“What does he have on you?” Dude was suddenly doing his best impression of a nightclub bouncer. All hulking shoulders and crossed arms and I-like-to-kick-asses-so-don’t-fuck-with-me grimace.
Sonya was startled by his question. Angel never offered up anything about himself and certainly never expressed enough interest in anyone else to actually pose a personal question to them. Maybe her momentary shock was why she found herself spilling her guts.
“Before Lord Grafton, I used to work for Interpol. There was a man. A good man who got caught up in a bad situation. I helped him elude capture.”
A butterfly chose that moment to flutter lazily past them. It came to rest on one of the rose bushes planted in a neat line beside the large terrace. She had herself a real Forrest Gump/Jenny moment. Except she didn’t want to be a bird and fly far, far away. She wanted to be that butterfly. Beautiful and free and without a thought or care in the world.
For too long now, she’d had too many thoughts. Too many cares.
Pulling herself away from her silly daydream, she said, “I knew this man had only stolen a set of gemstones because he’d been forced to, because he’d been stuck between a rock and a hard place. And I knew he’d never do anything like that again, so yeah…” She shrugged.
“Where does Grafton fit in?”
Another question. It was a banner day.
“My superiors at Interpol suspected I had helped the fugitive escape, but they couldn’t prove it. Grafton, however, could. I mean, he can. Somehow he got his hands on phone records showing the communication between me and the thief. If I don’t continue to work for him, Grafton I mean, he’ll turn over the evidence to the authorities. I’ll be locked up quicker than you can say traitor. Interpol doesn’t take kindly to rogue agents.”
“Do you love him?”
Sonya’s jaw slung open. Partly because that was three—three—whole questions. She heard Sesame Street’s Count von Count’s bwa-ha-ha echo through her head. But mostly because…was the dude totally Nutso Bismal?
“Hell no, I don’t love him.” Glancing around, she lowered her voice. “Grafton is a dirt merchant. Worse than that. He’s the single-celled organism that grows on the dirt that dirt merchant’s sell. And no matter what he says or what he promises you or how long you work for him, don’t think you can trust him for a second. He’ll smile and shake your hand while driving a knife in your back.”
“No. Not Grafton. The jewel thief.”
The sun, which had been hidden behind a big, fluffy cloud, peeked out and shined brightly on Angel’s swarthy face, into his eyes. She was startled to realize they weren’t hell-black like she’d thought. Instead they were a deep, dark brown, reminding her of strong Turkish coffee.
For a couple of tense seconds, she considered telling him the truth. Oddly enough, in that moment she wanted to tell him the truth. But logic—and self-preservation—prevailed. “I do. I mean, I did,” she lied.
Angel popped his jaw. It was a just a quick jerk of his chin to the side and an accompanying snap of sound. But it was enough to have her turning into a block of ice.
Seriously, the wind whispering over the Cornish countryside was warm and inviting for the first time in months, but it might as well have been an arctic blast. Goose bumps erupted. Her scalp tingled. Dozens of memories crowded her brain.
She searched Angel’s coffee-colored eyes, looking for a hint of something, anything familiar.
“Do you speak Hebrew?” she asked him, having switched to that very language.
“Sorry. What?” he asked, still speaking English.
She shook her head, laughing, convincing herself she was seeing ghosts. “Nothing. Sometimes I think the six months working for Grafton have made me cuckoo in the cranium. Know what I mean?”
“No.”
“Ha!” He was so sincere, so…serious with that answer. Without thinking, she placed her hand on his arm. “That was a rhetorical question.”
Or at least that’s what she meant to say.
She only got halfway through the sentence because the instant her fingers made contact with his forearm, she was struck mute by the lightning bolt of awareness that slammed through her. The back of her neck beneath her hair misted with sweat. Her knees began to shake. His hot skin made her palm burn and itch.
She wanted him. Like…wanted him.
“You should be careful.”
Angel’s raspy words had her eyes jumping from her hand, so pale against his arm, to his face. As always, his expression was impossible to read, but there was no mistaking the flash of emotion in his eyes.
Now, whether that emotion was anger or disgust or answering lust, she couldn’t say.
Pulling her hand back, she curled her fingers around the lingering heat left behind. “Careful of what?” she asked, slightly breathless.
“Me.”
That one word seemed to reverberate around the terrace and lawn. And inside her.
She was terrified…and a little turned on.
Yep. It’s official. I have definitely slipped off my rocker.
“Are you going to do it?” she asked in a desperate attempt to get the conversation—and herself—back on track. She had to clear her throat because it suddenly sounded like someone had taken a Brillo pad to her larynx.
“Do what?”
“Help Grafton get his hands on the materials he wants?”
“What choice do I have?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean, you turned against your own country and sided with the enemy in order to keep a nuclear bomb out of unsavory hands. Makes me think you’re not a man to put his own life above the greater good. You didn’t do it in Iran. I guess I’m wondering why you’d do it now.”
“Says the woman who used to work to bring down men like Grafton and now here you are standing by his side.” Sonya blushed on the censure she heard in his voice. “People change.”
“Do they?” She quirked a brow, studying him.
“All evidence points to yes.”
“I’m not so sure.”
He cocked his head, ever so slightly. His black hair was cropped close to his scalp, but the tips had the slightest wave to them. She wondered if it would be curly should he ever decide to let it grow long.
She loved curly hair on a man. Loved how the silky strands wrapped around her fingers when she speared them—
What the hell was she thinking? What the hell was she thinking?
“I see you two are getting on.” Grafton’s voice had her taking a quick step away from Angel. She realized then how much his blast-furnace body heat had wrapped around her. By contrast, the warm day felt startlingly cold.
