Unholy Promises (24 page)

“It’s going to take time to heal,” Henri said as he pushed me into his bathroom.

“Consider this a vacation.”

The part of me that always bounces back screams silently that I’m not broken, but even as I deny it, I wonder how long it is going to take to stop hurting. I don’t ever remember bringing this kind of hurt home from an assignment. I close my eyes against the memories of Liam. He used to love to climb into the bathtub with me. He loved bubble baths especially.

God, Liam. I close my eyes against the thought of him, the terror of my last hours with him too recent in my mind, too terrifyingly painful. I inwardly cringe as the memories come against my wishes … laughing with him, playing with him, loving him

… even though I deny it with my whole heart … I did like him. I considered him a friend and feel so stupid for that.

He was a traitor in our midst. I would have never believed that he was King Cobra.

None of us would have. Everyone has stopped in, all of my friends, our friends, though I shouldn’t think of any of them that way.

Liam has taught me that.

I’ve broken the cardinal rule—don’t make friends. It’s an easy rule; you never know which friend you will be assigned to kill, so you just don’t break the rule. I have to face the fact that no one is a friend … no one.

Determined to get lost in the water, to escape Liam’s voice, I dunk myself, holding my breath, knowing well the silkiness of the water’s caress. Water that teases at my buttocks with its steaming bite, being more tender than a new lover, more subtle than an old friend, heat teasing around the folds of my labia. Flaming silk, tickling, teasing, arousing. I push against the end of the tub, creating a wave that fans around my thighs on its race to touch every inch of me, rushing along the line of my back, and circling my shoulders before descending the opposite way. Aching, throbbing, all-consuming need descends on my clitoris.

I never knew true need before, Master changed that.

I look through my watery self-made prison, blind to the room, seeking him, holding my breath until my lungs long to explode. It hurts too much knowing he waits for me. I have a life different than I had before … with him. It isn’t a perfect life … that would be the life I left behind in Sweden, where I was the spoiled rich girl—God, I hated that girl. I am different now. I like my job, as insane as that sounds, as horrific as it is, as much as my conscience detests me … I am performing a necessary service. And I may not quite like myself yet, but I’m okay. Someone has to do the dirty jobs. Suddenly I remember the little girl held in her mother’s arm as they both watched her father die.

It is more than I can bear, and so I hide, submerged, crashing water flooding my mind as the tap continues to fill the tub, sounding more like Niagara Falls in my head, shutting out all sound from the room. If only the drumming noise could offer my mind peace.

Surfacing, I gulp only enough air to see myself underwater once more. Numbing, thundering silence clears my thoughts as, finally, I find what I seek in the recesses of my brain. Sanctuary. No thought, no emotion—only feeling—as it once was with Master.

Emerging, floating on top of the water, I hold onto the fragile peace I have found and breathe. Inhale, exhale, inhale. Just as Master once directed. The water tickles, framing around my face, petting my cheekbones with feathery strokes. The caress of a million fingertips slide up the ladder of my ribcage and, for a moment, I can pretend Master is here with me. Water rising, swirling around the gentle curve of my belly as Master’s tongue once did, until at last it slides into the dip of my belly button. Molten heat, lava.

I submerge once more, trying to escape the molten, burning need ripping through my insides. At war with myself. A searing blanket of water cradles over my eyes, sealing them closed, trapping the tears, just before the heat tugs at the corners of my lips. A gasp, a sob. It would be only seconds before my nose fills, being the worst of the experience I was sure; however, the battle of wills that began in that moment within my psyche was the biggest struggle of all. Fighting the urge to sit up, rising water covers my chest, my cheeks, holding me down as a pyre of bricks. I braced myself and prayed that this time I would be brave enough to let go. Brave enough to escape the hell Liam left me to survive. I expel the remaining air from my lungs, bubbles rising to the surface, minutes, seconds, searing pain, thundering waterfall, pounding heart. It becomes an incredible symphony in my head as I wait for the darkness to claim me. Lungs screaming, I wait.

Pinpricks of white light dance behind my eyelids, my breath explodes.

Surfacing, gasping, crying, screaming, cursing … what am I going to do?

