Wicked Temptation (Nemesis Unlimited)

by Zoë Archer

  Her hair, bright and alive in the early sunlight, tumbled around her shoulders as she shook her head. “It’s not what I want. But I feel like … like I shouldn’t.”

  “Are you worried about those English people we met in the dining car?”

  “It’s not their good opinion I’m after.” She glanced away. “It’s my own.”

  He moved quickly to sit beside her on the bed, taking her hands in his. She didn’t shy away.

  “You want absolution?” he asked. “I can’t give it. But there’s a woman I know—her name’s Bronwyn. She’s wicked in the best of ways.”

  “And her heart?” she pressed. “Is that wicked, too?”

  He considered it. “It’s a heart that seeks comfort and pleasure.” Philosophy classes at school hadn’t taught him much, but experience had. “Everyone’s does.”

  “Including you?”

  He looked down at their joined hands. “When I can get them. But that’s all I can ask for. I’ve got nothing else to give.”

  “What do you want?”

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  She gave a mirthless smile. “A good evasive technique, answering a question with a question.”

  “In this case, I really do want to know what it is you want.”

  She shook her head. “I wish I knew.”

  “Maybe I can tell you what I’d been thinking,” he offered, “and if the plan—”

  “You and your plans,” she interrupted.

  “I’m never without them. As I was saying, I’d been mulling it over. I knew since Paris that I wanted you, but I told myself I’d wait until after the mission was over. And then we’d come to … an arrangement.”

  “Arrangement,” she echoed, brows lifted.

  “Become lovers,” he said bluntly. “If that was something you wanted to pursue.”

  “Oh,” she said, “I do.”

  “But,” he cautioned, “I never stay with a lover for long. A month at most. And then we both move on.”

  “Surely you’ve made exceptions.”

  “I can’t make exceptions,” he answered flatly. “This”—he nodded toward the bed—“is all I can offer. And sooner or later, my lover wants more. Better to be honest at the beginning. No misunderstandings.”

  She gave a strained laugh. “More plans. What if someone won’t fit into those neat schemes of yours?”

  Like her. His plans to wait until after the mission had shattered apart. There was no reassembling them. The best he could do was salvage what he could.

  “It’s always been this way. It’s all I can give.”

  “But in your plan,” she noted, tracing invisible patterns on the linens, “we wouldn’t become lovers until after the mission. That clearly didn’t happen.”

  “The choice of what happens next is up to you. We can stop—”

  “I don’t want to,” she said with flattering haste.

  “Or we can continue on with our affair. Once the job’s over, we might even stay lovers. But our time together will end.”

  She frowned. “Have I no say in any of this?”

  “Of course you do. But I cannot change who or what I am. To try would be a fruitless, and painful, exercise. So,” he said, “what is it that you want?”

  She was silent for a long time, and his heart knocked like a boxing bell in his chest as he waited. If he had to, he could keep his hands from her—but last night had shown him so much of what they could be together. Still, he wouldn’t force her into any decision, no matter what he wanted.

  Finally, she gazed at him. “I want us,” she said quietly. “For as long as we have together.”

  * * *

  Shortly after breakfast, the train finally pulled in to the station in Marseille. A porter met Marco and Bronwyn on the platform with their new baggage.

  “Where are the freight trains?” Marco asked the porter.

  Looking puzzled, the man pointed toward some distant platform. “Past there, down some steps, then to the left to the freight yard.”

  “Any heading to Italy?”

  “One going to Venice, monsieur. Another to Rome. And a train to Milan.”

  Marco thanked him with a coin, took the bags, then left the porter on the platform.

  The freight yard was a mass of intersecting tracks like a madman’s scrawl, and hulking train cars. A few of the workers watched with curiosity as two finely dressed people picked their way through the maze of modern industry.

