The Spy With the Silver Lining (20 page)

She had completely forgotten about the tycoon when she entered the lobby. He came to his feet at the bar, and there was no avoiding him. She strolled toward him, searching her surroundings—looking for a tall, dark Frenchman with a cigarette in his hand.

“You’re beautiful this evening. Stunning. I’ve missed you today. Where have you been hiding? A drink, then dinner?”

She smiled. “I’m afraid tonight I have other plans. I’m—”

“With her boyfriend. A jealous badass,
mon ami.
Hit the road.”

The heavy voice came from behind her. Casmir’s heart skipped a beat. She turned and found Pierce at the end of the bar. He said to the bartender, “The lady will have a French Kiss.”

The tycoon looked at Pierce, took his measure. There was a moment of indecision, then he said, “You are a lucky man. I’ll say good-night.”

Casmir walked to the end of the bar and settled on the empty stool next to where Pierce stood. Yes, he was smoking, and yes, he was as handsome as she remembered.

“How long have you been here?” she asked.

“Are we talking the bar, or the hotel?”

“Hotel.”

“Two days.”

“And what have you been doing for two days?”

“Enjoying the scenery.”

“Have you always wanted to visit Crete?”

He grinned. “I like the weather, and the food.”

The bartender brought her drink. Pierce slid it toward her. “What should we drink to?”

She raised the glass. “To survival. There is no road to anything. One thing at a time, all things in—”

“Succession. That which grows fast withers as rapidly—that which grows slowly endures.”

“You surprise me. J. G. Holland, too?”

“I polished up on the flight.” He leaned in, sniffed her neck. “You smell good.”

“I smell like orchids and roses. My room is overflowing with them.”

“A secret admirer?”

Suddenly she felt like her life was about to change. Unsure she was ready, she stood. “I don’t know. Are you an admirer?”

“
Oui.
A big fan.”

“You’re a fan of mouthy bitches?”

His grin widened. “It appears so.”

She studied his face. He looked good. No, he looked exceptionally good. The man was a woman’s dream come true.

A dream that was suddenly real. He was wearing jeans and a white shirt, open at the neck. Normally she would have checked the weave of the cotton, and the fit of his jeans, but she was too busy trying to catch her breath, and settle her racing heart.

She’d been concentrating so hard on dealing with her guilt over Yurii that she hadn’t worked out a plan on how to deal with her feelings for Pierce. She’d been pushing them aside until she felt stronger. But he was here now, and he was sending her some very straightforward signals.

“Are you going to tuck tail and run, or see this thing through?” he asked.

“This thing?”

“Us.”

The word had her scrambling for a safety net. “Is there an us? I thought we were just two—”

“Don’t give me that two ships passing in the night crap. We’ve been set on this course since Austria.”

She took a step back. “I didn’t like you in Austria.”

He must have thought she was going to leave. He took hold of her hand and when he did, he noticed that she was no longer wearing Yurii’s ring.

He brushed his thumb over her naked finger. “It was a tough mission. Let’s get some air.”

It was all happening too fast. She pulled her hand free. “You get some air. I have to pack. I’m leaving in the morning.”

“It wasn’t just sex in New Orleans. We both know that. You might have loved the idea of Yurii’s devoted obsession with you, but that’s not what you’re here trying to forget.”

“You arrogant ass.” Casmir headed for the elevator.

“Now there’s the woman I know and love.”

She heard the words, but she refused to stop. She heard him swear, knew he was coming after her. She sprinted to the elevator and ducked inside and hit the button. It closed just as he reached it.

She had her key in her door when she saw him at the end of the hall. He’d had to take the stairs four at a time to get there so quickly.

She opened the door and scrambled inside. Before she could close it, he was pushing his way in.

He reached for her and pulled her against him.

“You’re hurting me. I was shot, remember?”

“I remember. You took that bullet for me.” He let her go. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come.”

He headed for the door.

“That’s right, walk away. Go home.”

He turned around. “I don’t have a home. Petrov burned it down.”

“I’m sorry about that. The cabin was starting to grow on me.”

