Wicked Temptation (Nemesis Unlimited)

by Zoë Archer

  She set her glass down. “Perhaps I should just have a lemonade.”

  “I think you can handle your absinthe. Only pace yourself.”

  At least he had some faith in her ability to know her limitations. So she slowly measured out the time between sips. In the meanwhile, she continued to watch the activity in the café and on its open terrace. Life in the café wasn’t all about the possibility of a tryst—there were people playing chess, others arguing about art or politics or both, and one young man even had a sketch pad out and drew the scene. Perhaps Bronwyn herself might make it into one of his paintings.

  Yet all she saw were the pairings of men and women. The feminine invitation through veiled glances, the masculine swagger as the invitation was answered. Some of the would-be swains had their advances rebuffed and had to slink back to their seats, where their companions laughed and knocked them on the back in a strange male gesture of consolation. Other men were more successful, and sidled up close to women, where soon fingers began to brush against each other, or more bold caresses were attempted.

  Taking a sip of her drink, Bronwyn tried to picture herself as one of these women of Montmartre. She’d stroll into a café, feeling the gazes of men upon her and drawing power from it. A table would be waiting for her, and a glass of absinthe. Perhaps she’d chat with some female friends, or maybe she’d enjoy the pleasure of being alone, answerable only to herself. As she’d sit, men would try to catch her eye, but she decided she’d be selective. Much as her body craved release, she wouldn’t take just anyone to her bed. She’d want a man of refinement, intelligent and perceptive, but who also possessed a raw masculinity that fine tailoring couldn’t quite hide.

  She drank from her glass again, tasting the different herbs of the absinthe. A man would come into the café—she decided she’d want him dark, not too tall, with a compact muscularity. The moment he entered, he’d see no one but her. She would give him her boldest glance, the one that said she wanted him, and he was lucky to have won her favor. He’d stalk toward her, gleaming like an unsheathed blade. He’d call her chérie. He’d chat with her for a while, their touches turning bold, until neither could take the wait any further. They’d go back to her rooms. And then they’d do the things she’d seen in those photographs she’d found beneath Devere’s bed. She hadn’t known that someone could put their mouth anywhere but on another person’s mouth. Now she understood differently, and wanted that with her dark stranger.

  “Time to switch to lemonade,” a husky voice said, interrupting her reverie. Oddly, it was the same voice as the man in her daydream.

  Or not so odd. The man she’d pictured in her fantasy had been Marco.

  Blushing, she looked at her glass of absinthe. It was empty. The room itself swam a little. Fine sophisticate she made, getting tipsy—all right, drunk—from a single serving of absinthe. And then entertaining lustful thoughts about the man who was there to help her recover her fortune. There was nothing in Nemesis’s pledge to her about providing her with a lover.

  “I wish you weren’t so handsome,” she blurted, then wanted to crawl under the table and never emerge.

  “I don’t,” he answered.

  “Conceit!” She pointed a finger at him.

  He lifted his dark brows. “Not conceit. Truth. There’s a certain way people—women especially—react to me when they look at me. All I can deduce is that either I’m handsome or ugly, and most women don’t favor ugly men in their beds.”

  She thought she might go up in absinthe-doused flames. “Perhaps they do like ugly men,” she countered. “Maybe ugly men make better lovers because they have to work harder.” There! She could be as bold as him.

  “I don’t have any experience with ugly men as lovers,” he answered. “Or handsome ones.”

  Well, he’d managed to shock her despite her resolve to be more bold.

  “I don’t see Devere,” she said abruptly.

  He sipped at his absinthe and flicked his gaze around the café. “It’s early yet. We’ll give him a few hours.”

  “Why this café in particular? It seems like there are dozens of them in Montmartre.”

  “Englishmen are known to frequent this one.”

