Hot Ice (24 page)

Max leaned back in the chair and looked up at his friend. "I've been keeping track. Not a damn thing has amused you in the last decade."

"As I recall," Hunt said wryly, "I laughed uproariously last year when that snake latched onto your ass—and wouldn't let go."

"No, you didn't," Max reminded him. "That snakebite was potentially serious, and as
I
remember it, you refused to suck the poison out. Said twenty years of friendship didn't warrant you kissing my butt."

"It was hardly more than a scratch, and here it is a bloody year later and you're still whining?" Hunt mocked. "Poor big bad T-FLAC operative. Hell, the snake probably died. Maybe I should've got Catherine to come and kiss it better?"

"God, no." Max contorted his face, making Hunt smile genuinely. "That taught me to learn from my friends' mistakes."

Hunt rose, not wanting his mind to wander down the Catherine path. Old news. Lessons learned. For both of them. "I tried to lead by example." Restless, he paced the small cabin.

"Problem with our guest?" Max asked, watching him pace.

"A few," Hunt admitted. "She presses my buttons."

"Pulls your handle too, I gather."

"Unfortunately. Damn hard to concentrate with a permanent cockstand. Tomorrow can't come soon enough for me," he said grimly. This insane lust had to stop. "What do we hear on Morales?"

Chapter Twenty-two

Black Rose central office

London

"What's in the parcel?" The head of Black Rose herself motioned to Clive Urbach.

"As you see, I have not opened—"

"Fetch it." Didn't he understand he was paid—and paid well—to inspect packages? She stayed exactly where she was.

He rose, walked across the room. Returning, he offered her the package, and she wondered if she should take it. The address label was typed.

ROSE AND SON

Purveyors of Fine Linens

London

And the Black Rose's address. Nothing more.

She waved a hand at Urbach. "Open it." It was too light to be a bomb. And too tightly wrapped to contain a live insect, poisonous or otherwise. But there were hundreds of topical poisons that could kill instantly on contact. She stepped back to be on the safe side. Urbach was eminently replaceable.

He shrugged, removed a small sharp knife from his breast pocket, and cut the brown string. He laid the box on the coffee table between them and used the tip of the knife to open the wrapping. Inside there was a small, plain white confectioner's box.

Still using the knife, he tipped off the lid. She recognized the smell.

He frowned. "What is it?"

On the knife's point, he speared the four-inch-square lump of raw meat from the bloodstained, white tissue-paper-lined box.

It stank of putrefied flesh, and she covered her nose. The knife glittered in the lamplight as he turned it so she could better see what he'd speared like a shrimp on a skewer.

The gruesome offering captured her full attention.

Beautiful in its own way, the graying skin with its ragged, blood-crusted edges indicated the warning had been cut purposefully and premortem.

The message was clear.

In the center of the filleted flesh was a tattoo.

The tattoo of a Black Rose.

They were missing only one member.

"I'd wondered," she mused out loud.

Who would send her such a gift? She tapped a bloodred nail against her chin.

So this is what became of Theresa Smallwood.

Chapter Twenty-three

6:00 A.M.

October 10

Zurich

A black Lincoln Town Car waited for them beside the private arrivals terminal at Zurich's Kloten International Airport.

"Tell the man where we want to go," Hunt instructed Taylor as he stepped into the car after her, neatly sandwiching her between his large body and Max's.

In brisk Swiss-German she gave the driver the name and address of the bank, then instructed him to take the N3 directly to the financial district. Hunt reached up and slid the privacy window closed, although she was pretty sure they wouldn't discuss anything classified on the trip anyway. She turned her head, her attention on choppy Lake Zurich as they drove parallel to it into the city proper.

Even when she wasn't looking at Hunt she was aware of everything about him. He'd changed into a beautifully tailored dark suit before they landed. With it he wore one of the light grayish blue shirts he favored, and a subtle print tie. He smelled delectable. Not cologne or soap. His skin.

She frowned as she looked out of the window. How odd. If they stuck her in a dark room with a hundred men, she would be able to pick Huntington St. John out by the scent of his skin. A useless talent she'd never have to utilize.

She didn't need his kind of complications. She had her work, and Mandy… and that was plenty. In an hour or so he'd be gone, and she'd resume her normal life.

Good. Fine. Great.

Exactly what she wanted. Sex wasn't hard to come by. She was reasonably attractive. If she wanted straightforward, unencumbered sex, she knew where to find it.

"Which hotel?" Hunt asked.

Taylor turned her head to look at him. She didn't need a hotel. Home was a four-thousand-square-foot condo overlooking the lake. She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding since leaving Houston. At least he wasn't going back on his assurance they'd let her go once she handed over the goods.

"I haven't decided yet," she told him sweetly. "Why? Thinking of staying over a few days and enjoying the sights?"

"No."

She shook her head at the typically monosyllabic response. "Anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?" she said mockingly.

Hunt stared her down.

"It's very annoying."

She turned back to the passing view.

Whatever
. It wasn't her job to civilize him. Apparently, he was one of those men she'd read about who got surly after sex. He'd barely said a word to her in the past six hours.

So much for their bonding moment.

Get a grip
, she told herself firmly. They'd had sex.
Superlative
sex. But it was only sex. And this wasn't a holiday fling. The man was
working
.

Though there was a feeling of
And now what
? that she couldn't quite shake. Taylor stared out of the rain-spattered window and asked herself what she'd expected.

Answer:
nothing
.

What did she have to show for their incredible bout of lovemaking?

Answer: a membership in the Mile High Club? Which amounted to—nothing. Her lips twitched.

"Whatever you're planning, forget it," Hunt said point-blank as their eyes met.

Sparkles, like effervescent champagne bubbles, darted through Taylor's bloodstream, as bright and happy as Hunt looked somber and cranky. She
liked
the annoying man. Go figure.

"I'm thinking about a hot bath," she told him serenely. "Which, as far as I know, isn't against the law in Switzerland."

Max Aries's lips twitched.

"Don't even
think
about attempting anything slippery." Hunt gave her a stony look. "I'm not in the mood to chase you all over hell and back.
Again
. The easier you make this for us, the easier it'll be for you."

"Yes, sir," she said deferentially, earning herself a hostile glare. She smiled at him. Really, she couldn't help it. The man was such a stuffed shirt, it was impossible
not
to be amused by him. She turned back to look out of the window. It was still raining.

She'd never met anyone like Hunt St. John, and she guessed she never would again. He was one of a kind. She'd miss him, Taylor decided, a little surprised. Miss him. Think about him, and once in a while, pull out the memory of him and wonder what it would've been like to make love all night in a big warm bed. To wake up with him, bathed in late morning sunlight, and read the Sunday paper together.

And maybe
, Taylor gave herself a mental shake and a reality check,
maybe she could have a frontal lobotomy so she didn't remember him at all
.

She was relieved at the distraction when they pulled up in front of the bank ten minutes later. Max opened the door and stepped out into the drizzle. She swung her legs out and glanced at Hunt over her shoulder. "If you'd like to wait—"