“Like fungus, right?”

“You know me too well.”

“My point. I know you, and what you need. A man who really loves you. The spy as well as the woman with the silver lining.”

Casmir’s heart started to pound. “And you think you’re that man?”

“
Oui.
I know I’m that man.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“That would be a first.” He walked back to her and slipped his arm around her and drew her close. “But you don’t have to say anything. That look says it all. I’m your man,
amant.
Take whatever you need from me. You know I am.”

“You think I love you?”

“Do you?”

“Yes. Oh, God, what’s Mama going to say?”

“I stopped off in Santo Domingo on my way here. She told me to tell you to follow your heart and…”

“And?”

“And Lazie gave me a piece of advice, too.”

Casmir arched her eyebrows. “I can hardly wait to hear.”

“He told me not to let you out of bed for a week.”

“Are you planning on taking his advice?”

“
Oui.
Starting right now.”

“Before you do, I need to equal the playing field. If you remember, I owe you a kiss.”

She curled her arms around his neck, and pressed her lips against his. The kiss was long and deliberate, full of passion.

Pierce ran his hands slowly over her hips and cupped her ass. Pulling her against him, he kissed her back.

The moment was powerful and heartfelt. It melted the bitch, turned on the woman, and Casmir kicked off her shoes.

Coming in summer 2006
to Silhouette Intimate Moments,
don’t miss Wendy Rosnau’s next book
in her
SPY GAMES
miniseries,
UNDERCOVER NIGHTINGALE.

Super chills and sexy thrills abound at Silhouette Bombshell!
We’re your destination for the best in women’s romantic action-adventure stories.
Turn the page for a sneak peek at one of next month’s releases,

DAUGHTER OF THE FLAMES
by Nancy Holder

Available June 2006 wherever Silhouette Books are sold.

“I
sabelle!”

Izzy’s eyes flew open at the sound of a male voice in her room.

She knew that voice. It was one of the men who had appeared in her dream—the second one, in the monastery, with the wild hair tumbling over his shoulders and smoke rising up behind him. The one whom she had answered, in French.

She started fumbling for the light, but she was in a strange room, and she didn’t know where it was.

“C’est moi, Jean-Marc de Devereaux des Ombres.”

His voice was insistent, urgent. But it was inside her head.
In her mind.

Oh, my God. What’s going on?

Was she dreaming?

“You’re in danger,”
he said.

Experimentally, she touched her head, feeling for headphones. Patting the pillow. “Who are you?” she demanded again, squinting into the darkness. “Where are you?”

“A friend. Trust me. They’re looking for you.”

I’ve gone crazy,
she thought. But as she looked around again, she said hopefully, “Ma?”

“No, I’m not Marianne. But I speak for her. I speak for the House of the Flames. They’re searching for you. I’ll do all I can to protect you.”

Suddenly a violent pain blossomed behind her eyes. With a gasp, she pressed her fingertips against the bridge of her nose. It was so bad that she doubled over, losing her balance, and tumbled on her knees to the floor.

“Did you do that?” she yelled.

“Shh. Lower your voice. They know where you are. But they’re closing in.”

Holding on to her bed, she got to her feet. The pain disappeared. Rubbing her forehead, she saw a rectangle of light around Venetian blinds. She stood to the side of it, then lifted the corner of the dark-blue curtain and spied out onto the street below.

Her heart turned to ice.

The first man from her dream, the one in the long black coat, stood across the street. He was smoking; she saw the glow of his cigarette against the dark outline of his head. He was not looking at her window; his gaze was focused a floor or two above it. But he was searching, scanning. She felt the familiar, irrational dread at the sight of him.

She murmured, “Is that you or a friend of yours?”

“Is someone outside?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Get out! Get out immediately. Don’t let him see you or you are dead.”

“Okay, wait. Time out,” she said. “What the hell is going on?”

“Maintenant! Vite!”

“I have to get dressed—”

“Non! Get out! Get out now! Move!”

Something inside her made her listen—she had saved her father’s life this way—and she whipped into action, bounding across the room to the chair where she had piled her clothes.

