Unholy Promises (15 page)

Are we all armed then?

I look at my bridesmaids in their strapless column dresses, stiff satin forcing them to stand in perfect posture. If they wear weapons, none are visible. Nice. I can always count on my girls to be discreetly armed.

Just guessing, but from the guest list, I assume that most of the guests, or their accompanying bodyguards, are also armed. I allowed myself a moment’s despondency.

Guns at a wedding, what has life become?

The wedding march screeches on and the stone walls of the ancient abbey seem to move in a little closer. I focus on the two red-faced bagpipe players, but they are ethereal, not solid. Beams of sunlight shooting through the high windows, catching on the heavy fog of incense, affect my vision, making me feel as if I walk through a dream. And it should have been a dream, a fairytale wedding dream, made real by Liam when he surprised me with the news that we were to be married in an eleventh-century Romanesque abbey.

I close my eyes, reaching out my arms to regain my balance. I will not faint. I will not faint.

If I were not me and Liam was not who he is, I would marry him.

Oh God, I would. His actions toward me are always kind, concerned, though a bit motherly. Sex adequate, solid provider … the perfect husband.

The perfect actor, as he takes my hand for the final step up to the dais. He smiles; I force myself to smile in return, knowing my bridesmaids have my back. Lined up like good little soldiers, awaiting direction from their fearless commander, they hold their heavy bouquets of bubble gum pink roses as solidly as a Glock automatic. Waiting.

Waiting.

They know me too well, these women I call to escort me to the other side of this debacle. Bridesmaids and co-agents at WODC, we are rarely separate for long. Matilda, her long coppery curls dancing like flames against the scolding scarlet of her dress, smiles brightly, hiding the secret that she is a Master of Poison. With her, one never knows whether a discreet touch, a secret kiss, an inhale of fragrance might lead to death though she is equally skilled with a sniper rifle or a machine gun. She prefers the chaos of the bigger and noisier kill. For her the quiet kills are anticlimactic. She is my weather gauge. If she’s sour faced and bitchy, all is well with the world; if she’s smiling and funny, pull out the big guns ’cause all hell is gonna break loose. And lastly, Suzuki, managing to look both coolly serene and hotly seductive, rarely smiles, and when she does so, it is with a teasing, half-lidded glance and the slightest movement of lips, as seductive as an eighteenth-century Geisha and a hundred times more deadly. When she kills, sex is her weapon of choice, her methods frightening. Hair-holding chopsticks stab, a razor-edged fan slices, ben-wa balls explode; and if necessary, her lovely, manicured hands are deadly weapons on their own. I’m afraid their only faults are that they are so in love with the idea of being in love, they would each one trade places with me in a heartbeat to own a piece of the fairytale.

The priest clears his throat, drawing my eyes to his resplendent ceremonial robes, prayer book steady in his hand. I can’t look into his eyes and my bouquet is not so steady.

Liam takes my hand and I realize it is because the priest asked him to do so.

Beaming to the crowd, he leans close, a secret for his bride’s ear only. “I’m impressed—

you’re on time.”

I whisper back, “I do love you, Liam.” Realizing, even as I say the words, the truth behind the sentiment; I hope it’s a truth that doesn’t get me killed.

“Ah, too bad this isn’t about love.”

At the sound of the good Father clearing his throat, we both turn quickly to face him with wide eyes of innocence. It occurs to me, only after the old priest opens his mouth, Liam insisted on a traditional Latin mass. Not thirty minutes then, most likely an hour before it will be over.

“I take thee…” his voice rumbles in a deep, steady baritone at my side.

I can’t meet his eyes, smiling my very controlled agency smile. My entire body has been on full alert since Liam’s pronouncement. Tension radiates from behind me as well and I realize they may not have been obvious, but they are locked and loaded, ready for anything.

My forced smile wavers, my mind waging out of control. Liam sees it, and his right hand slides easily into his slacks pocket. Our eyes meet, his head cocking slightly to the right; I respond tipping my chin slightly to the left. Silent language. Dangerous language.

He lifts his right brow in question, I plaster my nice, agency-issued smile back onto my face. He smiles in return, his right hand leaving his slacks pocket to cup my cheek.

