Ultimate Weapon (9 page)

Rosalia nodded toward the cookies. “Enjoy,” she said. “Next time I do the caramel leche cookies. You try, you like for sure, hmm?”

Tam winced inwardly. She’d created a monster. “Tomorrow then.”

Rosalia clumped down the stairs, humming cheerfully. Tam stared at the cookie in her hand. It seemed to stare back, smug and impassive.

Oh, what the fuck. She was destined to die anyhow. She took a bite, chewed. Sugar fireworks went off in her brain. Wow.

She chewed it very slowly and realized with surprise that she was genuinely curious to see just how handsome and charismatic a guy had to be to dazzle a woman as gooey-in-love with her husband as Erin was. He had to have some mojo. He probably thought he was God incarnate, which was a big freaking bore. Or else he was a merciless hired killer engaged to take her out. Which was much more interesting, but a big, fat, dating disadvantage. And mortal danger tended to be a sexual turnoff. She took another bite of deadly bliss, staring down at the card. Janos. Hungarian, maybe. If the name was real, which was doubtful.

She realized she was smiling at the irony of it. Demure little Erin, earnest girl nerd, trying to fix her up. Trying to get her laid, of all crazy things. Hah. Cute. Misguided, wrong-headed, insane…but very cute.

She tossed it into her mouth, wallowed in the sugar orgasm, let the buttery, sugary sexuality surrogate melt on her astonished tongue.

Huh. Go figure. She felt…inexplicably better. Scary, that.

The only way to know for sure if her current identity was truly compromised would be to suss the guy out, do her X-ray eyes routine on him. Men were easy to read, particularly for her. A few well-placed words to strip them bare, cross section them, and the thing was done.

After all. She’d hate to throw away everything she and Rachel had here out of sheer paranoia. She would have to be careful, but hey. She’d always liked risk. Though she could no longer afford to like it, not with Rachel to factor into the mix. She reached for another cookie.

It might even be kind of entertaining to cut this guy down to size.

V
al stepped into the building that housed Shibumi, an exclusive private dining club, and gave his name to the security personnel at the desk, secretly vibrating with unprofessional excitement while they called up to see if he was expected. They verified that he was and he proceeded up to the sixteenth floor. Shibumi was the meeting place stipulated by Tamara Steele on the computer bulletin board, the only way she would deign to communicate with him after her initial phone call the day before. She had posted the meeting location a half hour before. A cautious woman.

He still could not believe his luck.

He wrestled his mind back into matrix mode. Cool, detached, and watchful. He must not betray himself by demonstrating urgency or fear. He couldn’t even think about Imre, sitting slump-shouldered and alone in a dark, locked cell. Or about what could happen to the child in Novak’s hands. Or the fate that awaited Tam Steele if he carried out his mission. The things he’d seen, in Novak’s underground chamber.

Things that still haunted him.

Don’t.
He pushed the memories aside. Tonight’s job was simplicity itself. Buy Imre more time until he could think of a fucking plan. That was all. Tonight, he was a rich Roman entrepreneur, on a mission for profit. A confirmed playboy who loved wine, women and money. All he had to do was charm her…and seduce her. On film. Hah. Easy.

He would deal with all the rest of it one fucking minute at a time.

He had identified a short list of priorities as a basic framework to work from. One, keep Imre in one piece. Two, keep the child far from the action. Three, spare the woman. Four, stay alive himself, if at all possible. If not,
pazienza.
He died. So what? He hadn’t really expected to live all that long anyway.

The elevator opened onto an elegant, tasteful room decorated with Japanese paneling and screens. He informed the impassive Asian man behind the desk of his appointment. The man picked up the phone, murmured into it in Japanese. Moments later, two tall, very broad men came out. One was fair and one was dark. He recognized them both from the surveillance cameras he had mounted outside the McClouds’ homes. The blond man was Davy McCloud, the dark one was Nick Ward.

Their muscular bodies were dressed in surprisingly good suits, discreetly tailored to make room for their shoulder holsters. They had the requisite flat, watchful look of security personnel on their faces.

“Mr. Janos?” said McCloud. “Come with us, please.”

McCloud led the way, while Ward fell into place behind him. Val had been surprised to hear the man pronounce his name correctly. Yah-nosh. They returned to the elevator, and proceeded to the next floor, which evidently housed the private dining rooms. A key card opened one of the doors. A small, paneled anteroom had a closet for his coat. The security men watched him while he hung it up.

“Ms. Steele does not want to meet with anyone carrying a weapon,” McCloud said.

Val thought about that for a moment. “Ironic,” he murmured.

The man’s expression did not change. He waited.

“Will she abide by the same terms?” Val asked.

The two men glanced at each other and shrugged. “Not our business,” said Ward. “Ask her yourself. See what she says.”

“You’re free to leave, if you don’t like it,” McCloud added.

