An Affair of Vengeance (16 page)

“I never called you mousy. I called you a mouse,” McCrea muttered, annoyed that she’d misunderstood him.

“What’d you say?” she said sharply, but a yawn undercut her ferocity. They were both at the end of their tethers. Nothing good could come from more conversation.

“Never mind. You’re knackered. Go home and go to sleep.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Don’t worry. Makeup works wonders, you know. I won’t embarrass you when I have to start playing your girlfriend.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Fine.” She yawned again. “Give me a few hours, please, before you come knocking. I’m good, but not good enough to roll on something this big with no sleep.”

“You should leave together,” Mason pointed out. “This is the beginning of the cover affair.”

Hardly the beginning
. McCrea glanced at Evangeline. From the blush re-forming on her face, he judged that she’d thought the same thing.

“Walk me out, then.” She didn’t look back as she left the room, but allowed him to catch up with her in the hallway.

Together, they walked the twisted path back to Miel’s exit. When they reached the bar, she grabbed his hand. Just part of the cover story, of course. But he liked the feeling of her hand in his, nonetheless.

Outside, he squinted against the bright lights on the esplanade. “Did you drive here?”

“I’ll take a cab home.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Far up the street, a black sedan pulled away from the curb and headed in their direction.

She frowned when she saw the car approaching from a few blocks away but relaxed as it came into view. “A Mercedes.”

“C63 AMG.”

“Whatever,” she mumbled, not impressed. “I can take a cab.”

“Please,” he said and took her elbow gently. “Allow me.”

He shouldn’t have to remind her of what was at stake.

And he didn’t. She responded to his touch by swinging her arm around his waist and hooking her thumb through a belt loop. Her head leaned into him, fitting nicely under his arm. When the car arrived, the driver jumped out to open the door,
but McCrea beat him to the punch. Evangeline glided into the darkened interior, even giving him a come-hither smile before she disappeared into the far side.

He followed, but once the door was shut, all pretense of sensual companionship faded. She gave her address to the driver and then sat up straight, tugging her skirt hem down to her knees.

A few hours before, McCrea had taken one of her hems between his teeth and tugged it up.

She cleared her throat. “We need to work on our cover. Did we meet for the first time last night at La Banque?”

“Yes,” he agreed. “And then this morning you played a little game with me by chasing me through the streets.”

“You chased me,” she said.

“Bollocks. You were behind me the whole time.”

“You approached me in the market.”

He bit his tongue. “Fine. Let’s just say that we ran into each other at the market and agreed to meet at the hotel later for drinks.”

“Followed by dancing much later at Avarice.”

“Did we meet there intentionally?”

“Sure. You were just about to come dance with me when Penard walked up.”

“Sounds reasonable. What were you doing there, anyhow?”

“I followed you there. What’d you think?”

“I wasn’t sure. But that business with Penard…?”

She shook her head. “Not planned. I’ve been trying to get him closer, but not that close. Some things I just won’t do.”

Except with him, apparently. McCrea couldn’t say anything.

“Right,” she went on, “so we were dancing, you had to leave to meet Ménellier, but you asked me to meet you again later, at Miel. We had coffee, and here we are, going to my apartment.”

A string of crumbling storefronts flickered past as the Mercedes zipped through the increasingly narrow streets toward her apartment.

“It’s a likely tale,” he said.

“And now, are you just driving me home?”

His heart thumped quickly against his chest wall. “Going inside wouldn’t be…seemly.”

“But it might be realistic.”

In the silence, he considered how right she was. But he wanted to keep her at arm’s length. That they’d already kissed twice nagged at him. The speed of intimacy had felt right, or at least unstoppable, when he’d been undercover. Now that she knew who he was, he’d pulled back from her. She was no longer the mysterious and beautiful foreign agent cataloging his every move. She was his partner, and he wanted to treat her professionally. “I’ll meet you there later this morning, after I’ve gathered my things. We’ve agreed to take a drive out to the hills today.”

“Excellent.” The car pulled to the curb next to a four-story building. On the ground level, signs in the windows of a takeaway shop advertised halal kebabs. Colorful graffiti covered every inch of crumbling stucco within an arm’s reach of the ground, and then some. Metal bars rose vertically in the window casings on the bottom two floors.

