Femme Fatale (28 page)

Even into bedrooms? Just whose heat patterns had Price been observing this morning?

Tory ducked under Bishop’s arm, fiddling with the back of her earring. “Good morning, Barbara,” she said. “What can you give me on Shane Dellamer?”

A
t least she hadn’t made him leave the room this time, Bishop thought, listening to Tory’s one-sided conversation with the mystery mission controller. Maybe she was beginning to trust him.

Or maybe she’d forgotten he was there.

“Dellamer hired Scherba to set up his company’s security?” she asked sharply. “Are you sure?” She ran her red-tipped fingers through her mane of hair. “Well, you’ve got Scherba in custody, don’t you? You could ask him.”

She paced to the window, cupping her ear with one hand. “Ask harder,” she suggested.

Bishop grinned. Apparently when the stakes were high, Tory-the-spy was a lot more bloodthirsty than Tory-the-party-girl.

His smile faded. But then, he knew that. He’d watched her take down Guerrero.

“So you think Dellamer’s ripping off Egorov? Kind of
risky pissing off an international terrorist, isn’t it? Or does he figure he’s safe since Egorov is out of the picture?”

Bishop helped himself to a roll from the breakfast tray. He hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours.

“What do you mean, Egorov’s not out of the picture?” Tory’s voice rose. “How do you know?”

Bishop stopped buttering his roll.

“Yes, I knew Beth was investigating—
Egorov
ordered the hit on Lyeta? Why?” She was still listening, still pacing, still scowling. “But Lyeta didn’t betray him. Not until he did his vanishing act, anyway. Okay, yes. Yes, I’ll be careful. Jeez. Any other bad guys you want me to be on the lookout for while I’m down here?”

Bishop put the roll down, his appetite fading.

“Thanks, but I can’t leave yet. If Primo restarts his system’s firewall, we won’t have any way to access those accounts. Ask Tokaido if he can use the port to pinpoint who’s behind the Dellamer buy-up. Tell him I’ll get the WiFi connector installed and report back to you tonight.”

At that point, the conversation meant very little to Bishop. He wasn’t sure what it meant for Tory, either. But he could see how it had scoured away her hard, bright veneer, letting her fear, her frustration, her confusion shine through.

“Want to tell me what that was about?” he asked quietly when it was clear Price had terminated the connection.

Tory’s knees sagged. She sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m not sure I can.”

Bitter disappointment speared him.

Well, what did he expect? She didn’t trust him. Didn’t trust him to keep her safe. Didn’t want him to help in any way.

And maybe she was right. God knew he hadn’t been any damn use to Benny.

Bishop didn’t say anything. He made sure he kept any trace of what he was feeling from his face. But his silence or his stillness must have given him away, because Tory shook her head wearily.

“I’m not sure what to tell you because I don’t know myself what’s going on. At least I was right about the encryption style—Scherba wrote the virus that’s hijacking Egorov’s millions from Primo’s accounts. And Dellamer hired Scherba.”

She was simply sharing information. It was hardly a declaration of love. Or even of trust. But it was a declaration of truce, of sorts, and he did his best to respond to it.

“So can you arrest Dellamer? Or seize his accounts?”

She sighed. “I don’t know. On the surface, everything points to Dellamer. But the money isn’t being deposited to him directly. It’s all going into the company.”

“It’s his company.”

“Yes, but a huge stock buy-up like this could take control of it away from him. Particularly if his connection to Egorov became known.”

“So Dellamer doesn’t benefit. Who does? Egorov?”

“Egorov is dying. Even if he’s still alive, he might as well be dead. All his money is gone.” She scowled at him. “What?”

She was animated again. Arguing again.

“You sound pretty sure of yourself,” he said.

“So?”

So a moment ago, she hadn’t. If she had to argue with him to feel better, then he would argue. If she wanted to talk, he would talk.

Whatever she needed.

“So, I’m no computer genius. I’m sure as hell no accountant. But I do know you don’t have a crime without a motive. Somebody’s benefiting from all these high-tech money transfers. The key is to figure out who.”

“And how do you suggest I do that?”

“Valcazar.”

“I told you, the money is only transiting his accounts.”