What? We’re to the kiss the bride part. What happened to the “are there any objections” part?

I object, I object, I object!

What the fuck am I doing? Suzuki should be standing in this spot … or Mattie. Jump in, Mattie! I’ve got your back! Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!

“And Eva,” the priest addresses me, “Do you take Liam…”

Ohmygod, thank you, not to the kissing part.

Liam’s fingers caress my cheek before he places his hand back on top of mine. Four hands laced, the blood rushes from my head as the steadying grip of Liam’s fingers tightens.

I will not faint.

“I take thee, Luka, to be my lawfully wedded husband…”

Gasps filled the room and it is only after Liam’s face turns beet red that I realize what I said … what I’d done. The walls move closer, and the room grows suddenly warmer, too warm. Turning to my girls, I hide my face behind my bouquet.

“Nice,” Suzuki quips.

The buzz from the audience grows louder as the closest rows relay back to the farthest away rows what is happening. A louder commotion erupts on the dais as Liam argues with his best man.

Finally, the priest touches my arm, drawing my full attention to him. In a loud, clear voice he demands, “Who is Luka?”

“I am Luka!” a voice rings loud and clear from the second row of the bride’s side, echoing through the stone walled church … Luka, Luka, Luka … until it met up again with the voice saying in a loud clear baritone: “Luka Stavros Papakirk to be exact.”

Hearing but not believing, I shake my head, feeling but not believing that it could possibly be happening that my knees were buckling. Oh shit, I’m really fainting.

I awake to deep brown eyes. One sporting an incredibly painful looking shiner, already turning shades of deep blue and plum. “Ouch,” I whisper, my face losing the battle of control. “Please don’t tell me I should see the other guy.”

“The other guy is the groom’s father and he didn’t fare much better,” Luka answers.

“And Liam?”

“The groom, I presume?” he quips and I figure it out. I’ve summoned a delusion to help me escape the horror. “He’s a little worse for wear.”

Not a delusion, my dreams have never been as authentic as the lyrical Mediterranean accent coming from the man. And not Daniel, my second thought, his voice is rougher, more seafarer than poet.

“You’re alive.”

“Yes, I’m sorry about that. I’m sorry about a lot of things, especially about leaving you.” He smiles, eyes twinkling with pure mischief as he offers, voice dripping with sarcasm, “I left the grave to see you wed.”

Coming to my senses, I push him back with a solid shove, causing him to lose his balance only long enough for me to prop myself up onto my elbows.

“Easy.” He steadies me with a strong hand. “You’ve quite a shiner yourself.”

“Someone decked me while I was unconscious?”

“The floor.”

I fight to stand, settling for leaning hard on him, his body and scent bringing my senses fully around. He is completely Luka Stavros Papakirk in the flesh, making it hard to think.

“So, you take me to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I’m pissed as hell at you!” It is all I can think to say, leaving so much more that needed to be said. “I was drunk, semiconscious!”

“Yes, I took advantage of you.”

It dawns on me that he is alive and the sob in my throat catches what I want to say and all I can do is look at him. Pulling me closer, I let him hold me. I can’t think, I can’t breathe, forget processing the information. I’m on neural overload.

“You are mine, I had to come for you,” he whispers, burying his face into my hair. I hear his inhale, and the pure sensuality isn’t lost on me, despite my condition. What is my condition? Is there a chapter on returned lost love on the day of your agency-ordered wedding in the operations handbook?

“You lost me forever the day you died in my arms!” I exclaim, deciding that hysterical is the condition I should be in. I pull away, pushing against his shoulders, trying to figure out what accusations I can scream at him and try really hard to become hysterical, but all I can think about is how badly I want to kiss him.

I settle for asking, “You’re Agency too?” It would explain so much if he is.

“I was,” he answers softly, vulnerably, as if admitting a long-kept secret; and I suppose he is. “Interpol. And others. Walk with me. Give me a chance to explain.”

“Who’s coming for you?” I ask, my brain filling in blanks faster than I can think.

“Everyone.”

I look hard into his eyes and see the truth of so much buried pain.

“How many countries want you dead?”

He smiles wide, quipping, “Recognized or unrecognized countries?”

Biting my lip to keep from kissing that face, I offer, “Both … your best guess.”

