Assassin's Honor (18 page)

           
"Secret ingredient."

           
"In other words, you're not going to tell me."

           
"Correct." Mischief gleamed in his dark blue eyes as he whipped the egg mixture some more.

           
"Fine.
Don't tell me." She sniffed with amused exasperation.

           
He just chuckled at her comment. As she watched him work, a comforting sensation engulfed her. The tension from last night had ebbed away, but she wasn't sure what was responsible for her relaxed state. Perhaps it was the warmth of the kitchen's decor and its sunny Tuscan charm, but she knew better. For some odd reason, being here with him was why she felt safe.

           
The man might be dangerously devastating to her senses, but something deep inside her said he wouldn't let anything happen to her. The grill sizzled as he dropped butter onto a flat, square skillet. Dipping a slice of bread into the egg mixture, he let it soak for a good fifteen seconds before he placed it on the griddle.

           
"Why don't you get us something to eat on," he said as he continued to load the grill pan with soaked bread. "Plates and glasses are in the cabinet behind you.
Silverware in the drawer below."

           
Plates and glasses on the counter, she pulled silverware out of the drawer and proceeded to set a place for them both.
"Napkins?"

           
"Pantry--far end of the counter.
Syrup's in there, too."

           
He threw her a quick glance over his shoulder and bobbed his head toward a large double door cabinet as he flipped a piece of toast. With their place settings complete, she pulled out another plate for him to use as a serving dish. She set the plate on the counter next to the stove.

           
"For the toast," she murmured.

           
The smile he flashed her sent her heart slamming into her chest. God, she was crazy to be anywhere
near
this guy. He was dangerous to every sensible thought she'd ever possessed. Swallowing hard, she stepped away from him.

           
"What do you want to drink?" she asked as she tried to breathe properly.

           
"I think there's some OJ in
the frig
." His gaze flitted over her briefly before he slipped a hot piece of toast onto the plate she'd set on the counter for him. "You okay?"

           
"Sure.
Just hungry."

           
"Good, because it's ready."

           
By the time she'd returned to the kitchen island with the orange juice, he'd already dished out three pieces of toast on both their plates. He pulled out a stool for her at the corner of the island, and waited for her to take a seat before he sat down catty-corner from her. As she poured herself a glass of juice, he added butter and syrup to his toast. She followed his example and took a bite. It tasted delicious, but the flavor was richer, smoother than any other French toast she'd had before.

           
Elbows on the countertop, he watched her reaction over his folded hands. Her gaze met his and he arched his eyebrows. "Well?"

           
"It's delicious, but I can't tell what the secret ingredient is."

           
"Most people can't."

           
Exasperated by his cryptic remark, she watched him pick up his fork and start to eat his breakfast.
All right.
Two could play at that game. She popped another syrup-covered bite of toast into her mouth. God, it really was good. Whatever the secret ingredient was, she'd tasted it before,
she
knew it. But the flavor was so subtle she couldn't place it. She took a sip of her orange juice and found herself meeting his amused gaze over the glass rim.

           
"What?" she asked as her glass tapped lightly against the marble.

           
"You really are obstinate as a mule," he said with a quiet laugh. "You want to know what the secret ingredient is, but you're not willing to ask me."

           
"I'll figure it out eventually."

           
She popped another bite of toast into her mouth, the flavor melting over her tongue. The minute the man left the room, she was going to be checking out the bottles in that damn cabinet.

           
"Tell me when you do." His mouth twitched with amusement. Damn the man. She glared at him.

           
"Oh, all right, what is it," she snapped with exasperation.

           
The cabinet door behind him opened without any visible aid, and the bottle he'd used earlier sailed through the air to land gently on the countertop in front of her. God, the ease with which he did stuff like that amazed her. She picked up the bottle to read the label.
Chocolate extract.
It explained the decadent flavor teasing her tongue every time she took a bite of the toast he'd prepared. He took another bite of his breakfast as she set the bottle back on the marble top.

           
"So what else can you cook?" she asked as she took another bite of the breakfast he'd prepared for them.

           
"Nothing."
Wicked laughter gleamed in his eyes as he met her surprised look. "This dish is the extent of my skill in the kitchen."

           
"You can't be serious." She sniffed with disbelief. "That odd blend of Italian and Latin you speak makes you sound like you came straight from the old country. Not to mention that every Italian I've ever met, knows how to cook."

           
"Except me."
He sent a wicked smile her way. It made her heart skip a beat. "I even went to one of those cooking schools outside of Venice. I flunked. Lysander is our resident expert in the culinary arts. He makes a mean souffle."

           
"Lysander?"

           
"A good friend.
Handy in a fight."
Ares took a large swig of juice then set the glass back on the island's countertop. "So what do you like to cook?"

           
"Me?" She waved her hand in denial. "I'm like you. I don't cook either. My mom, she was the chef in the family. She could make magic out of the limited ingredients we always had on hand at the excavation site."