“You think he doesn’t know that? If I had millions of dollars switching columns on my computer, it would sure get my attention.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” But she looked thoughtful. “You think he knows who benefits?”

“Knows or suspects.”

“And you don’t have a problem with me conning him for this information?”

Conning him, no. Sleeping with him, yeah. He had a very big problem with that. But he wouldn’t insult her by telling her so.

“I could ask him for you,” he suggested with grim humor.

“No, thanks. I think he’ll talk more without a gun to his head.”

“Your call. I trust you.”

Her big brown eyes focused on his face with painful intensity. “Do you?”

Did he?

She was a resourceful, clever, opportunistic liar involved in heavy, dangerous covert ops. But would she prostitute herself for her mission?

“Trust you to get information from a guy like Valcazar?” He shrugged, trying not to make a big deal of it. Trying not to betray how much it mattered to him. How much she mattered to him. “Sure.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m not sleeping with him,” she announced abruptly.

He held her gaze. “I know.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know you. And you don’t do anything the easy way.”

She closed her eyes. When she opened them, they were soft and brilliant as the night sky over White Sands.

“Thank you for that.”

He took a step closer. “I don’t like things easy myself.”

Her throat moved as she swallowed. “No?”

“No.”

Her smile slid into him like a knife, unexpected, devastating.

What the hell was he doing? A little trust was fine. A little affirmation seemed called for. But no promises. Until Valcazar was dead, he had nothing to offer her. And after…

“Besides,” Bishop said, “if the son of a bitch does step out of line—”

“—I’ll handle it,” Tory said.

“—I’ll kill him,” he said at the same time.

“I am glad to see you are recovered,” Primo said smoothly behind her.

Tory nearly dropped her plate down the front of her white caftan.

Oh, crap. She was standing in front of Primo Valcazar in a teeny-weeny white bikini and a totally see-through white caftan that covered everything but hid nothing. Including the fact that it was highly unlikely she was suffering from any “feminine indisposition.”

Her fault, for wearing white.

Her fault for letting herself be distracted into forgetting her cover.

She turned, smiling hard enough to sell toothpaste. “Thank you, darling. I do feel a little better.”

Primo’s hard gaze dropped to the plate she’d prepared for Bishop. “Your appetite is improved.”

Since she’d loaded up with coconut shrimp, lobster salad, two rolls and three pineapple kabobs, she couldn’t argue with him there.

“Everything looks so good,” she explained. “I should probably eat it before it gets—”

He took her elbow, preventing her escape. “I trust your other appetites are similarly recovered?”

Oh, yuck. “Actually, darling—”

His grip tightened. “Because my hospitality is not without price. You have eaten my food. You sleep beneath my roof. You have used all the facilities of my house.”

He meant he’d watched her put a couple hundred dollars up her nose over the past two days. Couldn’t blame the guy for wanting a return on his money.

Tory tossed him another smile and threw in an eye flutter for good measure. “You’re very generous.”

He dragged her closer. “I can be more generous, I promise you.”

She forced herself not to stiffen as he rubbed his face against hers, marking her with his jaw like a cat. His beard rasped and stung. His breath was hot, his hair oily.

He nuzzled her neck. She clenched her teeth, her mind making calculations with the speed of a computer chip. She could dump her lobster salad on his eight hundred dollar loafers. She could kick his family jewels up to his tonsils. Probably.

Or she could go to his room and ply him with booze
and compliments until he whispered sweet nothings in her ear about Dellamer Enterprises. Hey, it could happen.

And if it didn’t, she could always hit him over the head with a lamp and sneak into his office to install the WiFi connector. It would ruin her cover, but once Stony Man had uninterrupted access to Primo’s computer, her usefulness here was limited anyway.

“Primo. I have been looking for you.”

It was the big fair German, Klauen. She didn’t remember seeing him by the pool. He must have come down the stairs.

Primo lifted his mouth from her shoulder. “Later, Eric.” He sounded impatient.

“I think now,” Klauen said mildly.

For one second, Primo’s mask slipped and his heavily handsome face looked ugly. Brutal. His hand moved up her thigh and thrust between her legs. Before she could react, he groped her, casually, shockingly, intimately.

