Cleopatra's Necklace (Devlin Security Force Book 3) (22 page)

The Rue Camille was a long city block, a marathon distance to go before they reached Roosevelt. How much farther to the Métro entrance? She couldn’t remember.

They nearly collided with a large woman toting a net shopping bag. She gasped and shrieked her complaint. Her umbrella dipped, dumping rain on them. One tip snagged on Cleo’s scarf. She tried to pull it back over her hair but the soggy silk wouldn’t cooperate.

“Let it go.” Thomas kept her hurtling onward as he replied to the shopper’s irate French in English, “Sorry. Excuse us.”

A shout behind them. Then another in answer.

“Don’t look. They see us now,” Thomas said, propelling her into a run.

Her damn hair. She might as well wear a neon sign on her head. She pumped her legs harder, ignored the protestations of her muscles. All that walking in Venice wasn’t the same as running.

One pair of pursuers had to sidestep a family of four lugging multiple bags. Some passers-by turned to glare at the running men. The other pair darted across the busy street.

“Splitting up to flank us,” Thomas said, tossing his head toward the team on the opposite sidewalk. “Too many people here blocking their way.”

“Our way too.” She panted as they wove through the gauntlet of hotel guests, diners, and late shoppers.

“We can’t shake them. They’ll stay with us all the way to the Métro. Cleo, you know the area. Is there a detour or short cut, some way to throw them off?”

She spotted the canopy entrance of a familiar hotel. “In here.” She darted up the steps and beamed a smile at the doorman.

After a quick glance back at their bloodhound teams, Thomas took the steps up to the entry two at a time.

The doorman held open the door and they slammed through.

“They’re not following?” she puffed. Their images reflected in the lobby’s mirrored walls as they trotted across the burgundy carpet.

“The change in direction seems to have confused them. But don’t count on them to wait for long. Where are we going?”

“Down here. The shop past the reception desk.” She waggled fingers at the desk clerk.
“Robert! Bonsoir. Ça va?”

The man blinked and nodded. Color rose to his cheeks as recognition clicked in.
“Oui, ah, Cleo, pourquoi—
”

She touched a finger to her lips.
“Tu ne me vois pas, d’accord?”
You don’t see me, okay?

He bobbed his head, puzzlement on his face, but any further reply was lost as she hustled Thomas onward.

No time to explain. He’d take charge again soon enough but for now he trusted her knowledge of the city, trusted her enough to go along. She had to make her idea work.

“Here it is. I worked here for a short while too.” She pulled him into the shop, its displays laden with miniature Eiffel Towers, posters, lingerie, and bottles of French fragrances, among other goods hotel guests might need.

Thomas remained watchful as always but also managed to look indulgent.

The clerk, a thirty-something woman draped in a fashionable scarf, looked up from the cash register and announced the shop would close in five minutes.

Cleo mollified her by saying they would make a quick purchase. She whisked Thomas into another section of the shop. Around them were racks and shelves of men’s and women’s clothing. The dyes of cotton and wool mingled with the oil of wood polish. The headlights of cars strobed the shop’s exterior window and glass door.

“The shop door leads to a smaller street, around the corner from Camille. We can cut across to Roosevelt.”

“Good call, finding this detour. Hope our guys are chasing their tails.”

She plucked a hat off a shelf. A black felt fedora, perfect. So Thomas. “And while we’re here, how would you like to buy a hat?”

His answering grin fanned crinkles around his eyes. “Babe, I love the way you think.”

A FEW MOMENTS
later, they slipped back into the drizzle.

While Thomas checked out the street for black-jacketed goons, she tightened the hood of the slate-gray raincoat over her bright hair. Not her color or style, but urgency had forced her to go with the only rainwear her size. The large sum of euros he’d charged to his credit card switched the shop clerk’s impatience into fawning gratitude.

Besides, now they could stay dry as well as incognito. All good.

Apparently satisfied, Thomas took the plastic shopping bag containing their wet jackets from her. Tucking her hand in the crook of his right arm, she set off at a brisk pace.

“Whoa, no racing,” he said. “Cool and casual won’t attract attention.”

“As long as I keep this hood on. Casual, okay, if I can, dressed like a spy.”

“What was that about with the desk clerk? He won’t sell us out?”

“He owes me. When I worked in the shop, I let him buy an expensive gift for his girlfriend on the installment plan. Not a perk the hotel condones.”

He worked his jaw as he nodded. “Girlfriend. I see.”

She couldn’t read the emotion in his voice. Jealous? She watched him with fascination, the grim line of his mouth, the intensity belying his nonchalant stride. Why the predatory scowl if they’d ditched their pursuers?

When he turned his gaze on her, the heat glowing in his amber eyes scorched her. Whoa, more than jealousy. And he looked so 007 in his fedora and charcoal Gore-Tex jacket—not unlike the ones their pursuers wore—she wanted to jump him. Nearly hyperventilating, she hustled along beside him. Unaccountably, he’d lengthened his stride.

At the end of the short block, he used the reflection in a shop window to check behind them. “Snuggle up to me. Smile and point like you want me to buy the display.”

