Sealed with a Lie (24 page)

His mouth twists. He fidgets. He actually runs a hand over the back of his neck and stares out the window. Color blooms in two spots high on his cheekbones. “Because I’m fond of you.”

Fond?
Who uses words like that?

Evan Kincaid, apparently.

“Could you, um, maybe use a term from the twenty-first century?” I ask him softly. “A lowly . . . I don’t know . . .
Yank
term, maybe?”

He puts his hands on his hips, clearly exasperated and uncomfortable.

I peer up at him from under my lashes and try really hard not to smile.

“Right, then.”

Evan’s eyes have gone from smoky gray to dark blue. The way his eyes change fascinates me. I used to not trust him because of it, but now I think it’s cool.

“So.” I smooth the blankets next to me.

“So.” He takes a step forward, looking down. “A twenty-first century, Yankish word is what you want? You’re not demanding at all, are you?”

“Nope.” I wait.

He says exactly nothing.

I’ve never seen Evan Kincaid this way. He flushes bright pink. He opens and closes his mouth like a guppy.

And it’s at this moment when I realize something that maybe I should have figured out long before now: I really, really like Evan. Yes,
that
way. I can’t help it.

He’s annoying, but he’s also awesome.

He’s totally untrustworthy, but he’s always got my back.

He’s my tormentor, but he’s also my hero.

He’s unbelievably hot, but he’s got this unexpected, sweet, dorky side buried under all that muscle, all that snooty tailoring. . . .

I’m trying not to laugh again when he shouts, “What the bloody hell is wrong with
‘fond,’
anyway?”

“Nothing, Evan,” I say in soothing tones. “I’m, uh,
fond
of you, too.”

“Don’t you dare make fun of me!” he thunders, his face deepening to scarlet.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I bite my lip, hard. I really want the idiot to kiss me, but I’m not sure how to go about it, given his current mood. What would Lacey Carson do?
What would—
ugh
—Cecily Alarie do? The answer is simple: get devious.

“Evan, could you come here to help me with something? Just for a minute?”

He eyes me suspiciously. “Fine,” he mutters gracelessly. He walks over to my hospital bed.

I reach my hand out toward him.

He takes it, almost reluctantly.

I pull him down toward me. “I’m having boy trouble.”

He squints. “
What
bloody boy? Christ, did I pay thousands of dollars to fly the wrong bloke over here, then?”

I shake my head. “Well, yes,” I amend. “The right one’s already here in Austria.”

He looks puzzled for a moment. Then disgusted.
“Gustav,”
he groans. “No, really, Kari. I forbid it!
Anyone
but him—”

“You
forbid
it? Listen, Evan, who do you think you are, the king of England? You can’t dictate which guy I have trouble with! It’s
so
none of your business—” I break off, perplexed. “Well, I guess it sort of
is.
”

He stares at me like I’m the crazy person that I am.

How did this get so screwed up?

“Shut
up
, Evan,” I say.

“I wasn’t talking!”

“Never mind that.
There is this guy
,” I say loudly. “And I
really
want to kiss him right now, but I’ve had the stuffing beat out of me and I can’t reach him. Anything you might be able to do about that?”

“Oh,” says Evan. There’s a long pause. He looks a bit dazed.

Duh.
Superspies? Sometimes they’re not so bright.

I wait while he stands there like an ox. “Evan?”

“Well . . . well, but . . . why didn’t you say so?”

“I’ve been trying!”

Evan sits down on the bed next to me, still holding my hand. He keeps staring at me.

I start to wonder—I really do—if with my pulverized face and torn hair, I look so ugly that he can’t bring himself to even pity-kiss such a train wreck.

Finally
he leans forward, an expression of tenderness on his face, and covers my mouth with his. This weird electric shock runs through my whole body. This time, I know it’s not the Demerol.

It’s all Evan Kincaid.

I’m not even sure how much time has gone by when somebody bustles in the door. Somebody wearing high heels that clatter on the tile and a big cloud of French perfume. Somebody who comes to a shocked halt and makes a weird hiccup of outrage.

Evan lifts his head, and we both look into the pissed-off face of Cecily Alarie.

“I ’eard you were injured,” she says stiffly. “I come to zee ’ow you are, Kari.”
Kah-rrhee.

“Oh, très bien, vraiment bien, merci!
” I say, enjoying French for the very first time. “That’s so, um, nice of you, Cecily. But you look a little, oh, I don’t know—
green
. You feeling okay yourself? Did you not sleep well?”

“I am peerfectly fine,” she says with a huff. “And ’ow are you, Ehvahn?”

We all know that the true purpose of her visit is to see him. I’m just a convenient excuse. She’s so transparent.

“I’m peachy, Cecily. Thank you for asking. But if you could just give me a couple more minutes with my girlfriend? Then I’ll be right out. I’ve got some questions for you.”

Oh. My. God.

Evan Kincaid just called me his girlfriend.

Cecily blinks once, then twice. Then looks at me, with my swollen puffy face and torn hair and totally unglamorous hospital gown, in disbelief. Her lips tremble slightly. And then she turns on her high heels and marches out the door, forgetting to set down the vase of flowers she brought.