Her cover identity, he realized, was significantly less well-off than his. He’d grown up poor and rough, and would feel comfortable in the toughest of Marseille’s neighborhoods, but he didn’t know a thing about what kind of life she’d led before joining the CIA. “Are you sure you’re safe here?”

“I’ve been living here for years. I think I’ll be OK for a few more hours.”

She left, disappearing through a battered wooden door next to the entrance to the Tunisian takeaway.

He sat, his fingers pressing deeply into his palms, hating this new feeling of having to worry about a partner. He wanted to walk her up to her apartment but knew she didn’t want him
there. She had been capable of doing her job up until now. She could do it another hour without him.

Still, there was no cause to dawdle. He took the car back to his hotel, gathered his things, and proceeded to a luxury-car rental agency, where he picked up a Porsche 911 Carrera convertible for the trip into the hills. He returned to her place. On the top floor of the building, knocking lightly at her door produced no answer, but of course it wouldn’t. She’d been up all night and was probably deep asleep. He wanted her to rest and so was glad that she didn’t wake up to trudge to the door.

But what if she
wasn’t
inside? What if she’d been accosted on her way upstairs or surprised by an ambush when she’d gone inside? What if she’d been taken or was lying unconscious inside, hurt or dying?

He stared at her peeling door, knowing he didn’t have the patience to sit outside and wait for her to awaken naturally, but if he pounded on her door loudly enough to rouse her, he’d feel like an idiot for waking her out of a perfectly safe sleep. So after a few moments of vacillation, he picked her lock and slipped inside. A tiny kitchenette was shoehorned just off the entrance, a long red couch faced a window in the opposite wall, and a mattress hid in the far corner.

Evangeline slept curled up in a ball on it and didn’t stir when he entered. He sighed, startled by the warm relief that spread through his body when he realized that she was OK.

The tall window next to the bed stood open, giving him a good view of her neighbors’ terra-cotta rooftops. A chipped plate piled with wet cat food rested on the windowsill. The likely beneficiary—a tiny black cat—slept half-hidden in Evangeline’s dark hair. The cat looked up when he walked in but only stretched out its claws and settled back to sleep.

Assured that Evangeline was safely slumbering, he settled his exhausted frame on her sofa. The warm velvet upholstery
felt good against his skin, and he rested his head on a pillow. Dreamless sleep quickly overtook him.

Hours later, with the sun glowing bright red through his eyelids, several sharp needles dug into his chest. Moderately alarmed, he startled awake and stared into the bright-yellow eyes of the little black cat. Random strands of white fur salted its otherwise black face. Two long fangs poked out from underneath the animal’s upper lip. It had the general appearance of a withered old vampire, and as McCrea was forming this opinion, the cat leaned forward and pushed its cold, moist nose against his chin.

Chuckling, he lifted a hand to stroke the demanding little cat. It had been too long since he’d had the leisure to take a nap with a feline nearby.

“Lovely likes you,” Evangeline said from somewhere behind him.

He turned to look. She sat at a small wooden table near the stove. Her face was scrubbed clean of last night’s dramatic Cleopatra makeup, and she wore a bright white robe. Her dark hair, usually curly and full, was brushed smooth and tamed into a ponytail. She sipped something steamy from a flowered teacup. Tea, without a doubt. The lemony scent of warm bergamot filled his nose, reminding him of how much his mother used to enjoy a cup of Earl Grey in the morning when he was very, very young. The sight and smell tugged at his heart. He tried to ignore it.

“Lovely? That’s a funny name for a scrawny little ferret,” he said, scratching behind the cat’s ears. It leaned into his touch, closed its harvest-moon eyes, and purred.

“She’s a tough little beast. Aren’t you, Lovely?” she called, patting her thigh. The cat jumped off McCrea’s chest and scampered to the table to wind around Evangeline’s ankles.

Lucky little creature. Evangeline leaned down to pet her cat. With her dark hair pulled back and her face unpainted, she looked softer and younger than she’d seemed before.
More innocent. Even less like someone he wanted to drag into a mission like his, but he didn’t see that he had a choice.