She clutched his arm, snuggling closer, and felt his muscles tense. “Ooh, Thomas, something I’ve always wanted—a dreadlocks wig.”

They turned left on Roosevelt, a wide commercial street clogged with a steady stream of pedestrians headed to restaurants and clubs. As they neared a busy intersection, she spotted the orange
M
marking the Métro entrance and beyond it the white-columned front of Saint-Phillippe du Roule, the church lending its name to the subway stop.

Thomas slowed to scan the area. “There beyond the Métro railing, two men in dark jackets. Another team of thugs watching for us. The ones we lost must have guessed where we were headed and contacted them.”

Definitely more bad guys. Who else would wear shades at night? Her stomach clenched.
Cleopatra, hang tough.
“Will our disguises be enough?”

“Insurance wouldn’t hurt.” He tightened his grip on her arm as he crossed the street toward the Métro. “I have an idea but your French is better than mine.” He jerked a nod toward a woman struggling with a screaming baby and a stroller piled with bags. “She looks like she could use a couple of good Samaritans.”

“D’accord.”

The goons were surveying the cross street, at the moment toward the other direction.

Cleo hurried over to offer her “husband’s” muscles to carry the stroller down the steps. The woman looked up, skeptical until she laid eyes on Thomas. No surprise, she melted and gushed her thanks. Quashing her own spurt of jealousy, Cleo cooed to the squirming baby, about nine months old, who smelled of a diaper that needed changing. Intrigued by his new conquest, he stopped sobbing and stared wide-eyed.

The foursome descended into the subway before the thugs could turn back their way. At least, she hoped so. The baby was now nodding off. At the bottom of the stairs, his mom settled him into the stroller, thanked her helpers, and headed for the turnstiles. Voices and the click of shoes echoed off the white tile walls. The smell of rain and wet clothing laced the air.

Cleo bought their fare cards while Thomas kept watch. “Where to?”

“Del Rio said to the Victor Hugo stop, where we’re to wait at a café. We’ll take the long way. No direct route.”

She slid in her smart card at the automatic gate. “If we want indirect, then we go north to Saint Lazare.”

A shout from behind froze her.

“Don’t stop!” Thomas pushed her through the gate.

Her pulse rate shot up and she shot ahead as if from an automatic pistol. She searched the directional signs for the North Platform.

At last.
There!
She tugged Thomas with her. “This way! But those guys—”

“No buts. Let me worry about them. Just book it to the trains.”

She didn’t risk a glance behind as they raced through the tunnels for the platform. Fewer trains ran this late at night. What if—
No, just go, Cleopatra.

They skidded onto the platform as people boarded a waiting train. Steam vents hissed and voices echoed off the curved tile walls. Her foot slipped on a wet patch, but Thomas held her up, kept her going.

He had never once let go. Since leaving the CTF offices, she’d felt his heat, his hard body beside her, his arm around her shoulders, his arm beneath her hand.

He pressed her on past the empty orange seats, past the slicker-clad commuters boarding the middle cars to a half-empty car. With him beside her, she leaped inside.

“Away from the doors.” He pulled her along to a bench seat with two empty seats among other passengers.

The stubborn doors stood open. Waiting. A cotton ball replaced her tongue and needles pricked her nerves. She turned toward the dust-streaked window. Peered out.

The two black-jacketed men she’d seen above ground sprinted onto the platform.

***

“Give me a moment to check the flat.”

Thomas jerked a sharp nod to the agent who’d met them with their bags and a take-out dinner.

Although they’d evaded Zervas’s goons at the Métro station, he’d take no chances. Luck and irate passengers had forced their pursuers to stop and buy fare cards. He gritted his teeth and kept a hand on his gun until he saw the doors close in the fuckers’ faces. A taxi and another Métro line took them to their destination. Del Rio was held up with the aftermath of the shootout, so the CTF agent met them at Café Victor Hugo. He’d driven them to the safe house, on the third-story of an ornate stone building a couple of centuries old.

While he mentally timed the guy’s sweep, he curved an arm around Cleo’s shoulders. Fought to keep the embrace supportive and tender. He ought to be bushed, but energy hummed in his whole body

On a sigh, she rested her head against his shoulder, ratcheting up his hunger to an ache. He’d known breath-stealing dread for her since the admiral had phoned him, but today’s threat revved it up to the stratosphere. Not because Zervas’s men were only seconds close to taking her. Not because she was more vulnerable. Not because she was terrified. Maybe she was but dammit because she terrified
him
, taking charge back there, her eyes bright with excitement and her face animated and trusting.

Part of keeping that trust meant not being at the mercy of his DNA, too much like his old man, domineering with those he cared about. Cleo’d suggested the loss of his mother handed him too much family responsibility. Is that when it started, his need to be in control? Didn’t matter. Protecting Cleo was another thing entirely.

That need had evolved into a much larger one, all encompassing and inescapable. Every fiber of his being screamed his need to take her, to possess her, to have her. Not a good idea on a hallway landing. But damned soon.

