Resurrection

by Wendy Million

  After I’ve put the glasses in the dishwasher, I wander up the stairs. On the landing just outside my door is Finn.

  “I assumed you’d be asleep by now.” I keep my voice low. Eric doesn’t need to realize he was eavesdropping.

  “Did you?” Finn pushes his hands into his pockets and shrugs. “You knew I’d be listening.”

  “Hear anything of interest?”

  “Eric’s a dick.”

  “What can I say? I have a thing for dicks.”

  He smirks and glances away from me. “You’ve had a warehouse theft?”

  “Yes. But we’ll get it under control. Eric is overreacting.”

  He isn’t, but I don’t need Finn trying to ride to the rescue when he has to sort out his own life.

  Finn scans me with his ice-blue eyes. “He’s in your room?”

  “Probably.” My heart hammers.

  Whether Eric’s in my room shouldn’t matter to him.

  Finn grips the back of his neck with one hand, while his other disappears deeper into his jean’s pocket.

  “You don’t have to sleep with him to prove a point to me.”

  “Is that what I’m doing?”

  “I still feel it, Carys. The connection between us. It’s humming right now. You can’t tell me you don’t feel it, too.”

  Goosebumps rise on my arms, and I rub them. His sixth sense is accurate. When Finn and I are alone in a room together, something lives and breathes in our space. Back when this whole thing first started, the sensation freaked me out. Then I wondered if the tension in the air might be love. Now I recognize it as good old-fashioned lust. I can take care of that myself.

  “If it makes tonight easier for you,” I say, “I would have had sex with him even if you weren’t here.” Backing away from him, I place my hand on my bedroom door. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He shakes his head but doesn’t meet my gaze. “You’re better than this, Carys.”

  With pursed lips, I examine him for a moment. “Maybe. But this is all I want.”

  Then I turn the handle and walk into my room.

  Chapter Five

  Finn

  The sun streams in from the blinds I didn’t bother closing last night. My sleep was restless and painful, and just fucking terrible. I shoulda sucked it up and asked Carys for the drugs. That’s why I waited for her on the landing. Since the other doors were open on the second floor, I knew Eric was in her bedroom, waiting for her. Her settling for that guy is the equivalent of having someone piss on my cornflakes. I didn’t walk away from her the first time for her to end up with a guy like him.

  The sun keeps hitting my eyes, and I throw my forearm across them, wishing I could will myself back to sleep. While I’m lying here, I need to figure out how to get out of this house. Being around Carys is a bomb with a lit fuse, fizzing away, getting closer and closer to exploding. My instinct is to stay, to watch it go off, to relish in the chaos and destruction.

  Not this time.

  I climb out of bed and grab the other set of clothes someone put on the dresser before I got here last night. My movements are slow and careful, but I get dressed as quickly as I can and amble down the stairs to see what I can find for breakfast. As I come into the main room, I suck in a deep breath filled with greasy bacon and coffee. Doesn’t get better than that. Standing at the island, meat sizzling on the grill in front of her, is Lena. Her black hair is in some kind of bun thing, and she hasn’t noticed me yet. We only met once, years ago, when Charles Van de Berg introduced us at a party, and it became clear she was playing the role of Mrs. Van de Berg, in Switzerland. Carys talked about her a lot back then—how she enjoyed Lena’s company, how her feelings were a betrayal of her mother.

  “You’re still working here? You a glutton for punishment?”

  Lena jumps, let’s out a squeak, and touches a hand to her chest.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  I’m shoeless, and I’ve always had a tendency to approach in silence. It’s instinct.

  “No, no. That’s okay.” Her smile stretches across her face, not connecting with her dark brown eyes. “I wasn’t expecting anyone to be up yet. Usually the smell has to get under her door before she’ll even open her eyelids.”

  With my hands into my pockets, I saunter over to the island and ease onto a heavy wooden bar stool. Carys has two paces in the morning. Up before the birds, making deals, or a cave dweller who only emerged for food.

