by Sable Jordan
Kizzie arched a brow. Le subbie?
The two chatted over the menus, the woman looking up at Xander with obvious affection. Something was said and Xander bobbed his head. The waiter came over; more words exchanged. Xander passed both leaflets to the man and that’s when Kizzie saw it.
Gold band.
Left hand.
Fourth finger.
Kizzie’s gaze zipped to the woman beside Xander, but her hands were in her lap. Or his….
Her mind went haywire half a second, and her body flushed with heat from toes to scalp. She huffed a breath, shook her head.
Do your job, agent.
Tapping the button on the binocs snapped a series of photos of the pair, her focus more on the woman. Kizzie knew what Xander looked like—wished she could get his face out of her head, this trembling out of her fingers. The woman, however, was a new variable and a possible point of exploitation. Mixed up with the likes of Duquesne, she just might be in a database somewhere.
The waiter returned and set two demitasse cups on the table. The charming couple waited a beat for the man to leave before sipping the steaming contents. Xander bent to whisper in the woman’s ear; she replied with a giggle and a head toss.
Raspberry-flavored bile rose in Kizzie’s throat.
At the door eight minutes later, Xander helped his wife into her coat. Kizzie studied the little slip of a woman backlit by the cafe. She was…okay. Not necessarily runway material. And now that Kizzie thought about it, the hairstyle was dated, the dress too tight, and she’d bet money that perfume was something cloying and over-sweet. What an elderly aunt poured on by the gallon, stinking up the whole damn house.
“Ugh. This shade of green clashes with your badass, Kiz.” She shifted her gaze to the woman’s feet. “Cute shoes, though…”
They came to the street, facing each other now. Xander’s wife slid her hands up his torso, and they disappeared beneath his coat. Kizzie stopped herself from making up snarky dialogue.
She couldn’t lie. Her chest constricted—
—and exploded a moment later when le subbie tugged Xander down and kissed him full on the mouth with enough heat to melt the chocolate in her lap. The truffle Kizzie smacked on almost fell from her gaping candy hole. Quintessential cheesy moment: Paris, the café, and two people sucking face after a rainfall.
“A fuckin’ postcard…” she muttered.
Xander engulfed the woman in a hug, and Kizzie grunted. This was the “something” Phil needed to do first. Any moment now Xander would get in the car, reeking of his wife and looking at Kizzie with… Hell, he wouldn’t look at her with anything. Whatever happened in Mauritius, whatever he said in Helsinki and Oman, none of that mattered. Those long, sticky, stupid nights in Brazil when she was alone and he’d fill her thoughts? Imagine her fingers were his? Just her mind playing tricks on her relatively desperate libido. Okay, excessively desperate libido.
Xander would get in the car and they’d drive off. Period. Soon as Phil got his ass back in the car, the weasel. Even before the doom and gloom warning about Xander and the revelation of the li’l Missus, Kizzie had no intention of staying, even less intention of letting the bossy Dom into her head or her pants—the last part might have been a lie. Bottom line, Phil wasted his time preaching to a pastor.
The impromptu soap opera went on with Kizzie playing voyeur at her own torture. Xander turned to walk away, but the woman—his wife, Baldwin—tugged him back. Mrs. Duquesne smiled and flirted, and ultimately convinced her husband to go with her. Xander paused half a beat and faced the car, staring directly at Kizzie.
Her breath caught, and she froze. He was looking for Phil obviously, but it felt like he knew she was there.
Xander removed his phone from his pocket, head bowed while his fingers moved over the screen. Hand at his woman’s elbow, the Dom and le subbie covered the short distance to a light-colored sedan. Xander saw his wife inside, went around and got in the driver’s seat. Seconds later, they were reduced to departing taillights.
The Citroën’s door opened, bringing a blast of frigid air and intruding on Kizzie’s shock. Phil slid behind the wheel. “Can you believe 15 Euros each for these? Highway robbery.”
