The Kiss Plot: Book Two of the Quicksilver Trilogy

by French, Nicole

  “Fuck,” he said.

  “Sir?”

  Keeping Penny clasped against his chest, he leaned over and pulled the pregnancy test out of the garbage.

  Two pink lines. One, then the other.

  Eric’s chest heaved, and he rocked the dead girl back and forth in time with the pounding shakes of his body.

  “Oh, God,” he cried over and over again. A siren wailed in the distance. “Please, God. No.”

  * * *

  Eric awoke gasping, like he was underwater, drowning in that sea of red all over again. He sucked in a deep breath, then another, but nothing calmed the wrenching stab in his chest. Fucking hell. Penny. He hadn’t dreamed like that in years.

  Sweat ran in rivulets down his brow. The air felt thick, almost liquid. He was hot despite the cool mid-December weather in Florence and the fact that the flat he and Jane were renting near the San Lorenzo market seemed to have absolutely no insulation. Winter was coming in Tuscany, but he felt like he was trapped in a sauna.

  Eric pushed down the comforter, careful not to disturb Jane. Beside him, she slept, her face relaxed into porcelain perfection. Eric watched her, willing his breath to fall in time with her own. And slowly, it did. So strange, really, that a woman who drove him as crazy as this one was also the key to maintaining his sanity.

  Two days. They had two more days before they had to leave again. He didn’t like to stay anywhere more than a few days, maybe a week at most, which, combined with the fact that he was reluctant to spend money in ways that would call attention, meant that he and Jane had basically been living like college-aged nomads for close to a month.

  First had been London, where they had used an underground friend of Brandon’s to get them fake passports. They’d escaped on the earliest flight out of Logan in the dead of night, arrived in the U.K. at close to one p.m., and moved on to the continent a few days later, sticking to ground transportation where possible. Paris, then Fountainebleau, where Eric had taken his frustrations out on the rock while Jane meandered the markets. After that, it had been down to Toulouse, followed by Nice and Monaco. From there, they took a flight to the south of Italy, moving their way up the boot and enjoying the sunshine until they rented a room in Florence from a landlady who liked cash better than real names.

  For the first time in his life, Eric regretted not being closer to his family, if only to have a better idea of whom he could trust. And for the first time since her death, he truly missed his grandmother. The old woman wasn’t warm, but she had been shrewd enough that Eric liked to think she could have out-schemed John Carson. She would have understood what he really wanted out of this cat-and-mouse game he was playing. And then she would have known how to box the fucker into a corner, wrap him up, and send him on his damn way.

  But Celeste was gone, and Eric still didn’t even know all of the company’s resources. He had been learning the ropes over the past six months, sure, but the tiny, unspoken rules were the hard part. Which cabinet members’ loyalties lay where, which senator owed favors for which PAC donations, which comptroller could be bought, and which had to play it straight. And on and on and on. For a company like DVS, these kinds of alliances weren’t just limited to New York City or even the United States. They spanned the damn globe. Sometimes Eric had a feeling he would never really learn these intricate parts of the job because he should have picked them up his entire life. The way a true heir would.

  And so, also for the first time in his life, he wished he hadn’t walked away from his family’s legacy. Because it took more than a bank account to fight someone like John Carson. It took generations of knowledge, passed on between trusted advisors and a dynasty. Much more than a couple of former lawyers and a smattering of friends battling a network of spies they weren’t even sure existed.

  The other problem was that they would stick out nearly anywhere just by virtue of their own differences. They had no real shelter from the storm. Jane had suggested staying in Northern Europe for a while, where Eric would blend in with the tall, blond Vikings. Jane, unfortunately, would not. They could do the opposite and go somewhere in East Asia, but then it would be Eric who would stand out.

  “Besides,” Jane said as she knocked down that idea too, “most Koreans would know I’m mixed anyway, and definitely that I’m American.”

