Mr. Real (Code of Shadows #1) (28 page)

It would feel good to get rid of Paul—like pulling an aching tooth.

He looked across the restaurant at them, cultivating his old detachment until he could see them as merely useful. Sources of information.

But the clone was healing so slowly! Sir Kendall had never seen a face heal so slowly. The fight had taken place over a day ago, after all. The rare times when Sir Kendall’s wounds didn’t heal straightaway, he would utilize the healing ointment from his medical kit, typically applied to his face by kind barmaids or pretty nurses. Such ministrations worked wonders when he needed to look presentable. Didn’t Paul have ointment he could use?

Everybody had ointment.

Then again, his rules and assumptions hadn’t been panning out lately.

He could offer his own ointment to Paul. Then they could look identical again.

He found himself thinking about what Alix’s friend Karen had said to him, about theories and the earth’s rotation. He wished he could talk with her some more about that. She was beautiful, the kind of woman most men would miss. And the only person in this place who seemed to speak his language. What she’d said to him suggesting that everything was situational, it was interesting.

There was a key in that, too.

The bartender delivered his Denali. He sipped. It was just the thing. Well, that’s one fact that hadn’t changed.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“This is fun. I’m so
not
glad you came.” Alix pulled a circular powder thing and lipstick from her small purse. The powder thing had a name, but Paul couldn’t think of it. He could barely think at all.

The many physical beatings he’d taken in his life—as a boy, and later, as a fighter—were nothing compared to the pain he associated with Sir Kendall. The pain of Sir Kendall ate at him from the inside. Sometimes he thought it might consume him.

But he couldn’t let them dine alone.

“Even clones have to eat.” He ripped open another pack of crackers. What would they be talking about if he wasn’t here? Would this be a romantic dinner?

She glared at him, then looked into the little mirror. Lord, she was hot. It was more than her looks, it was the way she sat. The bright energy behind her stupid jokes about his clone age. The way she thought everything was funny—and hid it badly. It was the way she put on lipstick now, drawing the pink knob slowly over her lips, tracing the path he’d very much like to drag his lips around. And no, he didn’t know about fashion or jewels like Sir Kendall did, but he had plenty of thoughts about Alix’s outfit—specifically that it was full of personality, just like her. And even more, the lush curves underneath, the tantalizing tightness of the fabric around her breasts and what her skin would feel like, how her body would feel against his, the taste of those glossy pink lips.

“Just innocently hungry.” She snapped the little mirror closed. “Really, why would you say yes? What do you goddamn want?”

“To make sure he doesn’t step out of line.”

“All he wants to do is play the spy and write his spy emails and drink Denali. You need to cut him a break.”

“He sends emails? To who?”

“Who cares? It’s the
Internet
.” She shoved her makeup back into her purse. “Seriously, Paul. You have an irrational thing about him and it freaks me out. The way you look at him, I can tell you want to attack him.”

“But I didn’t, did I?”

“Not today.”

“Alix, your aunt sent those guys back. You have to ask yourself—why? And the necklace you ordered from the magic computer—suddenly they’re super-gems? The best freaking rubies on the planet?”

She fingered the jewels. “He likes my necklace. Clearly in league with the devil.”

He felt the frustration bubble up. “I know you were surprised. I could tell. And I think it’s a very bad sign that suddenly even
he
is shocked at their quality. Think about it. He heals as fast as a vampire. He knows about all kinds of things. And, his fighting skills match the skills of—not to boast, but let’s face it—an elite champion.”

“Not to boast,” she put in.

“He has super healing and super fighting. The world is like an ecosystem. When you introduce a superior predator, things go wrong, fast.”

“It’s not a crime to be superior. To be stronger. You know who thinks that? The assholes who killed King Kong.”

“This isn’t King Kong.”

She snorted. “You’re stronger than me. Maybe I should kill you. Or, I know.” She held up a finger. “How about if you judge the man by his actions instead of what you worry he might do? Have you actually seen him do something wrong?”