“Get out now!”

She gathered up her sweater and pants, stepped into her boots, and pulled on her own long black coat over the Marc Anthony T-shirt. Her purse…she couldn’t remember where it was. In the darkened bedroom? In the bathroom?

She couldn’t leave without it. Her cell phone was in it. Her money, her house key—

And then she felt the wet velvet sensation wash over her, the same as in her bathroom—was it four nights ago? She stood stock-still, feeling like a prisoner eluding the searchlight of a prison guard tower. Her heart was thudding so hard she felt dizzy again.

The sensation passed.

“Where are you?”
the voice demanded.
“Are you leaving?”

“Oui,”
she replied, shocking herself. She was speaking in French again.

“Ah, c’est bon,”
he replied, and rattled off a barrage of French.

She shook her head, not understanding anything more, mincing backward out of the bedroom.

There, in the living room, her purse lay on the sofa turned upside down.

She grabbed it up, scooping the contents in as best she could, and hurried to the front door. She opened the door and went out into the hall, shutting it behind herself.

“Move! Or others will die!”

The words chilled her. They were straight from her nightmare.

“Where? Where should I go?” she whispered, since it didn’t seem to matter how softly or how loudly she spoke. “How can you hear me? What’s going on?”

“Just go!”

As soundlessly as she could, she crept down the hall, which was dark except for a light flickering dimly in front of the elevator. Bad move to take it, she decided.

It began to whir. It was coming up.

She looked frantically for a stairwell. Thought about what she might find there—junkies, bored gangbangers, eager thieves.

She made out the shape of a door and tiptoed toward it, felt for a latch, found it and opened the door. She took a deep breath as she stepped across the threshold. It was pitch-dark.

Closing the door soundlessly behind herself, she had a moment of vertigo. It was so dark. She was so scared. She fumbled in her purse for her cell phone to call 911.

“Isabelle?”
It was the voice inside her head. She didn’t dare answer.

The elevator dinged. Though she knew she had no way of knowing who was in the elevator, she started down, hand in her purse. Her heart caught as she came up empty on her cell phone. She began to wonder if she had left it on the couch.

How many flights of stairs? She was wobbly. Her head hurt. Her hands were trembling and she was afraid her knees were going to buckle. She gripped the banister, which was metal…and sticky. She recoiled, rubbing her hand on the clothes cradled in her arm.

She heard the door above her open.

“Isabelle?”
The voice inside her head was frantic.
“Répondez-moi! Answer me!”

There were footsteps on the stairs.

She held on to the banister again, moving as quietly as she could, wondering if speed was more important. Her heart rammed against her ribs; she was holding her breath and she couldn’t make herself let it go. Her body went numb; she had no idea where her hand ended and the banister began.

Down she raced, each movement a cannonball to her ears—she had no idea if the other person on the stairs could hear her. Part of her wanted to burst into hysterical laughter; the other part remembered that her father had almost died today and either she—or her mother’s angelic spirit—had saved him.

Now someone was trying to save her.

Or was he trying to flush her out so someone else could catch her?

She turned a corner, raced down more stairs.

The footsteps above her picked up speed.

She went around another corner. Another.

The footsteps above her rang out, obviously not caring if she heard them.

As she turned another corner, she saw a horizontal sliver of light at an angle below her. It was light from beneath a door. It had to be coming in from somewhere—a service tunnel? A stoop?

Someone’s flashlight?

She looked up and over her shoulder. Saw no one.

Looked back down at the strip of light.

The voice inside her head starting yelling her name.

“Isabelle! Isabelle! Isabelle!”

She pushed open the door and just as quickly shut it behind herself, feeling along the latch for a way to lock it. There was none.

She wheeled around on a square of cement and stared out on a strip of snow bounded by two privacy fences. There was a six-foot-high fence at the other end.

She stepped into the snow. It went up to her calf, and the cold was a shock. She rethought her plan. She was practically naked, and every movement she made would be a roadmap to her location.

She had no other choice.

She put her other foot into the snow.