Julian reaches the ambassador and dips his head slightly to speak to the older man. The ambassador nods, listening, understanding.
But will he let us go? Julian's hands are moving now. The ambassador is nodding, but his mouth is firm. It's not going to work.
Julian, his cheeks flushed, turns back to look at me. I let all the symptoms of my shock show, let my eyes meet his, let them be glassy and slightly confused.
Lips firming, Julian turns back to the ambassador for one more try. The older man shakes his white head, and Julian gives a sharp and frustrated nod before turning back to me.
"Sorry," he says when he reaches where I stand. "He won't let us leave, but promises that the police will speak to you first."
"This is terrible," I say, my hand rising to my neck.
Julian gives that firm nod again before pulling out a chair. Ah, it's mine. This is where we were sitting. There is my purse. I gently lower myself into the seat and reach out to take the glass of water. My eyes fall on Vladimir's empty seat as I sip it.
What happened to the champagne glass?
Will there be any trace in it?
The band begins to play again. Nobody dances. Julian keeps a protective arm over the back of my seat. What would he say if he knew? He probably wouldn't believe me.
I can hardly believe it myself.
The salad plates are cleared as the other diners, who had been milling near the stage, return to our table. A middle-aged woman with fine lines around her eyes and pink rouge on her cheeks leans across the table, ducking her head between the giant flower arrangement to find me and offer a sympathetic smile. "I'm so sorry. That must have been terrifying."
I nod.
"I'm sure he'll be okay," she says.
I lean forward. "You think so?" I ask.
She nods forcefully. "Seizures are rarely actually dangerous or deadly. He probably has epilepsy or something like that. This could be totally normal for him."
"Then why would they call the police, dear?” asks the man sitting next to her, his voice accented and condescending.
"Dotting t’s and crossing i’s,” she responds archly, not looking at him. Waiters start bringing us the soup course.
The husband does not respond verbally, and I can’t see his face through the flowers, only his hands. He picks up his spoon and starts to eat the soup. The clinking of silver on china rises up, and the room begins to relax. The waiters move through the space, filling wine glasses, and the guests drink with a new sense of urgency.
Julian points to his own glass, and it fills with dark Burgundy wine. Then he points to mine. I shake my head. "I'm not feeling well," I say.
"Please bring her a brandy," Julian says to the waiter, who nods before moving off.
"I don't think I can drink right now," I say to Julian, low so that only he can hear.
"It's good for shock," he replies, leaning toward me. “At least that's what my grandmother always said." He gives me an intimate smile, and I return it with a small curl of my own lips. But I can't get the emotion, the humor he is trying to breathe into the air, up to my eyes. "Don't worry," he says. "I'll stay with you."
"Thank you," I say.
"I'm sure it's totally customary to do an investigation in a situation like this. But she"—he tips his head toward the woman across the way—"is probably right that he has a known condition."
I just nod.
There is a disturbance in the flow of conversation, and our gazes track with the rest of the crowds to the ballroom entrance, where a group of uniformed Chinese police are filing in. The ambassador is by the door, speaking with a man in plain clothes while the officers begin to move through the space.
The ambassador points in my direction, and Julian stands up. I take a deep breath. Here we go.
They take us to the consul general’s private study on the second floor. It's decorated in dark wood with leather-bound books, just what you would expect. That sense of cliché washes over me again.
The detective is a middle-aged man with deep pouches under his eyes which make him look exhausted. However, his eyes are sharp and bright.
"Ms. Angela Daniels," the detective says, his accent slight.
"That's my stage name," I answer as I take the seat he indicates. It's a comfortable arm chair meant for enjoying some of the books around me, not to be questioned by police.
The detective takes a seat across from me, and Julian stands next to my chair like some kind of sentry. "Please, sir,” the detective says. "Sit." He waves his hand at a chair nearby but outside our intimate circle. Julian lets out a small sound of protest but does as asked.
"My name is Choi Sang," the detective says. "The ambassador says that you were dancing with Vladimir Petrov when he fell ill."
I nod. "Yes, he seemed fine until he wasn't..." My voice trails off, as if I'm lost in the memory, and I look down at my hands, a tear forming in the corner of my eye.
"How long had you known Mr. Petrov?" Choi asks me.
"I only met him tonight." I bring my eyes up to meet his; they are dark, the pupil and iris almost the same color. "He told me he was a fan."
"Yes," Julian piped up. "Said he'd arranged to be at our table. It happens in our business sometimes."
Choi nods. "I'm sure, but Mr. Petrov was not your average ardent fan."
"What do you mean?" Julian asks.
Choi does not respond, instead he keeps his eyes on me. "So, you just met him tonight, and what was your impression of him?”
I give a slight shrug, my bare shoulders catching the man's attention more than the rise and fall of my cleavage. Interesting. "He seemed fine. I'm not sure what you mean."
"Mr. Petrov was a very powerful man."
"Was?" I say, my throat going dry. I don't need to fake the choked tone of my voice. "Is he..." I swallow, cutting off my sentence.
Choi's mouth pulls down into a frown. He didn't mean to give away any information about Vladimir’s condition.