  Now that he mentioned it, she did hear the harder tones of her native language knocking against the soft lyricism of French. Those who did speak French rather than English had a more flat, nasal quality than the natives. Some of the men had a certain Englishness about their appearance and dress, despite their attempts to imitate the locals’ raffish elegance. She’d missed all this when they’d first come in, and in the distraction of her erotic daydream.

  “He wouldn’t go by his real name,” she speculated. “We can’t ask anyone about him.”

  “And we wouldn’t even if we knew his alias,” Marco said. “Getting the word out that we’re looking for him is a surefire way to force him back into hiding. No,” he said, stretching out his long legs, “we’ll try to wait him out. I can think of worse ways to spend the evening than sitting in a Parisian café with a beautiful woman.”

  Her pulse raced and the heat suffusing her didn’t come from the absinthe. “We’ll need to do something with our time here.”

  “Your Englishness is showing.” He gave another lazy smile. “Time has different significance in France and Italy. Each minute doesn’t have to be packed with meaningful activity. There’s simply the pleasure of being.”

  “This is something you have experience with? The man who’s both a Nemesis agent and a”—she lowered her voice to a whisper—“spy.”

  He laughed. A genuine, deep laugh that found the hidden places in her body. “Touché.”

  “Perhaps this pleasure of being is something we can learn to do together.”

  “Perhaps,” he agreed. “What’s your favorite piece to play on your violin?”

  “Difficult to pick a favorite,” she said, “but I’ve always been partial to Bach’s Partita No. 1 in B minor.”

  “I’m not familiar with it.”

  “The first movement has this wonderful chaotic darkness to it.” She closed her eyes, hearing the piece play silently in her mind. Her fingers twitched, moving across invisible strings. “As if walking through a strange, shadowy city, and you don’t know what’s around the next corner. A girl with a basket of flowers, or a caped thief. And you can’t decide which you’d rather meet.”

  A silence followed, and when she opened her eyes, she found him staring at her with an intensity that warmed her skin and caught her breath.

  “More.” His voice was low and rasping.

  “More what?”

  “More talk of music,” he said.

  “I … I don’t know what to say.”

  “Anything. The first piece you learned to play, the one you hate the most. It doesn’t matter. Just talk to me of music.”

  So she did. It was awkward at first, and she stumbled, searching for words. How could she speak about something so personal, something that defied language, and to him, this man who unbalanced her at every step? But gradually, she became more comfortable, and he prompted her with questions. Questions that showed he truly listened when she spoke, and cared about what she said. No one had ever taken such an interest in her violin playing before. It intoxicated her far more than any absinthe or wine ever could.

  It was only when her throat began to grow sore that she realized how much she’d talked.

  “My goodness,” she said, after a soothing drink of lemonade, “I’ve been prattling on for hours. You should have stopped me.”

  “But I didn’t want to. And it wasn’t prattle. It was…” He seemed, for the first time, lost for words. “Inspiring.”

  “It is to me,” she answered. “Ever since I was given my first violin when I was twelve I—” She laughed ruefully. “There I go again. Talking about myself and my hobbies.”

  “It’s art, not a hobby,” he said with more heat than she would’ve anticipated.

  “You haven’t heard me play. I c
ould be terrible.”

  “Not the way you talk about music. I can hear it in your voice. What you make with your violin goes beyond mere dilettantism into the realm of art.”

  She oughtn’t revel in his praise, but gratification rose up in her like a tide. He was the first to ever recognize what her playing meant, and her pride in it.

  “Perhaps I’ll play for you someday,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Can I tell you a secret?” she whispered.

  “I can’t think of anyone more qualified to hear your secrets.”

  She glanced around the café, as though someone might be listening in. But no one was. “I’ve always dreamed of being a professional violinist.”

  She waited for his expression of scorn, or, worse, disgust. Yet he only nodded at her.

  “A worthwhile dream,” he said.

  Her eyes narrowed. “You don’t think it appalling that a woman should desire to earn money? And as a performer?”