  “She’s not an early riser here?” I say.

  Lena shakes her head, and she uses tongs to turn the bacon.

  Glancing up at the balcony overlooking this room, I run my hand through my hair. Is he still up there? The thought turns my stomach.

  “He’s gone.” Lena has her back to me as she grabs a plate from a cupboard behind her.

  “That was quick.”

  “Always is. He got what he came for.”

  I’m sure I’ve grasped her meaning, but I say it anyway. “Which was?”

  “Raise his leg to everything in sight and go home to screwing whoever he wants in Chicago.”

  I snatch a piece of sizzling bacon from the pan and drop it in front of me when it burns my fingertips.

  “Not a fan of Eric?”

  “Are you?”

  “The reason I don’t like him isn’t the reason you don’t like him.”

  She raises a shaped eyebrow. “You might be surprised. Charles loves Eric, though, and I’ve heard he’s good at his job.”

  “Can’t be too good if they’ve had a major theft.”

  “He’s not in charge of that region,” Carys says, from behind me. “And you’re right, Lena, my father loves him. They’re very similar.”

  I’m not the only one who can make a stealthy approach. Twisting in my seat, with difficulty, I catch a glimpse of her standing in the entranceway in an oversized men’s dress shirt. If it’s not his, she wants me to think it is. Her point wears thin on my patience.

  “That’s what you’re wearing today?” I ask.

  Lena cracks the eggs and drops them into the frying pan.

  “With the right belt, it would do in a pinch.” Carys wanders over to the couches and takes a seat. The furthest spot from me she can choose.

  “Lots of room at the island,” I say.

  “I’m fine over here,” she replies.

  I purse my lips in irritation and catch Lena smiling. “It’s not fucking funny.”

  Lena’s grin widens. “It kind of is.” She flips the eggs and raises the spatula in one hand while the other perches on her cocked-out hip. “I hear you’re stuck over in this area now.”

  Scowling, I snatch another slice of bacon. This time the piece isn’t too hot, and I take a big bite.

  “Fucking FBI.”

  “At least it’s not the CIA,” Carys says from the couch. “Domestic, not international.”

  “Not in the mood for your tiptoeing through the daisies comments,” I say.

  Her laughter peals through the room. “Are you ever?”

  “No,” I grumble and eat more bacon.

  When we were together, Carys was perpetually sunny when faced with my doom and gloom. I pretended to be annoyed by it, but her optimism was a trait I used to love. At least that hasn’t changed.

  “You got any drugs?” I say.

  “Oh.” She rises and saunters into the kitchen, opening a corner cupboard.

  “Sorry. I completely forgot you were injured. I should have remembered because you move like an old man with arthritis.”

  Lena stifles a laugh with her hand.

  “I don’t look that bad.”

  Carys passes me a bottle, and I check the label before popping the top. I was hoping for morphine, but whatever this is will have to do.

  “Where are you going to live now?” Lena slides an egg onto a plate and then does the same a second time.

  “We should go over the list I put together at some point today.” Carys takes a slice of bacon an
d pulls it apart with her fingertips, inserting pieces into her mouth.

  Lena piles the plates with bacon, eggs, and a potato mash thing she fried in the pan. She passes a plate to me and to Carys. Mine has twice the amount of food. Normally I’d have no trouble wolfing it down, but my time in and out of hospitals has meant I haven’t been doing anything normal.

  Carys stands on the other side of the wide island, eating her food in slow, meticulous bites. Watching the fork go from her plate and slide into her mouth is torture. The drugs haven’t kicked in yet, and my body aches. The tightening in my pants isn’t helping.

  “Do you have access to any of your money?” she says.

  Her lips close around her thumb to catch a smear of egg yolk. Her tongue swirls, and I swallow. Right now, I want to fuck her on the kitchen counter while Lena watches. I’m shit at resisting temptation, and Carys is the shiny, juicy apple. Even when the fruit is poisoned at first bite, she’s impossible to resist.

