by Tiffany Snow
“What happened?” I asked. “Obviously you survived.”
“I had to decide I wanted to,” he replied. Reaching up, he brushed my hair back, tucking it behind my ear. “But I’ve lived with the guilt of failing her. And I’m terrified of failing you.”
I shook my head, my gaze dropping from his. Now I felt even worse for leaving the room. “You could never fail me, Devon,” I said. His fingers brushed underneath my chin, tipping my head up until I looked at him again.
“Don’t say that,” he said. “Everyone fails everyone else. Always. It’s the one constant that can be depended on.”
It was a cynical thing to say, but then again, Devon lived in a world I’d only had the briefest exposure to. The guilt he carried from Kira’s death had marked him as deeply as Jace’s abuse had marked me.
“Our flight’s in three hours,” he said. “We need to pack up. Get your new best friend to pack up, too.” I knew he was referring to Reggie, and by his tone I knew he’d forgiven us. I hurried to tell Reggie all was okay and that we were leaving.
Between last night and today, everything Devon had done and said had been so unexpected as to leave me reeling. I was overwhelmed with relief that things were changing between us, and suddenly, things didn’t seem as horrible as they had yesterday.
I changed into a peach blouse that crossed over my torso and wrapped around my back. A tie held the filmy lengths of fabric together and, combined with my skinny jeans and nude heels that wrapped up around my ankles, I felt more put-together—inside and out—than I had in a long time.
As usual, Devon dressed in a suit. This one, a dark charcoal with tiny pinstripes. A stark white shirt and striped silk tie completed what I’d come to think of as his spy uniform. He finished the knot on his tie, then rapped on the door to Reggie’s room.
Reggie was ready to go, so within our allotted hour, we were heading to the airport. As soon as we got to the ticket desk and Devon asked for three first-class tickets to Amsterdam, I knew we had a problem.
“I don’t have my passport,” I whispered to him as the agent tapped the keys on her keyboard.
“Don’t be silly, darling,” he replied, reaching inside his jacket. “What did you think I was doing this morning?” He handed the woman two passports. “Mr. and Mrs. Jared Ross, if you please.”
My mouth dropped open, then I quickly closed it, averting my face so the agent wouldn’t see my surprise. It was the name he’d given Logan last December when he’d crashed dinner.
Once Devon had handed over his credit card, the agent took our bags, handed us boarding passes, and told us which gate we were departing from. I’d heard the prices she’d said for the three last-minute tickets and had wanted to groan in dismay. The total cost more than some small cars. Reggie popped into a shop to get something to eat and Devon and I paused outside to wait for him.
“Mr. and Mrs. Jared Ross?” I asked.
“Easier this way,” Devon said. “I’m Jared. You are—”
“Yes, do tell me my new name,” I teased. “This should be good.”
Devon faced me fully. “I would think it would be obvious,” he said. “You’re Rose, of course.”
My teasing grin faded. His gaze roamed over my face and he lifted a hand to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing my skin. “I’d quote Shakespeare,” he said, “if it wouldn’t be so cliché.”
I smiled, but was too caught up in how he was looking at me to reply. People passed us by but neither of us noticed. His hand drifted down my arm to my hand, slotting our fingers together.
“You sure you guys don’t want anything? The cinnamon buns are awesome.” Reggie was back and Devon glanced at him. He was chowing down on a pastry dripping with icing.
“Maybe later,” Devon said with distaste. I huffed a laugh at the snooty Britishness he was displaying, but quickly smothered it when he slanted a glance my way.
Getting through security wasn’t a problem, and soon we were ensconced in our first-class seats. Our flight went through Detroit and the entire trip took over twelve hours. I tried to sleep as much as possible, but was still exhausted when our plane landed early in the afternoon the next day in Amsterdam.
The lines at customs were long and I followed Devon as he led me to one. He handed me my passport.
“Just tell them you’re here on holiday,” he said in an undertone. “For a few weeks.”
“A few weeks?” I repeated, thinking of how I’d only asked off work for a few days.
But Devon didn’t respond because it was our turn. The agent took Devon’s passport first and carefully studied the photo, then him. He asked a few questions and Devon answered, looking tired and bored.
“Enjoy your stay,” the agent said, dismissing him and gesturing for me to step forward. I handed him my passport.
He looked me over even more carefully, then consulted his computer screen. My palms were sweating as I waited, then my worst fears came true as he said, “I’m afraid we need to ask you some additional questions.” He motioned to a security guard.
“What? What does that mean?” I asked, trying not to panic.
“Miss, please come with me,” the guard said. He was tall, and wide, and had a serious-looking gun attached to his hip.