  “Nothing appalling about it,” he answered. “What’s bloody appalling is that people put it into women’s heads—into your head—that being financially compensated for your art is something that should be beneath you.”

  She frowned. “And you don’t think it degrading that I’d seek to parade myself in front of strangers?”

  “If they’re paying for the privilege, there’s nothing degrading about it. The audience are the ones who should feel honored to have you play for them.”

  For a long while, she could only stare at him. “I … Thank you.”

  Now he frowned. “For what?”

  “For listening. For understanding. I don’t think anyone else would have.”

  “You entrusted me with a secret,” he said solemnly. “It’s I who should be thanking you.”

  Though she merely sat at a table, her heart pounded. She couldn’t believe how he’d responded to her most closely kept secret, and not only had he not shamed her about it, he’d shown remarkable understanding. Surprising sensitivity.

  Oh, goodness—he was a very dangerous man. A woman could easily find herself hopelessly enamored.

  “Tell me something of yourself,” she pressed.

  His expression instantly became opaque, and he leaned back. “Not much to tell.”

  She laughed. “I find that difficult to believe, especially of a man in your line of work.”

  “I can’t talk about any of that,” he said flatly.

  Though she sensed the divide he put up, like a portcullis clanging down, she’d grown bolder in these past few days. Since meeting him. “Then tell me something that has nothing to do with Nemesis or your other line of work. Something about you as a child.”

  He rubbed at his goatee. For a few moments, she believed he wasn’t going to answer her. Then, “I was a sickly child,” he said flatly.

  “You?” She couldn’t keep the astonishment from her tone. “But you seem so…” Virile, her body whispered. “Strong.”

  “Malignant scarlet fever,” he said. “Took me years to recover. I couldn’t play. Couldn’t go to school. I thought it would keep me at home as my mother’s bambino my whole damn life.” He frowned as if caught off guard by his vehemence.

  “You aren’t sick now,” she noted.

  “Eventually, I recovered.”

  She never would have guessed he’d been anything but capable from the moment of his birth.

  “All those years indoors,” she said. “Did you ever learn an instrument?”

  He continued to scan the room. “My mother tried to press piano lessons on me. But I tricked the instructor to play for the duration of the sessions, so that when it was time for him to go, I hadn’t played a note.”

  Naturally, he’d been devious, even as an ill child. What a trial for his mother. And a source of pride.

  So many discoveries in one night. In a day. And none was more astounding than the discovery of him. And herself.

  SEVEN

  Dawn pinkened the sky, and most of the café’s patrons had either staggered home or else passed out at the tables. The waiters grabbed these men and dragged them out to the curb. The servers sent dagger-filled glares at Marco and a sleepy Bronwyn. Closing time.

  She rubbed her eyes as she and Marco got to their feet. “Tonight was a waste.”

  “We know he doesn’t come to this café,” Marco said. “But that doesn’t mean our trail’s gone cold.”

  They walked out onto the street.

  “Easy,” he murmured, when Bronwyn stiffened as he placed his arm around her waist. “Just giving you a little support. You’re dead on your feet.”

  Instead of pulling away, she leaned on him. Hunger tore through him at the feel of her. He’d learned tonight of her true passion beneath the genteel surface. She was far more than a society widow. She possessed fierce intelligence and a hidden drive, known only to him. Her secret burned within him like a coal.

  He’d planned on suggesting a brief liaison once the mission was over, but those plans couldn’t hold back his body’s needs now. They refused to be denied.

  * * *

  Bronwyn watched, mystified, as Marco released her to duck into a narrow alley. For a moment, she stood on the sidewalk, debating. Was this part of the plan to find Devere? Or did he have something else in mind?

  “Bronwyn.” His voice, lower and huskier than ever, curled from the darkness.

  An invitation. She’d felt the need in him when he’d held her a moment ago. Need that rang through her own body like the low chiming toll of a bell. She felt poised on the cusp of something, something huge and terrifying and possibly wonderful.