I want so desperately to answer Master’s summons, but as I fight back the images of Liam, his face hidden behind a leather hood, only his brilliant blue eyes visible, making me orgasm in the most horrific ways, not once but over and over again, and all the world spectator … I am ashamed, embarrassed—and afraid. I can’t remember the last time I was afraid.

The worst of it is knowing that he watched the live satellite feed—he saw me break.

I still wear Liam’s marks—thin blue-green lines across the back of my thighs left by a cane, a large swath of green from my spine to the front side of my ribs, though I don’t remember what made the mark, and the granddaddy of them all—the puffy red scars of freshly healed skin on my chest where he opened it. I trace the scar and close my eyes.

The others will fade, this one never will, and I do not want to go to Master wearing another man’s mark. I cannot do that to him, I cannot do that to myself.

The ringing buzzer alerts me to another flower delivery; I do not answer. It is late and I don’t have the energy to get out of Henri’s big comfy recliner, though the door is only a few feet away. He was kind enough to light a fire in the fireplace and cover me with a blanket before he left for parts deeper in his townhouse than I have been willing to explore. Coming home from the hospital and soaking in a tub has been more exhausting than a 20K run.

Another buzz, followed by knocking, insistent knocking, but I find it just isn’t worth getting up to accept more calla lilies. I close my eyes against them, the room already so filled with calla lilies that there is not another surface to place even one more vase. From deeper in the house, a phone rings, and I hear Henri’s muffled, “Bonjour?” then more muffled words he does not want me to hear. I listen closer, but hear only the soft pad of his house slippers returning from the kitchen.

Henri at home is as Henri is at the office … though at home his concession to comfort is to trade his jacket for a more practical sweater and his dress shoes for house slippers. The first morning I was here, I wondered if he even slept in his tie.

He returns with a vase of twelve calla lilies tucked into the crook of his left arm, his left hand supporting a tray topped with a proper china tea set and scones for two, and a telephone in his right hand.

Scooting the tray on top of a side table, he offers me the telephone. I shake my head, mouthing, “Who?”

He just lifts his eyebrow in a silent ‘who else?’

I shake my head.

Narrowing his eyes and shaking his head, he explains that I must have fallen asleep while he was making tea. He assures Thomas—as he calls him—that I will call him when I awaken. I must constantly remember that his name was never Luka.

“How much longer will you make him wait, ma chère?” he asks after disconnecting.

He rearranges the flowers in their vase until he is satisfied that they are perfect, before stepping away from the table already overflowing with flower arrangements.

“I’ll make sure it’s less than six years,” I reply tartly, and close my eyes, planning to sleep, hoping to sleep, praying I will sleep.

“Eva?”

Great, Henri wants to talk. I knew it was coming, I had just hoped it wasn’t. Opening my eyes, I focus on his face and see by his facial expression that he expects more from me. I fidget, straightening enough to almost be sitting instead of still lying down but not quite. It seems to be satisfactory, because Henri hands me a newspaper and answers the quizzical expression on my face with a cryptic statement. “You have a choice to make.”

The paper is dated several weeks earlier; however, it is the headline that catches my attention. “Swedish Heiress Eva Lindquist Dead.”

“What does this mean?” I ask dumbly.

“It means, dear girl, that your brothers attended your funeral. It was a state affair, very lavish, very touching. I believe they’ve already spent your share of the inheritance.”

“It doesn’t matter.” I draw in a shaky breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’ve actually been expecting it, an assignment, I couldn’t imagine them giving me any more time off than they already have and I’ve returned to duty with injuries in the past that should have kept me away. “My parents died long enough ago that their money holds no place in my life,” I state stoically, wondering where my emotions are hiding. I should be sad that there will be no more holidays spent with my family. “And my brothers?

They’ve wished me dead often enough, haven’t they? I am certainly worth more to them dead than I ever was alive.”

I fidget around with an exasperated sigh, definitely sitting up and poised to stand.

“I’m not an invalid, just tell me the assignment. We both know that’s what this conversation is about. So The Agency finally agreed that I would be of more use if my true identity was no more … so, I’m ready.”