“I hope you didn’t come here to talk me out of the job,” she said.

“I still don’t think this is a good idea, but I’m here as your partner.” Determined to improve their relationship, he swung his legs around and stood. “Have any tea for me? We need to get our plan together.”

“Of course.” She gave him a wary smile. “I’ve never met a Scotsman who didn’t need a cup of tea in the morning.”

“So I’m not your first?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Her smile went wicked before she stood and turned to pour another cup. “But you are the first man, Scottish or otherwise, to sneak into my apartment while I slept.”

He wiped a hand over his rough jaw, wishing for a shower and a shave as much as for that cup of tea, and then walked to the little table and sat on a wooden chair. It creaked, but held. “I wanted to be sure you were getting some rest.”

She handed him a warm, paper-thin porcelain cup brimming with black tea. “You have a strange way of making a girl feel comfortable.” Holding her robe closed, she sat down across from him. Sunlight bounced through the open window to tint her skin a rose-petal pink.

He cleared his throat. “I apologize.”

“For sneaking in?”

“No. For being rude at the safe house. I was tired, and I was out of line. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. I probably said a few things I’d like to take back, too.”

“Fair enough. And I’m sorry, as well, for…” He halted, looked at his tea, not sure how to word his feelings, since he didn’t quite understand them himself. “For that business between us last night. In my suite, and at the club. It was inappropriate.” He glanced up to see how she’d respond.

Her cheek color brightened to coral. So damn pretty. “I’d rather not discuss it.”

“Well, good.” He shifted in his seat, not done with the topic. “But it was out of character for me. I just want you to know that it won’t happen again.”

“I said I’d rather not discuss it.”

Did that mean she believed him? Or was she still mad? He was no playboy. It really mattered to him that she understood that. “It’s just that I’ve—”

She cut him off. “Look. It’s fine. We both have valid reasons for how we’ve treated each other these past few days. I don’t know what yours are, exactly, but I don’t need to know. Why don’t we just leave it at that?”

Most women didn’t let go of a slight until it’d been examined from a thousand angles. “You’re quite sure?”

“Trust me. This mission’s awkward enough. Let’s not make it worse by talking about our feelings.”

“I wasn’t going to talk about my feelings.”

He hadn’t intended it as a joke, but she laughed nonetheless, tossing her head back, exposing her milky throat. “No, Scotsman. I didn’t think you were. So have you ever worked with a partner before?”

“No.”

“Me neither.” She sipped her tea. “I can’t say I’m a big fan of the prospect—nothing personal, of course.”

“Of course.”

“But it seems to be the only way we each get to keep working on the case. We’ll need to know a bit about each other to pull it off.”

“We only need know what two people would have learned about each other over the course of two days. That’s not much.”

She frowned. “Or it’s everything. But you’re right; let’s stick with ‘not much.’ It’ll be easier that way. So don’t tell me your real name.”

“I’m Oliver McCrea. I told you that already.”

“No, I mean your pre-SOCA name. Didn’t they make you change it when you signed up for clandestine duty?”

“No.” He wondered how much to tell her about his past. As little as possible, he decided. She didn’t need to know his family history. “No.”

“Ah. Well, that clears it up.”

She wanted more. He wouldn’t give it. Her knowing why he’d joined SOCA and worked undercover wouldn’t help their mission one speck. He felt dirty enough as it was. Maybe if she didn’t know about his brother, he could be untainted in her eyes, at least for a while.

“Isn’t it dangerous for your family for you to use your name?” she pressed. “What if someone like Ménellier goes after them after this case blows open?”

“That’s not an issue, but I’m not clinging to my name. I don’t care what people call me.”

“Then ask for a new one. Or pick one out. I’m sure SOCA wouldn’t mind.”

“I can’t.”

She lifted an eyebrow.

“I just can’t,” he insisted.

“I guess you don’t have any family to worry about, then. Me neither. Not these days. Except little Lovely.”

McCrea glanced to the ground, where her vampire-cat battled a dust bunny. “Lovely’s not half-bad, far as family goes.”

“She’s perfect.” Evangeline bit her lip. “I never should have let her inside.”