  She could refuse the invitation. He left the choice to her.

  She stepped into the alley.

  The moment she did, predawn shadows enveloped her. And the solid heat of his body, pressed snug to hers, as one of his hands cupped the back of her head. The fingers of his other hand splayed low on her back, pulling her even closer. She couldn’t see him, but she felt him. The hard width of his chest. His firm, sculpted arms. His breath fanning warmly over her face. He felt strong and dangerous, capable of anything.

  And still, in the tightness of his embrace, she could sense it. He would let her go, if she wanted.

  Instead, she gripped his forearms, rose up on her toes, and brushed her lips over his.

  His mouth took possession of hers. He didn’t waste time on soft, coaxing preliminaries. He hungered. For her. His kisses were openmouthed, his tongue finding hers and stroking it boldly. This didn’t feel like practiced seduction. It was need and want, unfettered, and it poured through her like music, striking every nerve and filling her with sensation.

  She’d never had a kiss like this. As though it were lovemaking itself. As though the meeting of lips could be enough. And she kissed him back, with all the hunger that had been building within her for what felt like years. He tasted of wine. Her head spun as she allowed herself to fall into intoxication. His hands were broad and warm and unapologetic in their hold of her.

  The alley fell away. Paris disappeared. Everything vanished in a haze, leaving only her and Marco, and the fires they stoked within each other. Fires that could burn everything to the ground, leaving only ashes.

  A moan curled up from the back of her throat, answered by his growl. He held her tighter, and even through her clothing, her corset, and all the garments between them, she felt the power of his body. The things this man must be capable of …

  God, she’d never known it could be like this. Only in her fantasies. Certainly not in her real life.

  At the thought, she tore her mouth away, turning her head to the side. His hold of her immediately loosened, and she found herself leaning back against the brick wall behind her, seeking balance. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and she could just make out his shadowy form, standing like a boxer. Arms at his sides, feet planted wide. Panting as if he’d emerged from a bout. But who was the victor?

  “He’s here,” he rumbled. “Standing between us.”


  Hugh, she thought. “Not him. Me.” She pressed her hand to her pounding heart. Was it real? Was this too soon?

  “You want this. Us.” There was no question, only statement.

  She rubbed at her forehead. “I’m a damned muddle.”

  He swore under his breath in Italian. “Culo di Cristo, I want you.” The admission seemed to shake him.

  “I…” She struggled to speak the words. “I want you, too,” she confessed.

  He cursed again. “Have to stay focused on finishing the job.” He seemed to be speaking more to himself than to her.

  “You’re right.” She was glad. And angry. With herself. With him. Though she’d stopped wearing her weeds, she was in mourning. No matter how much desire burned within her, long held at bay, she couldn’t give in to it. She couldn’t be untrue. Not to Hugh, but herself. To the faith in herself that she could feel loss without needing to fill that chasm with sensation.

  But, oh, did Marco tempt her.

  “It’s nearly dawn,” he said. “We need to move on.”

  Yes, she thought, as they left the alley and returned to the street. Need to move on from the frivolous desire I feel for him.

  Yet it would be far simpler to tell herself that than to actually make it happen.

  * * *

  Italians were remarkable in their ability to curse. It was a prized national art form, as much as frescoes or sculpture or pasta.

  Marco used that ability to call himself every foul name he could think of. English was far too limited, so he turned to his other native tongue. Because he’d been a goddamn fool to touch Bronwyn, to kiss her. Giving him a taste of what he couldn’t have right now. But the small taste only whetted his appetite for more.

  The widow burned. And he wanted to be immolated in her fire.

  Do the job, he repeated to himself. When it’s over, you can indulge yourself. It’s how he’d always worked, how he managed to stay alive and sane through nearly two decades of spying and work for Nemesis. His system had never failed him, and he’d be a testa di cazzo to stray from a methodology that had kept him breathing, when other men he’d known were in the grave.