  For that reason, they had decided to stick to large metropolitan areas—more diversity meant more opportunities to fit in. London, a huge melting pot of culture, had been a good fit for the first two days until Eric had received a telegram from Boston informing them that Carson knew they were missing, and TSA informants had told him where they’d gone. So, London was short-lived, because there was no way in hell Eric was going to sit around waiting for Carson to truck him back to that hurt locker.

  Jane’s eyes opened, and before she turned, Eric took a moment to observe the multitude of color in their depths. Hazel—green and brown and yellow and gray, flecked together in a perfect collage. Jane’s eyes often reminded Eric of the Klimt paintings she loved so much. The gold freckles around her irises glimmered like the leaf technique.

  Jane turned, sensing she was being watched. “Well, hello there,” she murmured sleepily. There was still a slight smudge of makeup rimming her eyes, giving them a smokier allure than usual.

  Paris. Carcassonne. Naples. Florence. It didn’t seem to matter where they went. They always woke up like this. Wanting.

  Eric remained silent for a few more seconds, enjoying the clear pleasure Jane took with his body as she trailed a hand up and down his torso. It was fair, after all—he enjoyed hers too. Amid the chaos of the last few weeks, this had become something of a morning ritual. Sometimes—okay, most of the time—those gentle touches turned into quite a bit more. But they were a constant, like they were making up for those few weeks they were forced to stay apart—maybe even the years they had lost by their own accord before that.

  “Will you ever grow bored of me?” he wondered just as her hand started to drift downward, chasing the ridges of his abdominals. She took her time in between his chest muscles and over his abdomen. Jane could make fun of his climbing habit all she liked, but she seemed to like the end results.

  She squinted to see him clearly. She was nearsighted, so he wouldn’t be too blurry without her glasses. The expression was more out of confusion.

  “I don’t know. It’s about as likely as you getting bored with me, I guess.”

  She looked back up at the ceiling. Eric tapped her cheek, and she turned back to him.

  “Never,” he said softly. “Not in the last eight years. Not in a hundred more.”

  A small, shy smile flickered on her face, then was replaced by one with more bravado. “Well, good,” she said, popping over to smack a kiss on his lips. “That’s settled then. No one is bored. And no one will be.” She looked him over more critically. “I’ll tell you what, though. I will get sick of that god-awful hair. I already am.”

  Eric picked at a strand of his dyed hair. He would admit—the black didn’t suit him particularly well. But it had seemed a smart precaution to take in a part of the world where nearly everyone had dark hair.

  “You don’t like it?” he asked.

  “You look like Edward Cullen,” Jane said. When Eric tilted his head questioningly, she rolled her eyes. “A sparkle-skinned teen whose testicles didn’t fall before he turned into the undead. It’s not all bad. He reignited the sexual desires of an awful lot of middle-aged women.”

  He balked. “Just because of the hair, I’m a sparkly teenager?”

  Jane shrugged. “Eh. Maybe. I’m not feeling particularly generous. It’s too cold to be nice.”

  Before she could continue her ribbing, he rolled over her and stopped that line of thought in its tracks with a kiss. Suddenly he needed to feel her body, still naked from last night, wrapped around him like a vine.

  He needed to feel safe.

  The thought, ironically, made him feel even less so.

  The sun turne
d a corner around one of the buildings, and suddenly the light slashed across Jane’s face through the blinds.

  Eric froze. “Fuck.”

  “What is it?”

  He shook his head and pushed off her. “I—nothing. I’m just not in the mood.”

  This happened sometimes. In certain lights. Certain strobes or flashes, when they hit Jane’s face in the right way, took him right back to that room.

  Jane sat up, her long dark hair falling over her shoulder in ribbons. She had gone all the way back to black and had taken to straightening it. (“Anyone looking will think I’m a Japanese tourist.”)

  “No,” she said gently. “I don’t think so. You tried this crap last night too. What’s going on?”

  Eric picked up a strand and twirled it around his finger, enjoying her natural, more unruly wave after she fell asleep with it wet. He loved the way no part of Jane ever seemed to be able to conform completely.