           
The memory of her mom working over a Coleman stove made her throat close. She took a quick sip of juice to loosen up her throat muscles. The minute she could, she swallowed the tears lodged there.

           
"It hasn't been easy for you, has it?" His astute observation made her jerk her gaze toward him then look away just as quickly.

           
Quiet understanding filled his words, and the empathy in his expression made her feel connected to him. They'd both lost loved ones to violence. Of all the people she knew, this stranger was the only one who really understood what she was dealing with and what she'd lost. She hadn't realized it until now, but he'd lost even more than she had. Someone had destroyed his childhood. Had one of the images she'd seen last night when she'd touched the coin in his hand been of his parents? Had they died by someone's sword? She pushed her unfinished meal away from her and looked at him.

           
"How did your parents die, Ares?"

           
The minute she asked the question, she regretted it. The sympathetic look on his face disappeared, replaced by an impassive expression. He didn't answer. Instead, he stood up and picked up their dirty dishes. With his back to her, he scraped off the remains of their breakfast into the garbage disposal.

           
"They were murdered in a manner similar to your parents."

           
He flipped the disposal switch.
Fotte.
Her parents had died quickly with little pain. His parents hadn't been so lucky. The memory of his mother's screams swept through him. He'd huddled there in that Priest's Closet and had done nothing. Logically he knew there wasn't anything he could have done, but the helpless feeling he'd experienced that night had never left him.

           
The only reason he and Phae had survived was because the bastards had received orders to leave. The Praetorian who'd butchered his mother hadn't been happy about it because he'd known they were in the house. Their fear had been easy for him to read. If the son of a bitch hadn't been forced to obey his commander's orders, he would have found their hiding spot. Ares crammed the dark memories into a small box in the back of his head. The sooner they got off this topic, the better.

           
"I didn't ask. Did you sleep well? Find everything you need?" He turned around and leaned against the sink, arms folded across his chest.

           
"Yes, thank you."

           
"Good."

           
Merda, things had gotten stiff and stilted between them. They'd lost that comfortable camaraderie they'd had just a few minutes ago. It had felt natural--right. He wanted to feel that ease of familiarity again. He frowned. He should be putting distance between them not thinking about closing the gap. She must have sensed the strained atmosphere as well because she straightened her back and sent him a direct look.

           
"Maybe we should just get everything out into the open." The straightforward comment made him narrow his gaze at her.

           
"Meaning?"

           
"You came to me looking for this Tyet of Isis my father mentions in the cipher he left me. It seems to be a clue to the artifact's whereabouts. I don't know what this thing is, but my guess is my parents and even Charlie died because of it. So, I'd like to find some answers."

           
"Not everything is black and white, Emma," he said. "What if you don't find any answers?"

           
"At this point in the game, I really don't have a choice." She gave a reluctant shrug of her shoulders. "Someone tried to kill me last night, and the Institute's sidelined me for God knows how long, which means I can't go back to the dig to try and figure out what's going on."

           
Her words only strengthened his belief that she wasn't working for the Praetorians. If the Oriental Institute wasn't going to let her go back, then that meant someone was worried she might start asking more questions than they wanted to answer. And the only people who wouldn't want her to find something would be the Praetorians. Suddenly, last night made sense.

           
Someone had sent an assassin to eliminate any possibility of Emma continuing her parents' and Russwin's work. Whoever it was thought she was close to unlocking secrets they either didn't want revealed or wanted to find themselves. And until he knew who was really pulling the strings at the Institute, she wasn't safe.

           
They'd only been able to narrow their search down to five or six possible suspects, and four of them were too damn close to Emma. It was one of the reasons why the Order wasn't going to be happy that he'd brought her into the guild's stronghold.

           
"They've actually said you can't go back?" he asked.

           
"I'm a liability," she said bitterly. "Ewan is going to try and reverse Stuart's decision. His position on the university's Board of Trustees is a powerful one, but I doubt it'll change the Institute's position. I think things in Cairo are tenuous when it comes to their digs, and they aren't likely to jeopardize their position for just one person. I don't suppose I blame them."

           
"Your friend Ewan--have you known him long?"

           
"Since I was a baby.
He, Charlie, and my parents had been friends since their college days. When my parents died, he and Charlie were pretty much my only support system. Ewan has been there for me since I got off the plane from Cairo."

           
"Is there a reason why he didn't go to Egypt while you were dealing with the authorities?"

           
"What are you driving at?" she asked with a frown.

           
"Nothing really."
He shrugged. "I'm just trying to figure out who might have something to gain if you were dead."

           
"Well, it wouldn't be Ewan. He's already got so many laurels he doesn't need any new ones to add to his reputation. In fact, he never did like getting down in the dirt. He prefers faculty politics and social events to field work."

           
"Okay, then who else might benefit if you were suddenly out of the picture?"

           
"Nobody."

           
"What about your expedition's new team leader?"