Tory jerked.

Klauen looked away.

Primo laughed and then, satisfied he had reestablished his control, released her. “Run along,
querida.
We will find ways for you to thank me another time.”

Tory burned. She watched him strut away, arm in arm with the square, fair German, and tried not to throw up in her plate of lobster salad.

The bedroom door closed with a snap.

She was back.

The knot of tension in Bishop’s gut eased. But he kept his face impassive, kept his attention on the screen in front of him. She wouldn’t thank him for worrying about her.

“Shouldn’t you be hiding in the closet or something?” Tory’s tone was sharp.

She was upset. Pissed off because he’d appropriated her laptop without permission?

“There is no closet,” he pointed out calmly.

He had an answer to an e-mail he’d sent to Joe Epstein, an IRS analyst he’d met through the Justice department. He clicked on it, feeling the rising edge of excitement that told him this was it, the piece of the puzzle he’d been searching for.

“The bathroom, then,” Tory snapped. “You didn’t know who I was. I could have been anybody bursting in here. The maid. A guard.”

“I knew.”

Distracted, he scanned the note from Epstein.

“How?” she demanded.

“The sound of your walk. The smell of your perfume…”

“Don’t you pull that Indian tracker garbage with me. You can’t smell my perfume from the other side of the door.”

At the bottom of the second paragraph, he found it. He had it! A match. A name.

Grinning, he looked up at her. “Okay, maybe I was watching out the window and saw you leave the pool. What took you so long to get up here, anyway?”

She froze, just for a second, before she smiled and held up the plate. “I stopped to get you something to eat from the kitchen. You wouldn’t believe the spread they had in there. If Primo ever gets out of the money-laundering business, he could make a fortune as a caterer.”

Her voice was amused, her face relaxed. But he’d already caught it, that moment of stillness, that instant of hesitation that told him she was lying.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

He was out of his chair and across the room before she could move. He trapped her chin in his hand. Close up, he could see the faint red welts on her cheek and neck and shoulder. Not scars. Not sunburn. Whisker burn, the unmistakable mark of a man’s beard dragged carelessly across tender skin.

“What happened?” Bishop repeated through his teeth.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” she amended quickly.

“Was it Valcazar? Did he touch you? Force himself on you?”

“I told you I would handle it.” But her voice was shrill. Tears sprang to her eyes. “I handled it.
Damn it.
” The words burst out of her. She touched the pads of her fingers to her lower lashes, glaring at him. “I’m crying. I never cry.”

“I’ll kill the son of a bitch,” Bishop growled.

“No,” Tory insisted. “It’s okay. I’m okay. It sort of comes with the job, you know?”

“And that’s all right with you?” he asked savagely.

Tory raised her chin. “Do I like being groped for the good of my country, do you mean? No. But I’m not ashamed. I refuse to be ashamed. I’m smart and I’m strong and I’m good at what I do. I can use my brains and my body to get the job done when going in with guns blazing would be a disaster. I don’t have a problem with it. And if you do, screw you.”

Bishop stared at her, his gut churning, his heart torn, his mind in turmoil.

She
was
smart.

She
was
strong.

And she was crying.

“I don’t know what you want me to do,” he told her, his voice rasping. “I don’t know what to say. You’re right. I know you can handle things. I trust you to handle
things. But then I see that bastard’s mark on you, I see that he’s hurt you, and I want to hunt him down and break his neck. Maybe that makes me the worst kind of chauvinist pig, but that’s how it is.

“I hate it that I can’t protect you. Can’t help you. All I’m doing is hiding in your room while you face this thing alone.”

She was shaking, hugging herself as if she was cold. In that getup, she probably was. But she still lifted her head proudly, still looked him squarely in the eye.

“Maybe I don’t feel so alone,” she said. “Not when I know you’re here. Not if I can trust you to understand.”

He’d called her a liar once.

But she was being as honest with him now as any person could be. She’d laid her heart out there for him.

This is who I am. This is what I want. Take it or leave it.

He owed her equal honesty at least.

So he met her gaze, letting her see his hunger, his frustration and his need.

“I’m here,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Then
be
here,” she whispered. “Be here for me.”