“Four before today, a few more may be adding me to their most-wanted lists even as we speak.”

“And Interpol?”

“They consider me a traitor.”

“They want you dead?”

“I’d be tried first.”

“Dead is dead,” I say sadly, holding the memory of all the wasted mourning years close to my heart.

“I’m here. I’m alive. And if I only have today, I want to spend what’s left of it with you. Walk with me. There’s a beautiful garden just through that door.”

The sky hangs low, dark gray clouds hover against a backdrop of tempest yellow, hinting that a storm is coming. I hug myself against the cold breeze, the looming bulk of the cathedral no match for the swift wind.

The lace gown, with high neck and long lace sleeves, does little to stop the wind, though manages to hide my bruises remarkably well.

The oncoming storm makes me want to run. In truth, I want to escape the magnitude of emotions racing through my veins, but my gown holds me back. I settle on speed walking, or as speedily as I can in three-inch heels across soggy ground.

I want to hug him to my chest.

I want to thrash him soundly.

He is alive!

“Eva?” Luka stops me, grabbing my arm to pull me back to him, tired of the chase.

“You said you wanted to walk,” I pant, seeing that he too is slightly winded. “We’re walking.”

“Yes, walk, talk, but you aren’t talking.”

I hug myself to keep from hugging him, running cold and hot at the same time, my teeth chattering, but sweat trickling beneath my arms. Angry, relieved, I can’t bear the thought of losing him again. I can’t dare think of the ramifications if we would try to be together.

“It’s been six years,” I offer.

“You are the one getting married,” he accuses.

“It’s an agency thing,” I explain.

I see his unspoken justification in his eyes and realize that his disappearance was also an agency thing.

Removing his long, black leather coat, he wraps it around my shoulders, ignoring my protests, insisting, “You’re turning blue.”

He pulls me into his arms, I don’t mind the hug now that we’ve cleared the air about why I thought he was dead. Time has no meaning to The Agency and, as agents, our lives are theirs to control, a day, a week, a decade, the assignment takes as long as it takes. I try to imagine a decade married to Liam—would it be better or worse than six years without Luka?

“I don’t have much time. Come with me, Eva.”

“You’re insane,” I bellow, pulling out of his embrace, wanting what he offers more than life itself. “How long can you run now that they know you are alive? If I go with you, they will hunt me as well. I’ll slow you down; you won’t make it. And I can live without you, knowing you live. If you die again, I won’t be willing to live.” Turning away, I walk down the slope to the Gartempe River, fighting back tears. The steady lap of small waves does little to calm my thundering heart.

I feel him behind me, so close but not touching. “You love me.”

“I don’t know you, Luka.”

“Aristotle.”

“What?”

“My birth name was Aristotle, I was called Ari as a boy.”

I let out a long-held breath, my exhale ragged with emotion, because an agent never reveals his birth identity, and that he is…

Holding out his hand, he leads me along the riverbank. “I grew up in Greece, served in their military for a bit, until I was recruited by Interpol. Off and on, I’ve helped other countries. The last six years, I’ve been in San Francisco and lived as Thomas Stephanopolis.”

“And now you are back.” I try to make light, my heart is breaking, knowing that he is going to disappear out of my life again … soon.

“I was also married, you should know that. I don’t want there to be any secrets between us this time around.”

“Married?” I ask dumbly.

“I ran, I hid, I was lonely,” he explains quickly. “I thought I’d never see you again and I wanted to see you again. I also wanted normal for a while, and since I couldn’t have you, I had to make sure that I wouldn’t try to go back to you, I settled for almost normal—wife, suburbia, kids.”

“You have a wife and kids?” My voice is shrill voice, I have no control over my emotion now. The agency smile has deserted me for safer territory. “I fucking mourned you for six years and you’re off making babies…” I snort, as close to hysterical as I’ve ever been.

“Eva.” He grabs my arms hard, forcing me to look at him. “She took my children to Africa over a year ago.”

My anger cools just a little, noting the intense emotion in his voice. My God, a wife.

He has children.

“Eva, look at me.”

I look, knowing the desperation I hear in his voice is the same desperation I’ve held in my heart for six long years. He runs his hand through his hair, pulling it back away from his face before letting it fall back down.