I cannot look at Evan, because if I do, he will see the unholy glee in my eyes. He will be able to tell that I am not a nice person, not at all.

“Kari?” he says softly.

“Huh?” I focus on smoothing the annoying crease in the sheet under my blanket and marvel that Charlie keeps sleeping through everything.

He reaches out an index finger, puts it under my chin, and forces it upward. “Look at me.”

My eyes fly up to meet his. I know I’m smirking, but I can’t help it.

“Shrew,” he says, smirking right back at me. He doesn’t think less of me at all.

We’re back in Paris, spending the rest of the holiday with the Morrows. The city lights are twinkling under a fresh
blanket of white snow, and the whole house smells of pine and Christmas cookies hot out of the oven. Rita and Matthis have been baking.

Rebecca has put on traditional holiday music, even though as the daughter of Turkish diplomats, she wasn’t raised Christian. Stefan stands off to the side pretending to conduct the orchestra as “O, Tannenbaum” plays.

Abby is clearly embarrassed by her dad’s goofiness, but I think he’s funny, with his curly hair topped by a Santa hat and cookie crumbs caught in what’s now been trimmed down to his goatee.

Kale, Charlie, and I are building a very tall gingerbread house. Evan claims to be supervising, but in reality he’s watching a movie.

Truth to tell, the gingerbread “house” is becoming a cathedral.

“We’re going to have to add flying buttresses,” Charlie informs us, looking like a wise little owl behind his horn-rims.

I squint at him. “What’s a flying butthead?”

“Very funny,” Charlie says. “It’s an architectural term. A buttress shores up an exterior wall and adds stability.”

My little brother, the encyclopedia.

So, on a large tray at the dining room table, we build a Gothic gingerbread cathedral with flying buttresses, pointed arches, and a “rose window” made out of a double-layer cookie with raspberry jam in the middle. The top layer has a star shape cut out of it.

When we finish, everyone applauds.

“Well done,” says Rebecca, twisting her hair into a knot
on top of her head and securing it with a couple of chopsticks. She looks stunning, her dark olive skin set off by a deep green cashmere sweater.

Rita takes a picture of our gingerbread masterpiece with her smart phone. “It looks like Notre Dame.” As soon as she snaps it, the round cookie falls off the facade and rolls off the tray onto the dining room table.

“It looks like lunch,” Evan says, popping the cookie into his mouth.

“Hey!” I frown at him. “You just ate the rose window.”

“Sorry,” he says, crunching down. “You can bill me for the damages.”

Matthis reaches out and snags a gumdrop “bush” from the “snowy” icing walkway. He chows on it.

“Stop! You two are a menace to gingerbread society.”

But Kale grabs a gingerbread girl standing on the cathedral steps and bites her head off. “Yum,” he says around the mouthful, grinning.

Then it’s a free-for-all. Charlie yanks off the licorice trim around the main doors.

Evan breaks off another window, this one Gothic and made out of white chocolate.

Abby and Rita pluck trees from the landscaping.

Before long, our architectural model looks as if it’s been hit by a meteor.

“You’ve all ruined your dinners,” Rebecca scolds halfheartedly.

“What, like you were planning to cook?” Abby rolls her eyes.

Rebecca looks a little sheepish. “That’s what bistros
are for. Oh, is that the telephone?” She excuses herself, glad to shift the focus away from her lack of domesticity.

Evan gently pulls me on top of him for a kiss, trying not to hurt my ribs. I’m laughing, trying—not too hard—to get away from him, when Rebecca returns looking serious. She turns off the music, and the sudden silence is grating. Just like that, our Christmas is suspended.

“Kari. Charlie.”

I slide off Evan and stand up. “Yes?”

“There’s a lead on the location of the KGB2 cell.”

The gingerbread and candy that I’ve eaten hardens into an indigestible ball in my stomach. “Oh.”

“We’re going after them. Do you and Charlie want to be part of the operation?”

Evan inhales audibly and then swears under his breath.

I can’t breathe. Do I want to hunt down my parents, confront them, and get a full explanation of what they’re up to? Of course.

Do I want them to be caught, imprisoned, and maybe worse? No, I can’t say that I do.

My eyes go to Charlie. I think about everything we’ve just been through. I think about how the Russian “doc” wanted to kill us, even though Charlie is only seven years old. Am I willing to risk his life again? Just for some answers?

My brother turns his gaze on me and sees clearly that I’m waffling. So he takes the decision out of my hands. “I’m in.”

“Charlie, it’s not up to you,” I say, trying to soften the words with a gentle tone.

He raises his chin. “It’s fifty percent up to me. They’re my parents too. And I’m
in
.”

I take a deep breath, shooting an apologetic glance to Evan, who looks pale and tense. He shakes his head and mouths the word “no.”

I turn to Rebecca. “When do you need an answer?”

She gives me a level stare. “Soon. Very soon.”

I walk to the hall closet to grab my coat and a scarf. “I need to get some air and think about it. I’ll let you know when I get back.”

She nods.

I go to the door and hesitate before pulling it open. After all, I don’t really know what’s beyond it.

None of us ever do.