“Yeah. We’re one big, happy family.” She didn’t bother hiding the sarcasm in her voice.
Grafton leveled on her a warning stare. “A piece of advice, darling Sonya. Don’t let him”—he pointed a finger at Angel—“rub off on you. You know I’m not keen on a mouthy bitch.”
Two flags of heat burned in Sonya’s cheeks. Her instinct was to fly at Grafton and scratch his dead eyes out of his fucking criminal head. Luckily, good sense prevailed. “Sorry,” she muttered. “It was a momentary slip.”
“Make sure you don’t have too many more of those.”
If she ground her jaw any harder, the bones might explode.
Angel was still watching her, but she couldn’t make herself meet his gaze. She was too humiliated. Plus, she didn’t want him or Grafton to see the rage burning in her eyes.
“We’ll leave tomorrow morning,” Grafton said after having satisfied himself that she was back to being his meek and mild personal assistant. “Can your source meet us later in the day, Majid?”
“Everyone calls me Angel.”
Grafton sighed. “Fine. Can your source meet us tomorrow, Angel?”
“I think he can probab
ly make that happen.”
Angel never took his eyes off Sonya. She could feel his gaze like a physical touch, like a fist beneath her chin, forcing her to meet his unyielding stare.
When she did, she didn’t like what she saw in his face. Even his nonexpression revealed disappointment…and pity.
Self-disgust burned like battery acid in her stomach, bubbling up into her esophagus. She swallowed it down and hated the sticky noise her throat made. It was a weak sound. A beaten sound.
She didn’t want to be weak or beaten.
Not in Angel’s eyes.
But hang on. Why did she care what he thought of her? He was a total stranger. And once she was out of this horrible mess, she’d never see him or Grafton again.
“I need to use the phone to call my source, however,” Angel added. “Just to make sure.”
“Of course.” Grafton swung his arm wide, indicating Angel should precede him into the house. Grafton didn’t allow cellular phones on the premises. Any calls had to be made on his satellite phone. Both for purposes of keeping the authorities from tracing those calls, and also to insure Grafton knew exactly who his flunkies were phoning up.
He hadn’t retained his Lord of the Damned status for as long as he had by being sloppy.
Angel didn’t turn toward Grafton immediately, instead holding Sonya’s gaze for a five-second count that left her fighting to fill her lungs with air. Then, whatever he was searching for in her eyes, he either found or decided it wasn’t there, because he abruptly spun on his heel and disappeared into the house.
“You’ll be coming with us, of course.” Grafton’s statement pulled Sonya’s eyes away from one of the most beautiful men she’d ever seen to one of the most disgusting.
Okay, if she was being completely honest, Grafton wasn’t a bad-looking guy. With his mixed heritage, he was actually fairly easy on the eyes. But his soul was black and decrepit and it showed in his dead gaze and slimy smile.
“I don’t know how I can help you in Moldova,” she told him. “They’re Russian or Ukrainian speakers. I’m not fluent in either language.”
“You’ll provide other services.” Grafton’s smirk made her want to puke. “And besides, after that little outburst, I don’t particularly trust you here alone. I thought you were finally coming to terms with your role, but now I’m not so sure. So be a good little chit and run along and pack your bags. We’ve an early flight tomorrow.”
Sonya wanted to tell him to go take a flying leap—or more like she wanted to copycat Angel and tell him to go fuck himself—but she forced a smile and sailed past him into the house.
It was only after she’d climbed the stairs and shut her bedroom door that she realized Angel hadn’t really answered her question about why he’d been willing to risk himself for the greater good before but wasn’t willing to do so now.
He said people changed. But something, some sixth sense or niggle of intuition, told her he hadn’t changed at all…
Order Julie Ann Walker’s next book
in the Black Knights Inc. series
Built to Last
On sale July 2018
Acknowledgments
Writing a book is a labor of love. Meaning I labor, and those I love tend to have to fend for themselves while I’m at it. So I have to give a shout-out, as ever, to my husband for having the patience of Job, to my parents and sisters and nieces and nephews for supporting me and understanding when I can’t make it to family functions because I have a deadline looming, and to my friends for not taking offense when I say no to dinner dates and get-togethers because I’m off doing publicity. You’re all the foundation of my life, and I couldn’t do any of this without any of you.
Thanks to all the folks at Sourcebooks—Deb, Beth, Dawn, Rachel, Valerie, Todd, Dominique, and the dozens of others who had a hand in making this book shine and getting it onto the shelves and onto fans’ e-readers. Thanks to my agent, Nic, who loves this series as much as I do and is always thinking of ways to make it better and to reach a wider audience. Teamwork makes the dream work! *wink*
And last but certainly not least, hugs to all the fans who keep going on these crazy journeys with me and the Black Knights. Because of you, I get to have the best job in the world.
About the Author
Julie Ann Walker is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of award-winning romantic suspense. A winner of the Book Buyers Best Award, Julie has been nominated for the National Readers’ Choice Award, the Australian Romance Reader Awards, and the Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA award. Her books have been described as “alpha, edgy, and downright hot.”
Most days you can find Julie on her bicycle along the lakeshore in Chicago or blasting away at her keyboard, trying to wrangle her capricious imagination into submission.
To stay apprised of Julie’s upcoming releases, sign up for her newsletter at julieannwalker.com.
Also by Julie Ann Walker
Black Knights Inc.
Hell on Wheels
In Rides Trouble
Rev It Up
Thrill Ride
Born Wild
Hell for Leather
Full Throttle
Too Hard to Handle
Wild Ride
Fuel for Fire
Hot Pursuit
The Deep Six
Hell or High Water
Devil and the Deep
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