The binocs dropped into the open box of truffles and Kizzie took the two shot glasses. Each depicted the Eiffel Tower drawn sloppy enough for the artist to be a 3-year-old. That Phil wanted her to believe he had to hunt down this important glassware meant he thought her about as smart as one.
He handed her the tablet off the dashboard, started the car without the battle with his conscience, and checked the mirrors before pulling away from the curb, driving perpendicular to the street the Duquesnes had taken.
The neighborhood flashed by outside Kizzie’s window, one continuous blur. “Subtle as an anal probe, handsome.”
“Don’t know what you mean, darlin’.”
* * * *
In hindsight, Xander should have ordered two hot chocolates. The espresso was bound to keep him awake, and he desperately needed sleep. He’d been running on fumes the last couple weeks, but with so much to do, there was no sense in believing he’d get a rest anytime soon.
He unlocked the door of her flat and Naima sidestepped to pass him. He stopped her with an outstretched arm and a glare. She rolled her eyes and he smirked, neither of them speaking. He always went first—hadn’t she learned that by now?
Moving just inside the door, he disarmed the alarm system he insisted on having installed—another point of contention between them—and followed through with a visual check of the place once the lights came on.
Satisfied all was well, he returned to the living room. Naima was in the kitchen pouring water from a pitcher taken from the fridge. By the look on her face, she wished it were bourbon. She loved her bourbon. Couldn’t hold liquor worth a damn, but she was a firm believer in practice making perfect and strove for perfection as often as possible. Only one thing in the universe could get her to give up her Wild Turkey cold turkey.
She came around the breakfast bar and pressed a glass of the clear liquid into his hand. “Solidarité.”
Grinning, Xander touched his tumbler to hers and then took a swallow. Naima toed off her heels and set her glass on a coaster on the coffee table before heading to the desk in the corner.
“Keep kissing me like that,” Xander dropped into the love seat, “and we’re gonna have a problem.”
“Saving yourself for marriage, are you?” Naima asked in her lilting British accent. Still focused on the computer, she lifted her left hand and wiggled her fingers, diamond ring glittering. Then she slipped the ring off and tapped the keyboard again. “ Call it incentive to stick around this time. Honestly, what type of husband leaves his wife for months, hm?”
“What can I say? I’m a popular guy.” His gaze swept across her body bent over the computer desk and he bobbed his head. “You look good, Nai.”
She made a brusque sweeping gesture with her hand. “Sweet talk will not get you back into my good graces. It’ll take much more’n that.” Flash drive inserted into her computer, Naima tapped a few keys and turned to face him, lips pursed, one brow arched. “Who is she?”
The glass stopped halfway to his mouth. Xander tilted his head, cocked his brow.
“The atrocious hag who’s kept you away from me this long?” Naima marched back over to him, planted her hands on slim hips and narrowed her dark eyes. “At your last visit, which was eons ago, mind, you were late. You usually call if you’re going to be late, but I let it go.”
“This is you letting it go?”
“You get here,” she pressed on, “something clearly had you upset and when I ask you about it, I get typical, tight-lipped Xander. You were so distracted, and then rushed out of here after only two days! We barely had time to—”
“There’s no woman, Naima.” Xander managed the lie for a split second. Then his lips betrayed him, curling into a smile as thoughts of Kizzie made their daily jog through his head.
He’d seen neither woman in months, but now realized how alike they were. Both absolutely alluring; both interminably stubborn. Confident. Determined. Naima was like a shorter, British-based version of Kizzie, with a lot less sass.
The biggest difference? Naima had proven herself trustworthy. The verdict was still out on Ms. Baldwin. One phone call to Connolly made it perfectly clear where Kizzie’s loyalties rested.
Still banged up just days after Sacha’s assault, she’d grimaced and winced with every move as she packed her duffle. Xander watched from the doorway, mood foul and anger at DEFCON 1. It took every ounce of his control as a Dom to tamp down the frustration, promising to contact her as soon as they got a lead on the necklace Sumi had stolen. In return he got Kizzie’s “yeah, right” face, chock-full of snark.
It was a cute face.
He glanced up, running dab-smack into Naima’s scrutiny. “There’s nobody.”