The man returned with the all clear. “Someone will contact you in the morning.” He showed Thomas the security code. With a smart salute pegging him as former military, he stepped back into the ancient lift and folded the gate shut.

Inside, Thomas locked up and set the security system. “Stay here,” he said. The Frenchman’s once-over had been too quick. Safe house or no, he’d do a more thorough sweep.

The four rooms with the small closets typical of old buildings didn’t take long. When he returned, Cleo let out a breath. “Satisfied?”

Not even close. But I will be. So will you.

“Hardly. Locks are okay. Flat’s clean, but that security system couldn’t keep out a poodle. No cameras, only sensors on the door and windows. Another reason to stay here only one night.” He stalked toward her, ready to strip off her clothing.

Eyeing him as if he were a tiger on the prowl—hell, maybe he was—she tossed off her coat, then whisked past him with the bag containing their dinner to the small dining table. “Smells wonderful. Veal ragout, that agent said. Are you hungry?”

“Starving, but not for food.” He pulled her to him. Drove his hands into the glorious mass of her hair and ground his mouth on hers, feeding, devouring her, aching for more.

She rose on her toes, gripped his shirt, meeting him with hunger of her own. “Dinner can wait,” she mumbled against his lips, one leg hooking around him. Her body ground against him as if she couldn’t get close enough.

“You were incredible out there.” He backed her against the wall, slid his hands down to cup her butt. “Cleopatra.”

A sly smile lifted one corner of her mouth. “Cleopatra. Exactly.”

He kept his mouth on hers while her hands made fast work of his jacket and shirt as well as her knit top. He groaned at the soft feel of her breasts against his skin, then filled his palms with their soft weight. His mouth watered, his breathing hitched, sanity rushed from his head.

When she slid away to step out of the rest of her clothing, the oddity of her reply surfaced in his blood-depleted brain. “How’s that?”

“Nothing. You talk too much.” Her hands went to work on his jeans.

“Then we won’t talk.”

He’d restrained himself with her so far. Didn’t want to scare her with the force of his need. He’d always wanted her, had never forgotten. But now what he felt made those earlier desires pale. “Now. I need you
now
.”

He lifted her and she wrapped her legs around his waist. He slicked a palm up her thigh, her smooth, bare thigh, to where she was open to his touch. On a moan, she jerked in his arms. He smelled her arousal, tasted her desire in her kisses. Her hands feathered down his back, rubbed his skin while her tongue danced with his and her slick heat beckoned. Air sawing in and out of his lungs, his heart banging in his chest, he backed her against the wall and ripped open the protection he’d taken from his jeans pocket.

“Thomas, yes, now.”

Her plea penetrated his craving. Hell, he couldn’t treat her like a barbarian, taking her against a wall. “The bedroom,” he gritted out between his teeth.

“No, no, here, hurry.” She snatched the opened packet from him and reached down. The warmth and soft pressure of her strong artist’s fingers wrapping around him snapped his control.

She filled his gaze with the bright light of her energy, the high voltage of her dark-centered gaze, the sweet scent of her arousal. Nothing could be more erotic. Light-headed, he plunged into her, groaning with the power of their joining. She gripped his shoulders, met him thrust for thrust, her legs locked around him, clenching him with her body. Her eyes went to smoke and her nails dug into his shoulders as her climax took her. Heat licked up his spine and he came in one long, shuddering spasm. He was lost in the shock waves, could think only of her, of how she found places in him he never before let anyone touch.

M
ine, you’re mine.

He rested his forehead against hers, both of them breathing hard. After a minute, he withdrew and helped her stand.

She closed her eyes, remaining in the circle of his arms but propping herself against the wall. “Whoa, do they have tornadoes in Paris?”

“Just this once.”
Right. Hurricane Cleo.
“I was out of control. Did I hurt you?”

She pressed a finger to his lips. Something like triumph flared in her sea-green eyes. “I’m fine. You were perfect.
We
were perfect.”

Too shaken to speak, he stood there holding her. For the past several years, she’d haunted his mind. And now in only days she slid into his head, into his bloodstream, into his heart. He wanted more than sex, a relationship lasting longer than this mission. A major change for him, sharing his life. The way things stood between them, would she go for risking her hard-won independence?

* * *

An hour later, Cleo watched Thomas from the doorway between the bedroom and sitting room while she pulled a comb through her wet hair. He sat on the tweed sofa working on the tablet computer Lucas had obtained for him. His dark hair, still wet from his shower, was finger-tousled, reminding her of the teenage boy she’d fallen for. But his sharp-edged intensity and wide shoulders that tested the fine fabric of his clean white dress shirt were all man.

Out of control.
Yes, he’d actually said it.

A smile spread from inside her chest to her lips. Thomas did care, more than he wanted to. His disorientation after their mind-blowing sex proved it wasn’t just the danger painting them in hot hues. Could she risk a future? Would he? She couldn’t yet visualize that picture.

What she did see was the fine lines around his eyes and the slump of his shoulders. “You look stressed. And no wonder,” she said as she crossed to him.