  As she and Marco walked across the tracks, he explained quietly to her, “It won’t be half as luxurious as our accommodations to Marseille, but if we take a freight into Italy, no one on Les Grillons’ payroll will check our papers and get word back to them. They’ve got my first name, and they know what we look like. So they’ll know to look out for an English man and woman matching our descriptions, traveling together. Especially once they realize we never crossed the border from France to Switzerland.”

  She gave a wry laugh. “I’ll never doubt your skills at subterfuge.”

  “Those who have,” he answered truthfully, “have paid a high price.”

  Marco found them space in the freight car headed for Milan. After securing their luggage and then climbing into the car, he helped Bronwyn up into the carriage. Large crates filled the space, and he pried back one of the slats to see with what they’d be sharing their journey into Italy. He snorted.

  “What is it?” she asked. “Not commodes, I hope.”

  “Sofas and beds—though the beds are missing mattresses.”

  She glanced away. “Were I a different kind of woman, I’d say that there’s a good way to pass the long hours into Italy. But, despite our earlier agreement … I’m not that sort.”

  “And what sort is that?”

  She gave a melancholy smile. “Free,” she murmured. “Seems I can change only so much.”

  Much as she’d decided to pursue an affair with Marco, she had to wonder if she was making a mistake. Oh, she wanted him, but she already knew that walking away from him was going to be difficult. But it was either that, or nothing at all. And she wouldn’t deny herself, not anymore.

  * * *

  They couldn’t, of course, uncrate any of the furniture—not without attracting the attention of a freight inspector. But Marco did find some rather musty blankets stuffed into one corner of the car, and spread these out between the large crates once the train was under way. Bronwyn gamely settled herself down on the floor. The slats that made up the sides of the car were spaced decently enough apart to let in light and air.

  Rather than spending the lengthy journey making love on a multiplicity of sofas and beds, he and Bronwyn read or talked or did not talk, as the mood suited them. He enjoyed all of these activities with her. The silences between them had lost their strain, and though she’d led something of a sheltered existence, she’d kept herself informed of the latest goings-on in the world.

  They’d both read The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and talked of the possibility of someone truly transforming into two separate identities. All of the Nemesis agents led split existences, but none suffered from so profound a difference as the fictitious doctor and his mad other self. Still, it made for a lively debate between him and Bronwyn, with her firmly believing that while Dr. Jekyll’s case was extreme, men like Devere were proof that people were never quite who you thought they were.

  They spoke of music, of course, with her far more knowledgeable about the subject than he could ever hope to be. He knew a bit about the theater, but his work for Nemesis and the government left him with little time for theater-going. They even talked of the possibility of Irish home rule—an idea they both supported.

  He’d never engaged in this deep a discussion with a woman who wasn’t a Nemesis agent, not for want of trying. But he’d found those talks with other women to be thin and limited. But perhaps he judged those other women unfairly. None of them had experienced what Bronwyn had. None of them had grown and faced such a dramat
ic metamorphosis in such a short time.

  And none of them were her.

  This was almost better than sex. He’d never had the chance to know a woman as fully as he was coming to know her and it seemed to wake something inside him. Something he couldn’t name.

  At Nice, he hopped out and ran to get them provisions. He returned with wine, cheese, pissaladière tarts, and pears. And despite the dusty floor of the freight car and its minimal springs, the meal was surprisingly good, made even better by Bronwyn’s bold spirit, seeing everything as a new challenge to overcome, even a meal eaten in a freight car as they evaded deadly assassins.

  Reaching the border between France and Italy, they gathered up all their supplies and hid behind a huge crate just before an inspector entered the carriage. But it was already past dusk, and the inspector seemed eager to return to his bottle, so there was the most cursory of inspections before the man leaped down from the car and declared it permissible to enter the country.

  The train rolled on, and now Marco and Bronwyn were in Italy. One half of his home—at least in his heart.

  He took a deep inhalation. It smelled no different than it had in France, yet it was different, somehow. “It’s my imagination,” he said to Bronwyn as they remade their pallet, “but there’s something about being here that makes me feel … like I’m waking up.”