"Jesus, man," Julian says, running a hand through his hair. I turn to see him perched on the edge of his chair, dark hair tousled in a sexy bouffant of stress and seriousness. "Can't you give us a straight answer?"
"I'm here to ask the questions." Choi says, his voice edging on annoyed.
"We are not criminals," Julian says. "This has been a very hard evening for Angela."
I hold up a hand, and he presses his lips together. "I'm okay, but I would like to go back to my hotel. This is upsetting, obviously. Do you have any other questions?" I lower my hand to my lap, placing it on my purse, careful to keep my grip loose.
There is a part of me that wants to open it and pass this detective the ring, to spill my guts. It's strange. Similar to the sensation I get when standing on the top of a building—the completely repressible but still there urge to hurl myself over the edge. Just to feel what it would be like to fall.
"How much longer are you in Shanghai?" Choi asks.
"Just tomorrow." I look to Julian to make sure I'm right about that. He nods in agreement.
"That's the end of our press junket,” he says.
"I may have a few more questions for you.” Choi reaches into his coat and pulls out a card. "In the meantime, if you think of anything, please call."
"Think of anything?" Julian says, his voice incredulous. "She's not a doctor. What is she going to think of?"
"Maybe she saw someone put something in his drink," Choi says, his voice low, his eyes staying focused on me.
I let my jaw drop in shock.
“You think someone poisoned him?" Julian asks, his voice a high whisper.
Choi stands, dismissing us.
I take a moment to pull myself together—or at least appear to do so. I'm ready to flee, Cinderella style—just pick up my skirts and run, leaving not even a glass slipper behind. But I take a moment to slip his card into my purse, to bring tears into my gaze. "I'm very sorry this happened to him," I say. "I hope he recovers." I meet Choi's eyes and watch sympathy slowly en
ter his expression.
A beautiful woman on the verge of tears is hard to resist, even for the most hardened of men. As I rise, I tip forward, pressing my breasts against the dress so that they are lifted and on display for him. When I peek from under my lashes I see him watching them. He is just a man.
I give a small nod goodbye and then turn to Julian, who is waiting for me. He takes my elbow, his long fingers warm on my bare skin. "I'll get you back to the hotel," he says.
"Thank you.” I duck my head, all scared, sad woman in need of defense. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.
The night is warm, but I am chilled. Julian slips off his jacket and wraps it around my shoulders as the black car pulls to the curb. I climb into the back. "Straight to the hotel," Julian tells the driver.
"Yes, sir."
I lean my head against the seat and close my eyes.
Julian is tense next to me. I turn to him, opening my eyes. "You okay?" I ask.
He lets out a sharp laugh. "Me? I'm fine."
"You seem tense."
"I am. That was intense."
"Yes, it was." I rest my head back again but keep my gaze on Julian. The lights of the city flash across his flawless features as we move through the metropolis.
"You were very brave," he tells me.
I flutter my lashes and glance away, feigning shyness. "Thank you, but I didn't do anything."
"You didn't scream with hysterics." Crap, maybe I should have. "I'm sorry that happened to you."
"I'm more worried about him," I say, looking up at Julian, pouring sympathy into my gaze. "Do you think he's dead?”
Julian breaks eye contact to look out the window before answering. "I don't know. What causes a seizure like that? Epilepsy? I don't know what else." He turns back to me. "I'm not a doctor…haven't even played one on TV." He gives me a weary smile, and I return it.
"You'd make a very handsome doctor."
His smile grows, and he drops his eyes to the seat between us, playing coy. But we both know that we are some of the best-looking people on the planet. That's how we ended up in the back of this luxury car. For whatever talent we have, there is a genetic component to the placement of our features, the coloring of our skin and eyes, the quality of our hair, that has brought us as far as any ability to pretend.
"I think mothers would be much happier to meet me if I was a doctor. No one wants their daughter dating an actor."
I wrinkle my nose. "They can't be trusted, you know. Fakers, every last one of them."
He lets out a rich laugh that zings right through me. I'm suddenly starving for touch, affection, and oblivion. I don't want to fake anything else tonight.
My gaze drops to Julian's hands…long-fingered, elegant. I don’t think I’d have to fake anything with him.
When I bring my eyes back to meet his, Julian cocks his head. I let the heat in my center roll up into my gaze, burning away all the questions and strangeness of this evening.
"Angela." His voice is low, not a question so much as a statement. He’s been waiting for this.
I give him a coy smile, not fake. Nothing else will be fake tonight.
He walks me to my door, and I unlock and push it open, strolling in. Julian follows, not needing a verbal invitation. Tossing my purse onto the entry table, and slipping out of his jacket, I turn to him. He stalks toward me, the playful gentlemen replaced by a hungry predator.
The intent in his gaze sends a shiver over me, and I bare my throat, tilting my chin up. Take me. Take me away.
My back hits the wall, and I put my hands against it, letting him push up to me. No words are exchanged. We don't need them anymore. We've spent the last six weeks dancing around this—the inevitable.
His hand touches my waist, gentle and almost tentative except for the desire in his eyes, which have gone deep ocean blue in the dim room.
