike, and got on.

  “Now you’re threatening a federal agent, Reece,” Lassiter scoffed, but the crack in his bored facade told Nate he had hit a nerve.

  “Not at all,” he returned evenly, gunning the engine. “I can find out everything about you, and something tells me I’ll dig up shit you’d wished had remained buried.”

  “As if you don’t have your own shit.”

  Nate’s lips curled in a mocking smile. “Did you forget? I’m a ghost. And a ghost leaves no tracks.”