  “Awfully fanciful of you.” She lay down, propping her head up in her hand.

  He shrugged. “It’s the Italian in me.”

  “Well, I rather like it. Maybe…” she said tentatively, “I could see more of that part of you.”

  He stretched out beside her, pillowing his head on his folded-up coat. “When I’m on assignment I’m more like Machiavelli than Michelangelo.”

  “It seems as though there’s a certain artistry in spycraft. Schemes, plans, bringing a grand vision to life.”

  “Never thought of it that way.”

  Yet it made a strange kind of sense. She saw creativity in his work, not just destruction. And now, so did he.

  * * *

  By morning, the train headed north, away from the brilliant azure sea and into the mountains. As they journeyed toward Milan, Marco spent the time trying to teach Bronwyn some basic defensive and offensive maneuvers, all the while hoping she never needed to use them.

  A freight car wasn’t the most accommodating of training facilities. Not only had Marco used specially designed gymnasiums as provided by the government, he and other Nemesis agents would periodically retire to one of Simon’s country estates to sharpen what they already knew and learn new techniques. Lately, with the introduction of more female Nemesis operatives, judo and jujutsu had been added to the curriculum.

  “The advantage to these arts,” he’d explained to Bronwyn, “is that they don’t rely on your size or strength to be effective. It’s about balance, and knowing how to use your opponent’s body and momentum against them.”

  “Show me,” she’d demanded.

  So he’d padded the floor of the freight car as best he could with the blankets, then proceeded to show her one jujutsu move. She tried the technique again and again, at first with little success, with him easily breaking from her attempts to grip and twist his arm. The more they worked at the move, the more frustrated she became.

  “We’ll stop,” he said after yet another unsuccessful try.

  She pushed the hair from her face. “No. We’ll go again.”

  They kept working at the maneuver, until, finally, she managed to throw him to the ground.

  “I surrender,” he said breathlessly, the wind knocked from him as he gazed up at her.

  She stood over him, looking self-satisfied. “What if I don’t accept your surrender?”

  In an instant, he lashed out, grabbing her ankle, flipping her onto her back, and covering her body with his as he pinned her wrists to the floor. She tried to kick him off, but he immobilized her legs with the weight of his own. They struggled like that for several minutes, growing even more breathless and heated, until, at last, she lowered her head to the ground and growled in frustration.

  If he wasn’t already aroused by her strength and fight, that growl hit him stronger than any punch, traveling right to his groin.

  “You’ve proven your point,” she muttered. “You’ll always be stronger and faster than me.”

  “I’ve been at this game for far longer than you,” he answered, staring at her mouth. “And you’re much more powerful than you realize.”

  She seemed to sense his gaze on her mouth, because she gave her lips a slow, provocative lick. This time, he was the one who groaned. Only a few inches separated their mouths, and she closed that distance to kiss him savagely.

  He met her kiss with equal demand, their tongues tangling. Fire spread through his veins, and his body was tight, primed.

  Then the world suddenly spun. He found himself on his back, with Bronwyn kneeling beside him. This time, her hands pinned his. Madonna putana—he’d fallen for one of the most ancient tricks: the honey pot.

  She smirked. “I see what you mean about my power.”

  It would’ve been a simple matter to break her hold, and reverse their positions, but damn him if he didn’t feel a hot jolt of even stronger excitement to have her atop him, in control. If they weren’t on this bloody freight car, he’d gladly take their tussling to its logical—essential—conclusion. But he’d made a promise to himself that she deserved better than a hasty fuck in a train car full of crates and dust.

  It would serve her better if he kept his focus. “Here’s how to get out of a situation if you’re being pinned.” Then, gently, he demonstrated the process—using his legs, he bumped her forward, and when her head came close enough, he lightly took hold of her ear. “Then you twist here and make your escape.” He released her at once.