  “Bad dreams,” he mumbled, avoiding her gaze.

  She examined him for another long minute, like she was trying to decipher his thoughts. And then her mouth found his, and Eric was done thinking at all. His head fell back into the pillow, and now both of his hands found their way into her hair when she moved down his body. Fucking hell, the woman had a mouth that could turn the Pope from celibacy, and she was working magic with it under the sheets.

  “That’s better,” she said once she’d brought him twice to the point of no return only to pull away.

  With some effort, Eric managed to lift his head. “You minx. Finish the damn job, will you?”

  “Well, that’s not very gracious.”

  That cocky smile appeared. She wasn’t wearing her lipstick, but her mouth was still reddened, slightly swollen from her efforts. Eric wanted to bite it.

  “Come here,” he ordered.

  The smile widened. “In a minute.”

  She slid up the rest of him like a snake, taking the time to tease him with her parts—the brush of her hair over his hips, the tickle of hardened nipples across his chest, the drag of her snatch over his swollen tip. He bounced at that contact, and Jane smiled as she sat astride him. He usually preferred to be the one in charge, but for a moment, he liked seeing her like this, under the illusion that she could be in control.

  Ah, fuck. Who was he kidding? Jane had been in control of him since he’d met her.

  “Am I going to have to cuff you?” she asked when he jerked at the feel of her sheathing him, inch by inch.

  His gaze was heavy lidded, but sparked at the dare. “I’d like to see you try, pretty girl.”

  She leaned down, enshrouding him with her hair, her sweet floral scent settling around him like a mantle. Her lips drifted around and inside, and she squeezed him. He jerked again.

  “I think you and I both know that I could have you begging for them in about two minutes,” she said, squeezing again. Her hips tilted forward, then back, allowing him to slip in and out, just by an inch or so. Teasing with delicious friction that wasn’t quite enough.

  And then, like she couldn’t help it, she moved again to take him completely.

  Eric might have smiled with satisfaction if he wasn’t so overtaken. God, she was a thing of beauty—long and lean, riding him like an animal, reaching down between her legs to take what she wanted right along with him. No apology. No shame.

  He tried to help out, sneak his fingers next to hers.

  “No,” she said, smacking his hand away. “This time you need to just watch. You need to just take it.”

  She began to move faster, and the light in the window seemed to expand. Eric’s mouth opened, and his fingers dug into her thighs, seeking purchase somewhere while she drove them both mercilessly.

  “Jane, I’m—fuck, I’m going to—”

  She peered down at him, but didn’t stop. Usually she’d let him pull out, let him cover her, mark her. She liked to see the evidence of his loss, her gain. It was another of her ways of assuming control in a situation where he tried to keep it for himself.

  But this time she didn’t. She just continued to rock, back and forth, driving him closer, closer, her fingers vigorously chasing the same goal.

  And then, like a rocket, she exploded.

  “ERIC!” Her voice, husky and full of sleep, reached the ceiling as she began to shake. And before he knew it, Eric was shaking too. He pulled her down, wrapping a hand around her neck, the other at her back. Keeping her flush to him, body to body, mind to mind.

  He spilled into her.

  And she took him. She took it all.

  Jane took everything he’d ever have to give.

  He could only hope it would be enough.

  Part Three

  Prolepsis

  Are you so blind, oh, woman of mine?

  Can’t you see the wretch that I am?

  Flying this high, we soar, we die,

  Cresting o’er sky and land.

  The man in robes, the fools, the probes

  Want questions we dare not ask.

  So nights are spent with your jasmine scent,

  Noses buried beyond our tasks.

  Now hope alights before we take flight;

  Will the hunter arrive with his killers?

  Should his aim be true, should our faults accrue,

  Would you stand fast as a pillar?

  Be still unlike your heart of a sparrow

  So that out of love, I might block the arrow.