He crouched and pulled the knife out of his ankle sheath. It was just as well that he’d left the pistol, considering it out of character for a wealthy businessman. He’d figured that the knife was an accessory that any man abroad in an unfamiliar foreign city might choose. He felt naked without it. But his hands and feet were weapons themselves after years of intensive training in various martial arts disciplines.

McCloud took his knife. Ward stepped up, gesturing for him to lift his arms. “Excuse me,” he said, sounding far from apologetic.

Val submitted to a thorough pat down. “Do you two work for the club or for Ms. Steele personally?”

“We do our job,” Ward said. “We don’t talk about it.”

Fair enough. McCloud opened a door to an adjoining room, and gestured for him to enter. It was large, candlelit, a table positioned next to a floor-to-ceiling window with a spectacular view of the evening cityscape and the expanse of Elliott Bay.

“Wait here,” Ward said. “Ms. Steele will be in when she’s ready.”

The door clicked shut behind him. Val looked around at the beautifully appointed room. On one side was a long conference table with chairs around it. Against the opposite wall was a lavishly stocked bar, a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice, a bowl of fruit, a crystal carafe of water, an assortment of glasses. The beige carpet woven of sand-grass had a suble, complex pattern and a sweet, earthy scent. Low, intimate chairs faced each other over the dining nook. It seemed a spot for a lovers’ tryst, not a business meeting.

He wondered at the choice of place. Probably for the privacy, the controlled atmosphere. Ease of monitoring entrances and exits.

He wondered if he was being watched, and sat on the urge to look around for the surveillance equipment. If these people were as professional as they appeared, he would not find it, and he would reveal too much about himself by searching. Val Janos, the pampered Roman
uomo d’affare
, was not paranoid. He had no reason not to simply pour himself a drink, sit down, and enjoy the view.

Val did exactly that, but he let his foot tap with the jittery impatience of a rich man not accustomed to being kept waiting. It was not good to seem overly controlled, either. That, too, was incongruous.

He stared out at the city lights and added data to the matrix. Watched it shift and turn as he prepared his mind to take in more. To observe all, forget nothing.

The door opened. The anteroom beyond was brighter than the room he was in, and Steele was poised in the door with her face in shadow, backlit for maximum effect. Her slender, gracefully curved body was clothed in black, sinuous as a cat. She held a large leather case. He’d asked her to bring a wide range of designs.

He rose to his feet as she walked in. She gave him a brief nod of greeting, turned to lay her case upon the large conference table, and crossed the room toward him with that loose, feline gait that had fascinated him on the video footage.

She stared into his face. The matrix flashed, sparked and melted in his mind into soup under her direct, unflinching gaze.

He kept a bland smile on his face as he regrouped. He hadn’t been prepared for the physical effect of her upon his senses.

The sheer, raw, electric force of her. He was buzzing, breathless.

Her costume was elegantly simple. Snug black trousers, gleaming, spike-heeled black boots and a tailored black silk blouse, to set off a dazzling array of collars, pendants, earrings. Her hands were loaded with rings, her wrists with bracelets. Her hair was slicked back with gel, plastered to her head and twisted into an intricate knot, which was stabbed through by cruelly sharp sticks, adorned with a snarl of silver and obsidian beadwork. The look was severe and striking.

Her gaze did not waver. His heart quickened. His cock stirred.

Don’t
, he told himself. His dick had no say in this.
Detach.
Three steps back. Seduction yes, but controlled seduction.

Her face was both flawless and unique. Elegant bone structure, each feature bordering on perfection; her lips lush and full and yet delicate in a way that bee-stung silicone lips could never be. The jut of her cheekbone was echoed by the sweep of her eyebrows. Her piercing eyes were huge, tilted at the corners. Her lashes were long and curling.

Hazel green. Not her original color. His lust to know their real color startled him. She wore no makeup on her fine-grained, flawless skin, and needed none. Just a slick of colorless gloss on her lips.

“Mr. Janos.” She also pronounced his name correctly. Her voice was low, husky, but intensely feminine, full of rich colors, spices, smoky sweet overtones. It went straight to his groin, like a bold caress.

“Ms. Steele.” He held out his hand. She hesitated, just long enough to make him consider dropping it, but instinct prodded him to persevere.

She took it, finally. Her skin was soft and smooth. The chilly, textured hard metal of her jewelry was a sharp contrast. A shock of electric awareness shot up his arm from the physical contact, zinging through his nerves, making lights flash, bells ring inside him.

She felt it, too. He sensed her sudden stillness, the way her smile tightened. He released her hand reluctantly. The silence between them felt suddenly awkward, too long. Charged with meaning.

“Would you prefer to conduct our conversation in Italian, Signor Janos?” she asked him, in flawless Italian. “We could, if it would be more comfortable for you. It’s all the same to me.”