“Are you?” Henry looks at me, I look at him. He holds out his arms to me, I think that perhaps he is saying goodbye to me. That this really is it then, a car must be waiting outside for me. Nothing new. I walk into his arms and he hugs me, holding me as tight as a man can, holding me as a man would his daughter if he feared he might never see her again. I swallow hard … suddenly realizing that I might be the assignment. Am I the liability? “Be safe, mon amie.”

As predicted, the front door to Henri’s townhouse opens and three operatives enter.

My ride is here. Henri holds me even tighter, not letting me step from his grip.

“Where?” I ask, afraid of hearing the answer.

“San Francisco.”

Holy shit. No, no, no, no, no … do not ask this of me!

“You can get close to him,” he whispers, still holding me close. I feel his hand leave my back and know that he waves at the operatives to leave us a moment. Without a word, they back from the room, closing the door. I know they wait, not for me to make a decision … because whether I will take this job or won’t, I realize this assignment is not a choice, at least not if I want to live. He steps away from me, gesturing at the tea service, pulling out a chair for me, “Tea?”

Again, it is not a choice and so I sit at the small table set for two.

“Excellent.” He pecks my cheek, ending the discussion, placing a cup and saucer in my hand. “Drink your tea. Strong. No sugar. Just as you like it.”

San Francisco, California

Lewd Larry’s Infamous Fetish Fantasy Nightclub

San Francisco looks how the travel agency’s online photos portrayed it, bright and sunny, if cool, but still a far cry from January weather in Paris. I find it depressing and wish desperately for rain. I am an agent, first and foremost to all other things, it is not my wants, not my desires, but what is best for the world. At least that is what I manage to tell myself. Would I feel differently, standing here, if I were just a girl responding to the summons of a thousand calla lilies? Would my heart be pounding with anticipation?

Need? Desire?

I didn’t ask why Thomas is the target. It hardly matters. All that matters is that I can do my job when I receive my signal to kill.

I will forget that my heart has ached for six years. I will forget that I once loved him

… and really, if I were honest with myself, could it have possibly truly been love anyway? We were young and the games we played were just games. I never considered the lifestyle he introduced me to as anything more than fun and games, although I know to him … it was more. He will think that I am here because he summoned me here, but the truth is, even after all my bruises have faded, I am repulsed by the thought of pain for pleasure.

Honestly, this is a nightmare, coming here, seeking him out, and I pray for patience as the taxi driver circles the block for the twelfth time. “Miss?”

“Yes, yes, this is it. You can drop me here.”

Dropped at the curb, I stand looking at the building long after the driver has pulled away, willing myself to put one foot in front of the other, giving myself time to get brave enough to enter his world. When I finally do enter Lewd Larry’s, I am expecting Whips, a club I am familiar with, but this club is far removed. Whips on testosterone, perhaps, and speed … and some hallucinogens thrown in to completely take it over the top. I am so not ready for this.

The atmosphere is electric and I am immediately drenched in music, lights, voices, and bodies. Hundreds? At least. The crowd is wall to wall and above the crowd, dancing in brass cages are dancers, creating for me a nerve-splitting moment. I am more terrified than if I were running into battle, machine gun at the ready and a grenade in each hand.

This is such a big mistake.

I feel like I could jump from my skin and run, nervous energy building under my skin to the point of exploding. I turn to go. Bumping hard into two men stops me cold.

They barely notice me, they are so wrapped up in each other—obviously Master and slave—roughly the same age, height, build. Both share hard, sculpted bodies, so sexy, so alpha male and so undeniably wrapped in each other, it is hard to tell who is top, who is bottom. Sex oozes from their pores and I am lulled into watching them—they are impossible not to watch. The subtle caresses, heads dipping to kiss, such restrained passion, the air around them boils and then ignites as one presses aggressively and the other breaks down. I watch the topping begin and shudder as the bottom starts to lose it; however, the one suddenly in the role of top holds it together, rubbing his shoulders, speaking softly, offering moral support. They are so much in their own stratosphere, I feel it is a moment of intimacy I shouldn’t be watching; but I can’t tear my eyes away.