Julian lowers his head and brushes his lips to mine. I close my eyes, the glittering sparkles of darkness waiting for me, promising oblivion. My hands stay against the wall, feeling its cool smoothness as he kisses me. His tongue caresses my lips, and I open for him.
We've kissed before—under the lights, with the director coordinating each stroke of Julian’s hand, every one of my whimpers. Julian has touched my breasts before, caressed along the sides…wrapped his hand into my hair.
But never alone.
Never for real.
Never not pretend.
I take a breath, and he smiles against my lips. “Do you know how long I've wanted to do this?” he asks.
My hands come up to wrap around his neck, pressing myself against him in answer. He pulls me closer. Our bodies align, the silk of my dress rasping against the fine cotton of his shirt as he pushes me up against the wall again—steadying me, the better to kiss me, to invade me.
I let out a moan. It doesn't sound like the whimpers of pleasure my character made. It is the satisfaction of a predator’s hunger easing, not the relief of a victim’s fear receding.
His hand finds my zipper and traces it down my back, loosening the dress’s hold on my body, spilling me out against him.
My fingers find the button at his throat.
The dress slips between us, falling to my waist; his thumbs push it over my hips, following to cup my ass, pulling me up. Free now of the dress, my legs come around his waist, and I'm pressed even harder against the wall. Oh yes.
His hands are not disappointing me.
Soon there will be no me. Only sensation.
I give myself over to the experience, to the realness. I force my mind to stay here, in my body, where all the pleasure is sizzling, where all the excitement is brewing, where all the anticipation is boiling.
His shirt comes off, and then we are bare skin to bare skin…again. But this time for real.
Julian pulls me forward, and our lips break as he begins to carry me through the suite. His is the same as mine; he knows the layout and strides to the bedroom.
I dip my mouth to his neck, running my tongue along his jaw. God, he's gorgeous.
My hands rub over his shoulders, exploring the hard, defined muscle. It sends chills of anticipation racing over me, through me.
Why did I wait so long to do this? Don’t think about the reasons.
He lays me down on the bed, crawling over me, his eyes intent, genuine…a sweetness behind the hunger. He does not want to hurt me. Just devour me.
Exposing my throat again, I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him forward, forcing him close. Begging with my body for him to take away the thinking, the worrying, the faking—to leave me nothing but physical sensation and satisfied need.
His hands run over my naked flesh, finding the cup of my strapless bra and pulling me free. His mouth finds me, and I gasp in pleasure even as my fingers desperately reach for his waistband.
I need all of him.
He growls, a sound so sexy that it vibrates right through me, and I moan again.
The button gives, and I use my feet to peel the pants down to his knees. He kicks a few times, and they are gone. He rises up for a moment to pull his shirt off his arms. I chew on my fingernail as I watch him.
Julian grins at seeing me staring at his chest. "You're gorgeous," I say.
"You're the gorgeous one." He leans back down. "And not just here," he says, placing a quick peck on my lips. "But here too." He places a slow, steady kiss on my forehead.
Crap, he really likes me.
My heart pounds harder.
Or he's a great actor.
Could we ever truly trust each other?
He brings his lips back to mine, and I close my eyes, slipping deeper into him, into his smell, focusing on everywhere we touch. Focusing all of me on us, so as to escape me…the woman who dropped a poison pill into a stranger’s drink and then danced with him as he died.
Chapter Nine
Julian falls asleep afterwards, his arm over my waist, chest pressed to my back—intimate and stifling.
I wriggle free and go t
o the bathroom, ignoring the mirror and turning on the shower instead. As the water rumbles in the stall, I put my hand under it, waiting for the warmth to come.
My body is slack and satisfied. There is the perfect ache between my thighs. I step under the water, and it sluices over me as memories of Julian's touch reawakens the hunger he just satisfied.
Last night’s two very different experiences appear to be linked: Vladimir's fall and my hunger for Julian.
Power—there is something about power here.
I soap my hands and run them up and down my breasts, bringing myself back to a place of starvation. If I keep this up, I'll have to wake Julian. He won't mind. He'll love it.
I'm smiling under the spray.
Shouldn't I feel guilty? Or afraid?
But I don't.
When I get out I wrap myself in a towel and return to the bedroom. Julian is still asleep, his arms spread wide, his legs apart, a satisfied smile on his face.
Dropping the towel, I climb back onto the bed and pull down the sheets, exposing his naked body. Goosebumps rise as the cool air graces his skin.
Power courses through me. He is at my mercy.
Admiring the muscles cording his thighs and waist, I take a tentative lick. He mutters and jumps a little but does not wake. I move closer to him, positioning my knees under me, and lick closer to his belly button. He thrusts his crotch up, and I glance at his face to find his eyes still closed, though his breathing is growing rapid.
I move slowly south, Julian rising to meet me.
By the time I wrap my mouth around him, he jerks into awareness. "Oh God," he says, his hands coming up to my hair. "Jesus, what..."
I look up to find his eyes boring into mine. I smile around him and take control.
I am powerful. I am running this world.
His head flops back onto the pillow—he knows it. And he likes it.
A Spy Is Born Page 9