“That’s pants. Pants!”
“What about pants?” Xander asked, completely lost.
Naima rolled her eyes and gave a little shake of her head. “Something the kids are saying… Though, when I was a kid, we just called it what it was: Bullshit.
“Just then, I saw your face. Sitting here in front of me and thinking about her. So ‘there’s nobody’ is pants. Don’t pants a pantser, Xander luv.” Her thick brow arched up further, almost daring him to say otherwise. “Who is she and where is she? If she’s got you missing time with me, I want to check her out.” Xander held her gaze, lifting the cup to his lips for a slow swallow of water. Naima turned her face away and then stared at him again. With an imperious tilt of her chin she asked, “Does she know you’re dreadful at relationships?”
An insulted V dug into his forehead. “I wouldn’t say dreadful—”
“Ha!” Naima fully extended her arm, pointing her index finger at him. “Addressing the lesser point means there is, in fact, another woman.” A giggle tinkled from her throat. Taking up her water she plopped onto the couch; tucked one foot beneath her, rocked the other on the rug-covered floor. “What’s she like, sir?” He slid her a sideways glance and she threw her head back, laughing hard.
As the minutes passed, she tapered to expectant silence until her face was shy of exploding. He took another deliberate swallow of water.
“Oh, all right. I swear the Sphinx took lessons from you.”
Trustworthy or not, certain topics were simply not open to discussion in he and Naima’s relationship. Kizzie was one of them.
Xander jutted his chin toward the desk. “They working?”
With a huff Naima stood again, going back to the computer. “Like you’d create something that doesn’t work. We’ll know in a bit.” She placed a hand on either side of the laptop, one foot lifted so only the toes touched the floor while she rolled the ankle side to side quickly. The movement came to an abrupt stop. Moments later, a single nail tapped against the wooden desk. Stopped.
“South America or Mexico.”
Xander slunk down in the seat with the change in topic. Resting his head on the back, he sighed, feet spread wide to balance and accommodate his new position. “Nice places to honeymoon. Narrow it down for me a bit?”
“Honeymoon,” she echoed sarcastically. She slipped the wedding ring back into place, shifted the mouse and ejected the flash drive. “I can’t give you details. Not yet anyway. But that was the last place he was seen.” She handed him the storage device and he pocketed it, coming away with his vibrating cell phone. “How’s Phil?”
“Thinks I’m going soft where you’re concerned. Go kick his ass and save me the trouble.” Xander entered the code to his mobile and unlocked it. He opened a text message from the devil himself.
The first part he understood: Keys available. Usual routine when they worked like this. Phil checked them both in and left a key for each room at the front desk. But the second part of the message—Happy Birthday—confused him. He frowned; looked up when Naima spoke again.
“He’s prickly lately, inn’e? Don’t know how you two get on so well without wanting to kill each other.” Xander snorted, returning the phone to his breast pocket as Naima continued, voice a little uncertain. “Plus he abhors the notion of you and I… So,” a heavy exhale, “are we still on for—”
“After what you just told me?”
“‘Fraid you might say that.” Naima brought her fingernail to her teeth, then dropped her hand. Her voice cracked when she spoke. “I can still do this, Xander. I know we didn’t plan for this, and I know I screwed it all up—”
“Come here.” Setting the cup on the floor, Xander pushed out of the chair as Naima came closer. She gave him her back and he rested his hands on her shoulders. “You didn’t screw up. Some things just can’t be planned for.”
She sighed with relief when he worked his thumbs on either side of her neck. All knots, and not in a good way. Xander drew the zipper of her dress down to the base of her spine. “I have the dates, Nai, and the tech should be working. You don’t have to be there.”
“But I’m the connection to the wife. It’ll be odd if I’m not there. Besides, I leave you alone again you’ll find yet another woman...” Her voice regained some of its cool, but he knew it was forced. She shook her head and laughed. “One moment of infidelity I might forgive. No way you fool me twice.”