  “A bit.” I sip the coffee Lena placed in front of me to wash down my pills. “Probably not enough. It’ll depend on the country. I had lots of cash on hand at the house, and I took some to the warehouse with me. Figured if I came out of there alive, I’d at least have something to help me start over.”

  Carys frowns. “You didn’t arrive in Switzerland with a bag.”

  “Probably still in the warehouse, with the FBI, or with whoever whisked me out. How did you get me out, anyway?”

  “Paid off someone in the raid party.”

  “FBI?”

  “Who else would be in the raid?” She raises her eyebrows at me as the fork slides into her mouth again.

  “Impressive.”

  “I’ve got friends in all kinds of places.”

  I smirk. “I bet you do.”

  “Keep your mind out of the gutter, Finn.”

  My gaze roams over her leisurely. “I hate that fucking shirt.”

  “I’m making a statement.”

  “Been made. Go change.”

  “No.” Her amber eyes connect with mine, full of challenge. “What was it you said to me? Your voice means nothing in this house anymore.”

  My lips twist in annoyance as I focus on my plate. “I shouldn’t have fucking said that, okay. I was surprised to see you at my house, meeting with my brother, talking about shit you knew nothing about.”

  “Fine. But you don’t appreciate why I’m wearing this shirt.” She flicks the collar with her fingers.

  “Whose is it?”

  “Eric’s.”

  “Then I understand exactly why you’re wearing it.”

  “The shirt is comfortable.”

  “Bullshit. You’re telling me to stay the fuck away. You don’t need to. I have no intention of trying to get in your pants.” I trail her body again, greedy for the curves barely outlined by the oversize button up. “Or up your shirt. As soon as we’ve worked out the details, I’ll be out of your life again.”

  She tucks her hair behind her ears and avoids eye contact. With her fingers, she takes apart another slice of bacon.

  The dishes Lena’s been washing in silence clatter into the second sink. She glances over her shoulder and bites her lip.

  “Sorry.”

  “Want help?” I rise from my seat and bring my dish over to slide it onto the counter beside her.

  When I turn around, Carys is gone.

  “She’s not as tough as she seems.” Her voice is quiet beside me.

  “I know,” I say. “That’s why I need to stay the hell out of her life. I blow lives up, I don’t keep them safe.”

  “You’re starting over.” She plucks a dish towel from the rack beside me. “Maybe you can restart that attitude, too.”

  I give her a long look, searching her open, serious face.

  “You’re one of those people.”

  A smile touches her lips. “Those people?”

  “Like Carys.”

  I take my dish and place it into the dishwasher. Sliding my coffee off the island, I walk away.

  “You want to see the good in people, even when it’s not there.”

  Chapter Six

  Carys

  I’m in my office, behind my desk, a pantsuit on, hair tied back in a messy bun. All business in here. Professional. What he said earlier doesn’t matter because I don’t want to sleep with him either. I didn’t wander down the stairs in Eric’s shirt, fantasizing about what it would be like to have Finn rip the buttons off me and fuck me on the counter in my kitchen. Nope. Didn’t cross my mind. Not even once.

  God. I slept with Eric to unwind me, make these residual emotions easier. Instead I spent the night with him, lost in thoughts of Finn. Eric’s lips, close to my ear murmuring about how wet I was, how good I felt, made me want to scream, and not in a good way. Eventually I had to tell him to shut up before he ruined the mood. And by mood, I mean the fantasies in my head his voice kept destroying. I wanted to shut my eyes and dream of Ireland.

  Turns out I’m a forty-five-year-old woman still addicted to the danger that’s about to walk into my office any minute. I asked Lena to bring him to me so we could go over places to live. No extradition treaties. Isolationist, or not overly friendly with the USA, would be best. It’s a small list.

  Knuckles rap on the outside of the door before Finn opens it with his fingertips. I rise behind the desk as he saunters in. As he eases into the chair across from me, I sink into mine.

  “What have you got?” he says.