“Uh, he handcuffed you and—”

“I explained that! But of course I’m so stupid you have to define everything for me. Please teach me, Paul, because I’m an idiot. I’m so stupid I don’t know what anything is and I don’t like the right things.”

“You
didn’t
like it.”

“Thanks for that clarification.”

“What? You want to tell me you did?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Well, maybe he needs a little work on his technique.”

“
A little work on his technique?
Like the part where you screamed for him to stop and he didn’t?”

“Guess you had to be there.”

“I know what it is when a woman screams. God,
think
for a second, Alix,
think
!”

She glared at him—white hot hate. In a hoarse whisper she said, “I
am
thinking. Don’t you dare treat me like an imbecile.”

He saw it then. He’d gone too far. “I’m sorry,” Paul raised his hands. “I’m sorry. It’s a hot button for me. People made helpless against their will.”

Her gaze softened. “Why, Paul?”

He looked down. “It just does.”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly against my will. I
wanted
it to be like that.”

Paul swallowed. Of course. He could barely imagine it.

Except he could.

He forced himself to open another pack of crackers, concentrated on the crackers.

If it had been him, he would’ve taken it as a sacred responsibility that Alix would’ve even
considered
allowing him that kind of power. It would be like her saying,
I trust and accept everything in you.
For her to want and trust him like that, to accept him so completely, it would be a gift of a magnitude he could barely imagine. A gift he certainly didn’t deserve.

It would be a gift like love.

That was what she’d given to Sir Kendall. That suave, empty monster. How could she have given him that? How could she have brought him to life? Paul hated her for bringing him to life.

But there was a part of her that was really ordering him—Paul—he felt sure of it. From day one, they’d had such a fierce connection. It wasn’t just random she’d hooked into Sir Kendall. It had to be a little bit about him.

Except she’d brought Sir Kendall to life instead. It was careless. It was flattering and careless and thrilling and enraging all at once.

Why? Why had she gone for the shallow caricature? A man who, as far as she knew, ran no deeper than an extra from central casting? Didn’t she know how gorgeous she was? Didn’t she see how much more deserved? Didn’t she know a real man could love her?

Was it fear? A self-esteem thing?

Something hit his face. “Hey.”

Alix. She’d thrown a cracker wrapper at him, and now she was smiling at him from across the table. “Where’d you go? I said it’s okay. I have a hot button for being seen as an irresponsible imbecile. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Dimples. Mock-angry eyes. “Okay.”

It was amazing, the way emotions blew through her. She trod so lightly on the earth. Like a fairy. In pink hair. She was beautiful.

Just then the waitress arrived and set the entrees on front of them, and Sir Kendall strolled up and stopped behind Alix’s chair with a smile for Paul.

Paul clenched his teeth as Sir Kendall set his hands possessively upon Alix’s bare shoulders. He kissed her cheek, watching Paul all the while.

Alix pointed at his empty seat. “Dude! Dinner is served.”

Sir Kendall smiled smugly.

At him.

He knew. He knew how much Paul hated him, how he felt about Alix—no doubt Sir Kendall had suspected it for some time. Sir Kendall, expert needler, expert killer.

He was a predator of the first degree, and Alix refused to see it. The more Paul pushed her to see it, the more she refused.

And if he hadn’t acted so crazy around Sir Kendall, she might trust him more.

Paul took up his knife and fork and began sawing, seething, needing to do something other than wipe the smug smile off Sir Kendall’s face with his fists.
Be sane, be civil,
he told himself,
that’s how you help her.

It went against everything in him.

He’d always addressed problems through strength
. Tough it out. Ignore the pain
. A handy skill he’d developed due to all those years of his stepbrothers torturing him like they tortured bugs and small animals, though Paul’s torture carried less deadly results. Sometimes that had seemed like a kindness, that they let him live. Other times it had not seemed like a kindness at all. In the end, it had made him nearly unstoppable as a fighter. Impervious to pain.

And now this. A new pain. A pain he couldn’t ignore.

The pain of Alix in danger. And helping her only made it worse.

And she’d ordered the man! He needed to not be mad about that. God, the whole thing was crazy-making.