He gripped her shoulders and turned her to face him, deep voice soft and sincere. “I’m serious, Naima. I’m more concerned with keeping you safe.” A quick glance down at the slight curve of her belly and he added, “Both of you.”
Standing so close gave him a direct view into the depths of her eyes, and for the first time he saw a glimmer of fear in her usually stoic gaze. Her nose twitched, eyes glistened with moisture she wouldn’t let fall. She was afraid. She had every right to be.
He swallowed a curse and dipped low to kiss her temple before tucking her against his chest. Her arms snaked around his waist in response, holding on tight. She’d been dealing with this on her own, and he should have been there. Not that it would change anything. She’d still be pregnant, still wondering about the next move.
“Keeping me locked up in this box won’t make me any safer. Just…don’t make your mind up yet. I can still—”
“Do this. I heard. We have a little time to think it over, okay?” he whispered, stroking his palm up and down her back. “Don’t have to do it tonight.”
“You are going soft,” Naima mumbled into his shirt.
Maybe he was. It was in Xander’s nature to keep his people safe; had already lost someone who meant something to him. He wasn’t up for a repeat performance again in this lifetime, especially not with a woman carrying a child. “I know.”
She sniffed, inhaled a shaky breath to get the trembles under control. “And you’re horrible at this, aren’t you?”
“Almost as dreadful as you are.”
Naima coughed a laugh and he smiled. He didn’t let go until she nodded, just a slight motion, and pulled back a bit, staring straight ahead. “I know…” Her eyes darted away. He tipped her chin up with his knuckle and she started again. “Go on and go. Just…hormones… I’ll be fine.”
In spite of her delicate looks, Naima was always rock solid. Now she looked to be on the verge of falling apart. Her gaze came back soft and watery, unfocused, and when she couldn’t look at him any longer, her eyes closed, tears squeezing out from the corners.
Xander touched a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth. Then he took her hand and lead her to the bedroom.
If Kizzie’s eyelids weighed a grain of sand combined, she’d still have a hard time lifting them. Dozing on the plane didn’t happen, too keyed up with the hunt for Harvey. That was the only reason her belly went all topsy-turvy while the 757 ate up airspace between Brazil and France. Anyone who thought otherwise could kiss her ass.
Relief had flooded her when she and Phil finally made it to the quaint, nondescript motel. He’d seen her to her room, pointed out his, and then left h
er to her own devices.
The usual checks went into play: Check for exits, check for bugs—both the technical and the legged varieties—stash a few weapons and the like. Then she called to pester Fletcher about the kid on Sanzio Galletti’s phone. No progress yet.
Those few tasks weren’t enough to dissipate the energy roiling through her, so she’d taken a walk. It helped a good deal toward wearing her out, and now the hot shower was slowly lulling her to sleep; erasing the image of Xander and his wife in the final scene of a cheddar-stuffed romantic comedy.
A twist of the dial and the water came out close to boiling. Showering was usually a short affair—the less time she spent sudsing, the less likely anyone had the chance to get the drop on her. But sleep had her firmly in its crosshairs. Kizzie was simply too relaxed to move.
Until the shower curtain shifted.
A subtle sway, like the pressure in the room changed. Enough of a swing to wake her up faster than if the water had gone ice cold. Senses on high alert, she honed in on the distance between the towels on the shelf and her location under the spray.
Her heart beat faster, rushing blood to her brain and ordering her thoughts. Someone was in the room. Who, what, why—didn’t matter. One objective: decommission the intruder.
Quickly.
Kizzie peeked out the gap between the curtain edge and the shower wall.
Nothing.
She eased back the drape enough to slip through, careful not to let the metal rings scrape the bar, and went for the towel.
Gone.
All of the towels were gone.
Water pooled on the laminate floor and she recalled the layout of the room. Bed to her left; chair and table beneath the anti-suicide windows at 12 o’clock; dresser and TV at 3 on the same wall with the door. The closet bothered her. Once in the room, the closet would be at her 6. The mirrored door slid on a track. She’d left it open after her second sweep when she came back from the walk. Most logical choice for an attacker’s location.