  Picking up the sheet in front of me, I double-check it before sliding it toward him. He looks good since he took those drugs earlier. Better coloring. More relaxed. Probably the opposite of what he sees in me right now.

  “This is it?” He waves the list at me, frowning. “Cuba, Switzerland, Russia, and Iran?”

  “There’s Iceland, too.” I frown. Did I forget to add it?

  “Saw that. Any place with the word ‘ice’ in the name is an automatic no.” He eases deeper into the chair. “I guess I’m staying here.”

  I clear my throat and point at the paper. “As you can see, I also outlined Switzerland as the most expensive option.”

  “You’re telling me I’m too poor to live here?” Finn’s flinty gaze bores into me.

  “Maybe?” I shrug and shift in my seat. “I don’t know what your finances are like. You were vague earlier.”

  “I can fucking afford to live in Switzerland if I want.”

  “Without having to work? I don’t know if you saw—”

  “Yes. I can read. Cuba and Russia are the cheapest options. Russia is the best at bucking extradition requests and for a higher quality of life. Your five hundred graphs and charts are clear.”

  “Oh, good.” I sit up straighter, cross my legs, and rock back into my chair. “So privyet to Russia, then?”

  “Not a chance. Russians are snakes in the grass. I’m not going there.”

  “The Volkovs aren’t even real Russians. That’d be like calling you and Lorcan Irish.”

  “We are Irish.”

  I laugh and run my hand along my brow. “Staying in Switzerland isn’t a good idea for you.”

  “The country is big enough for you to visit this place and for me to live in another city.” Finn slides the paper across the desk. “From what I’ve seen, I’ll enjoy settling here.”

  “You’ve seen the inside of my house and the Swiss landscape in the dark. Unless you somehow saw through your eyelids when you were unconscious.”

  “You told me to pick. I picked.”

  The phone on my desk rings, and I jump.

  Finn smirks. “You’re still wound tight. Eric must not have done his job last night.”

  My cheeks flame as I lift the phone and hold the receiver to my ear. “Carys Van de Berg.”

  “A package got delivered for you at the front of the chalet. What do you want me to do with it?” Jay’s voice lumbers along the internal line.

  “Can you tell who it’s from?”

  “No address other
than yours. Kinda a medium-sized box.”

  I glance at Finn who is scanning my face with an intensity I’m not sure I like.

  “Don’t open it. I’ll come look.” With the receiver back on the cradle, I rise from behind my desk. “I need to take care of something. Consider Russia or Cuba. Seriously. Switzerland is expensive as a long-term solution.”

  He’s frozen in his seat. “Why are you worried about a package delivered to the front of the house?”

  “Not worried,” I say. “Just cautious. I called in favors to get you lifted. People can be overeager to cash those.”

  His eyes narrow, and he heaves himself out of the chair with a grunt. “I’m coming to see this package.”

  “It’s not something you need to worry about.”

  As I come around the desk, he slides across the chairs quicker than his injuries should allow. His bulky, broad body partially blocks my hasty exit.

  “You thought that was a suggestion.” He clicks his tongue, his ice-cold gaze connecting with mine. “You saved my life, or maybe just my sanity this time. Either way—anyone who comes after you, gets me.”

  “Mess with the bull and you’ll get the horns?” I smile.

  My heart races out of control at the heat radiating off his body. His familiar spicy scent drifts toward me. Eric did not do his job last night. Not even close.

  “You’re the bull? I’m the horns?” He smirks.

  Oh, God. Horns. Long, hard horns.

  He closes the space between us. My pulse threatens to explode out of my neck.

  “A wolf doesn’t always need to pretend to be a sheep,” he says as his fingers touch the spot on my throat where my pulse flutters, his favorite place to caress, the pads gentle against my skin. Then, he balls his hand into a fist and jams it his pocket. “Sometimes being a wolf is enough.”

  “You can sense fear?” I reply.

  We make eye contact, the connection searing in its intensity.