  “When I get back to London,” she said, getting up and dusting off her dress, “I’ll definitely seek out that women’s gymnasium Harriet recommended. That was a challenge.”

  He didn’t mention that they had literally hundreds of miles to go before they could consider their return to England, and a ruthless syndicate standing between them and London. “Harriet’s a fierce one. I’d advise not going up against her until you’ve practiced more.”

  “You can be my sparring partner until I’m ready.”

  “For a time,” he said. “But I’m never anyone’s sparring partner for long.”

  She was silent for a moment. “Right.”

  They awkwardly broke apart, and she wandered over to peer through the slats of the car. The indigo mountains rose up toward a cloud-strewn sky, and cool, evergreen-laden air filled the carriage. It wasn’t the ideal way to see this part of Italy, but interest still crossed her face as she watched the scenery roll past.

  What could he offer her except his services for Nemesis and the use of his body? Nothing. There wasn’t anything else to give. Even so, that ache in his chest returned.

  Hours later, they finally reached Milan. He hopped down from the freight car, taking their luggage with him, then helped her down.

  She glanced at the car that had been their transportation with a grimace. “Please tell me we’ll be traveling to Florence in at least third class.”

  “There’s no need to travel freight anymore now that we’re in Italy.”

  She sighed in relief. “Thank God. I thought my bones would never stop rattling. And I’m more sore from sleeping on the floor than our defensive practice.”

  He booked them second-class tickets to Florence, and when they reached their seating carriage, they both exhaled as they sank into the upholstered benches. Once the train pulled from the station, she excused herself to wash up, leaving him alone in the carriage.

  Only then did he allow himself to scrub his hands over his face in frustration. He hadn’t wanted to take on this job, but he realized that he had another reason for why he shouldn’t have been on the case. She appealed to him. He liked her. Cared about her. Far too much. All his
vigilant plans were blown to pieces. It was getting too difficult to keep himself only interested in their shared physical pleasure. He was at a loss.

  He, who’d faced countless assassins and stared down the barrels of numerous guns, not to mention the knives, poisons, and explosives he’d evaded. There was that cadre of assassins in Vilnius, and the alleyful of knife-wielding toughs in Spitalfields. He’d even been trained in how to avoid the honey pot—and today was the very first time he’d actually fallen for it. By a woman whose family was in Debrett’s. The irony wasn’t lost.

  This vulnerability he felt whenever he was with her could burn him down. But he’d only let himself burn once he knew she was safe. And then, when that was done, he’d walk away. As he always did.

  * * *

  The gilded and green hills of Tuscany enfolded them as they traveled south, vineyards forming Dionysian grids that climbed those hills, and rosy farmhouses topped with terra-cotta tiles looked out agelessly, seemingly without concern that a train bisected these most ancient and revered lands. Bronwyn had loved the place the first time she’d been here, and even the grim nature of her travel now couldn’t quite dim her interest in being here again.

  Apparently, Marco felt the same.

  “Dio, but I love being back.” He looked out the window, an expression as open as any she’d ever seen on his face. “Almost makes me wonder why I ever bother returning to England.”

  “You could stay in Italy,” she offered.

  He snorted. “God knows there’s enough injustice in Italy that could necessitate doing Nemesis’s work here.”

  “What about your … other work? For the, ah, government?”

  “I’ve put in my time.” He studied the cuff of his shirt, surprisingly clean given that they’d spent the night on the floor of a freight car. “Could likely retire on a decent pension, and move to Florence or Rome. No shortage of wrongdoing there.”

  “Or you could leave the city,” she suggested.

  He considered this. “It’s appealing—a farm of my own. But I’d get restless, and find my way back into the rotten heart of a city. Even the most beautiful towns—with their basilicas and frescoes and bridges—are populated by people, and where people live, so do vice and corruption. Darkness lurks even in sunlit piazzas.”