He sawed and sawed. Then he looked up, found them both staring. Sir Kendall had taken his seat.

“What do you know, they got it right,” Paul said to no one in particular. “Medium rare.” Could they see it? The raging sea inside him? He needed to present a sane front to Alix.

The waitress delivered the new drinks that Sir Kendall had ordered for them at the bar. Sir Kendall put his hand on Alix’s arm again, touching her on purpose.

Paul tried not to imagine them together, but suddenly he couldn’t stop. Sir Kendall would be a strategic, dispassionate lover, all cold technique. The ultimate ladies man. Maybe even supernatural. He’d manipulate her, he’d make her come over and over.

And it would mean nothing. He would kill her just as easily.

“Penny for your thoughts, old chap.”

Old chap.

Paul looked him straight in the eye. Sir Kendall knew damn well what he was thinking.

But Paul was getting his focus back. He could do this.
He could do it.
He let the calm spread over him. Let Sir Kendall see that he was back in control. “It’ll cost you,” Paul said, allowing the pause to stand a beat too long, “
far
more than a penny.”

Sir Kendall smiled uncertainly. “Perhaps.”

Paul let the silence stand.

“Ho-kay,” Alix said. “So lovely to see that’s been established.” She turned to Sir Kendall and asked him a question about British food, began to chat about different types of cuisine. She seemed interested in hearing him describe past dining experiences.

Paul mashed butter into his baked potato.
Sane front. Sane front.

Drycleaner Norm Feldman stopped by, just as they were finishing up dessert. “Together at last,” Norm said. “You could’ve knocked me over with a feather.” The three of them laughed merrily about the button-less shirt. Paul sipped his decaf with perfect civility.

And then came the trip home, with warm, supple, sweet, slightly tipsy Alix on his lap, soft thighs pressing down against his, and, most overwhelming of all, he could smell her. Something flowery, but not too sweet. Sometimes, when Sir Kendall took a corner, his lips came within millimeters of her shoulder, and he would close his eyes, enjoying her warmth.

How could he protect her when she was on this crazy mission to help Sir Kendall?

She needed something better than strength from him. He needed to step up in some new way. He thought about what her mother had said, about finding common ground.

Then his mind drifted back, as it so often did, to Master Veecha, a talk they’d had back when Paul’s greatest opponent was Barton, a vicious fighter who showboated after every win. And beat Paul in every fight. God, Paul hated Barton.

He could remember lying exhausted on the mat in an empty warehouse after yet another loss to Barton. Master Veecha standing over him, lighting a cigarette. For being old and wise, Veecha was a wild man who drove fast and smoked and drank too much.

Veecha had actually tossed the still-lit match down at Paul’s face on that occasion.

“Shit!” Paul had slapped it out of the air.

“You hate him,” Master Veecha said.

“You could say that.”

“You want only to be rid of him.”

“Pretty much.”

The master used to take long thoughtful drags of his cigarette and then blow the smoke out his nose. “You will never vanquish him.”

Paul had stared up at his teacher, shocked. Veecha had always believed in him. “And that’s it?” He remembered the silence. The exhaustion in his muscles. The old master sucking away.

Then, “What is your strategy, when you fight a slugger like Barton?”

“To get him on the ground as fast as possible,” Paul said.

“Why?”

“Because I’m the better grappler. My advantage is on the ground.”

“How do you take him down?”

“I already know this!”

“Answer!” Veecha had yelled.

Paul rambled about countering punches, working angles, using explosive footwork to get inside.

“Yet you could not get inside for a take-down this time. Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“You could not get inside because you fear getting hit, and that fear made you hesitate coming into the pocket.”

Paul remembered the shame rushing through him. He’d played it safe with Barton. To avoid the knockout blow.

Master Veecha strode to the mat’s edge, and took another drag on his cigarette. “You fear and hate him. Why?”

“I just do.”

Bang! Master Veecha stomped the mat, startling Paul. “Your emotions close you to him. Who is he?”

“A fighter. A jerk.”