Interesting that she would let him choose the language. He could sense her mind-set shifting in a way that wasn’t American at all. Very civilized, very European. Concealing far more than she would ever reveal.

“I am tempted,” he replied in the same tongue. “Italian sounds beautiful on your lips. I usually prefer English for business. I appreciate its clarity. For pleasure, however, perhaps later…?” He let his voice trail off suggestively. Let his eyes gleam with discreet hunger.

“English, then,” she said crisply. “I see you have already made yourself comfortable.” Her eyes flicked to his whiskey glass.

He acknowledged the subtle slap-down with a rueful smile. “May I get you a drink?” he asked. “I chose the Macallan.”

“You are a connoisseur, then. The Macallan is a favorite of mine, too. Mr. Takuda put it out for me especially.”

He seized a tumbler. “Straight up?”

“Of course,” she murmured.

He was grateful to have a moment with his back turned, to collect himself. A few seconds of relative privacy to get the matrix reestablished, the data feed started back up. He had a method. A good one. Stick to it,
testa di cazzo. Detach.

He handed her the glass. Candlelight sparkled on her rings and bracelets, off the cut crystal tumbler, the amber swirl of liquid, the bright awareness in her eyes. She lifted the glass to her lips.

He dragged his eyes away. He was sweating, for the love of God. His collar tight, his face hot. This was absurd.

He stared down at her hands and nodded at their glittering load. “A one-woman arsenal, I assume?”

Her lips curved. His lungs suddenly stopped working, his heart speeding up. Her smile was a weapon in itself, spiced with danger and challenge, hinting at unheard-of delights. “I enjoy the feeling of a secret advantage,” she said. “It is the spirit behind all of my designs.”

“They are beautiful,” he conceded. “
Complimenti.
Forgive me if this is an invasive question, but do you never create a beautiful thing just for beauty’s sake alone?”

She sipped, her eyelashes mysteriously lowered. “Never. And besides, dangerous secrets are beautiful. Don’t you think?”

He thought about that. “They can be, I suppose,” he said dubiously. “It depends on the secret. And your point of view.”

She smiled. “And what is your point of view, Mr. Janos?”

He lifted his glass to her in a silent toast. “That of a man whose lone secret weapon was confiscated by your security staff,” he said.

“Ah. That.” She tilted her head to the side, amusement gleaming in her eyes. “Did the boys alarm you? They are very protective. Touchingly so. But I hardly consider you defenseless.”

“No?” He swirled the liquor in his glass and inhaled the rich, complex smell of it. “With such deadly beauty, so many dangerous secrets massed against me?”

“No. The way you move says it all,” she said. “Shaking your hand confirmed it. The enlarged knuckle joints and the calluses on your first and second finger are those of an experienced judoka. And your hands are electric, Mr. Janos. You are accustomed to channeling vital energy with them. You are an experienced martial artist with a high level of interdisciplinary training.”

He was startled into a split second of blankness, but rallied quickly. “I do enjoy martial arts for exercise and recreation,” he said. “And I belong to a martial arts club near my home in Rome. But I would not presume to call myself a master. And I miss my knife.”

“Your knife, I think, is overkill.”

He injected a calculated hint of seduction into his smile. “I like overkill,” he said softly, letting let his gaze drop to the tangle of complicated jewelry at her cleavage. “And so do you, I think.”

She conceded this with a brief nod.

“I am tempted to procure some of your dangerous secrets for myself,” he said. “To combat my male insecurity.”

“Bullshit,” she said softly. “You do not have a single insecure bone in your body, Mr. Janos.”

He blinked. “Ah. Thank you…I think.”

“Don’t thank me,” she said. “It was not a compliment, just an observation. And in any case, I do not design jewelry for men. Ever. It is against all my principles.” Her smile turned predatory.

He knew when to back off. “Of course. I was surprised at your security procedures. Was all this elaborate choreography necessary?”

She lifted her shoulders. “Who knows? I never do. Hence my caution.” Her smile widened. “Welcome to my world.”

“I am honored, to have penetrated even the outermost defences.”

Her eyes flickered. “
Che galantuomo
,” she murmured. “Erin told me about your old world charm.”

“I try to please,” he said. “Are you immune to charm, Ms. Steele?”

Her smile tightened. “We shall see, hmm?”

He had evidently overstepped his bounds by flirting with her. Val Janos allowed himself to be cowed.

“Excuse me for getting straight to business, but would you show me the torque that you showed to Erin?” she asked. “Before we begin, it makes sense to verify that it really is one of my designs.”

“Of course.” He opened his case and lay the flat black leather case on the conference table. Steele flicked it open and gazed down at it.

Her head was inches beneath his face. The mingled scents of her perfume and her hair gel tickled his nose. The coils of her hair were gleaming and slick as varnished mahogany, gelled sternly into submission. No wisps allowed. Part of her armor.