  “Fear Sonnet”

  — from the journal of Eric de Vries

  Twenty-Two

  I stretched like a cat, long enough that my toes brushed against the rusted metal bed rail at the end of the mattress. Outside, the bustle of Florence was audible. Whoever said Italians were lazy was a damn liar. The San Lorenzo neighborhood had been waking me up at seven a.m. on the dot every morning with the sounds of trucks and market stalls opening first thing.

  The central market, just a few blocks away was probably already bustling after the local restaurateurs had scavenged the prime pickings. The heavy scent of espresso bubbled up from the cafe at the bottom of our building, and every so often, a shout of conversation snuck past the arched single-paned windows flooded with gray December light.

  I turned over groggily. Eric’s side of the bed was empty. That in itself wasn’t particularly unusual. He didn’t sleep well—hadn’t since we’d left the States nearly four weeks ago—and usually went for a run or did some kind of exercise in the early morning hours while I continued sleeping. He didn’t like leaving me alone, but we both figured out quickly enough that he would start acting like a trapped rat if he didn’t get some outlet every day. Me, I was good with walking around museums or the market. My cardio back home was window shopping—there was no reason to change that here.

  I found him on the other side of the room, checking the burner phone we’d been using for the last few days and fiddling with his god-awful hair. Despite the chilly December air—our rooms depended on an archaic heater that only worked occasionally—he was shirtless in a pair of leggings and running shoes, the sinewy lines of his back still covered with a sheen of sweat. I licked my lips.

  “It’s no use. You still look ridiculous,” I said, pushing up onto my elbow while holding the sheet to my chest. I’d tried to sleep with clothes on, but Eric wasn’t having it. Even though we fell asleep apart, he tended to wrap around me in his sleep, like some part of his subconscious desperately needed skin-to-skin contact. I wasn’t one to argue. I missed him too.

  Eric pulled at his hair once more. It wasn’t as bad as it had been at first, when the shock of black made him look like Edward Scissorhands. Now that the black had settled, he was more on the level of a low-level Cure groupie.

  “I look like a local,” he said to the mirror, then turned around, giving me an impressive view of his blocked abs. He’d lost some weight since we left—his anxiety kept him from eating enough, despite all of the amazing food we’d enjoyed. It wasn’t too much. If anything, it made his alrea
dy impressive physique that much more eye-searingly cut.

  “You still look like a vampire,” I corrected him. “Absolutely no one anywhere would ever confuse you for an Italian.”

  “What about now?” He popped on a pair of Ray Bans and struck a pose.

  “Vampire Jack Nicholson.”

  The sunglasses were hurled at me. I dodged them, giggling until Eric tackled me onto the bed.

  “Ah! Get off me, you sweat factory!” I batted him ineffectively.

  But my protests were lies, and Eric knew it. Once again, his lean body against mine felt less like a cage and more like an open door. I closed my eyes, enjoying his lips drifting over my neck. His hands pushed away the sheets, seeking the curves of my rib cage and waist like he was memorizing every inch of my body.

  “I hated it so much,” he said for the tenth time, pausing to press his forehead to mine. “Not being able to touch you.” He pushed up. “It’s like breathing to me. You know?”

  I nodded. I did know. I had felt the same way.

  “Come here,” I said, pulling him back down for another kiss. His lips, firm, yet soft, molded to mine, sinking me even deeper into the feather bed. With this kind of ecstasy, it was almost possible to forget we were on the lam.

  But on the lam we were, and after close to four weeks of it, I had to be honest: I was getting a little tired of pretending we were poor students. Money wasn’t an issue, of course, but the living in squalor was. Eric insisted we stay away from the places people would expect a de Vries to stay. Five, four, even three-star hotels were out. We rented cheap rooms in pensiones, but only because I drew the line at hostels. I wasn’t the slightest bit interested in sharing a room with a bunch of pimply teenagers trying to find their next score of molly. Eric and I needed space.

  Eric sat back on his heels and fingered my wrists, noting the still-reddened skin there from the scarf he used last night to bind them behind my back.