“But I’m here on holiday,” I said, echoing what Devon had told me to say. “I haven’t done anything.” Looking frantically past them for Devon, I saw he was trying to come back to me, but a guard was arguing with him.
“This way, miss,” the guard said, taking a firm grip on my arm.
“I need my passport,” I said, reaching out to take it from the customs agent, but he held it beyond my reach.
“You’ll get your passport back shortly,” he said.
The guard was already dragging me away and I looked to Devon. He’d stopped arguing with the agent and now stared after me, a grim look on his face. Reggie stood a few feet behind him, also watching me.
Then they were both lost to sight as we turned a corner and the guard punched in a code to unlock a door. After taking me through the door and down a sterile hallway, he unlocked another door in the same manner, but held it open for me to precede him. I did, then spun around in dismay when the door slammed shut behind me.
I ran forward and tried the knob, knowing even before I did that it was locked.
I stood for a moment, taking stock of my situation.
The room was small, maybe ten feet wide by ten feet long, and contained only one table and three metal folding chairs—two on one side, one on the other. The door was windowless, the walls thick and painted a gloomy shade of white.
What was happening? I hadn’t done anything, hadn’t even said anything, and they’d brought me here. Would Devon get me out? How could he possibly? I had no choice but to wait.
As I sat in one of the folding chairs, I realized that though my passport said Rose Ross, everything in my purse said Ivy Mason.
I leaned forward, elbows on the table, and covered my face with my hands. I didn’t know what they’d do to me when they found out about the fake passport, but I knew it wouldn’t be good.
My stomach was clenched in knots as I sat there imagining the horrible consequences. Prison in Amsterdam. Would I get a lawyer?
I looked at my watch a hundred times over the next hour, my anxiety only increasing with each passing minute. Was this how it was usually done? They had my passport. I didn’t know how Devon had obtained it, but I doubted it would hold up to scrutiny.
The knob turned on the door and it swung open. I stared in stunned amazement at who entered the room.
“You’re a slippery target,” Vega said, her voice as smooth and as cold as I remembered it.
Since I wasn’t drugged up on pain meds, I could take better stock of her now. She was the same height as me without my heels, and just as lean. She was incredibly well preserved, so much so that it was nearly impossible to determine her age. My best guess was late fifties, but ten years could have easily been added or subtracted fro
m that. Her face was all planes and angles, her eyes and hair dark.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, watching suspiciously as she casually took a seat in a chair opposite me. She was wearing Chanel—I knew designer clothes when I saw them—and looked incredibly elegant and poised. Whereas I felt dirty after hours spent traveling, my clothes rumpled and yesterday’s mascara staining the skin underneath my eyes.
“Ah, you remember me,” she said, crossing one nylon-clad leg over the other. “You were a bit . . . under the weather the last time we spoke. I thought perhaps you might not recall our little chat.”
“You’re a difficult person to forget,” I replied.
Her lips lifted ever so slightly at the corners.
“I’m a slippery target,” I echoed her, realization hitting me. “It was you, wasn’t it? You sent those men after me, sent them to my grandparents’ home.” Anger rose at what they’d put us through. “You fucking bitch.”
Her cold, dark eyes narrowed. “What a perceptive little nuisance you are,” she replied. “And you should keep in mind that I can walk out of here anytime I want. Whereas you . . .” She paused, glancing over me with mock pity. “You seem to be in a bit of a pinch. So I’d mind my manners, if I were you.”
“Is that so?” I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of rattling me.
“Quite. Your passport is fraudulent, of course,” she said with a careless wave of her hand. “We both know that you’re not Rose Ross. But what I want to know is . . .” She leaned forward. “Why does Clay keep protecting you?”
I stared at her, frowning. “Why in the world are you asking me? Aren’t you his boss? Ask him yourself.” And I didn’t care that I sounded like an insolent teenager.
Sitting slowly back in her chair, she considered me. “You’re very beautiful, I’ll give him that. But otherwise . . . you’re just a little nobody. And even though he told me the diary was destroyed in Heinrich’s lab, I can’t help thinking that he’s protecting you for a reason. What are you hiding, Ivy Mason? What did Heinrich tell you?”
Alarm shot through me. No one knew that I’d saved the encrypted pages from that diary, save Scott, and even he didn’t know what those pages contained. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, bluffing my way. “Heinrich did nothing but threaten me, not tell me state secrets. Devon and I just have a casual relationship. Friends with benefits, I’d guess you’d call it. There’s no hidden agenda.”
“You do know you’re not the first woman to catch his interest for longer than a night,” she said.
“I never said I was.”
“Has he told you about her?” she asked. “I bet not.”
Stung, I replied, “You might be surprised.”
Vega raised an eyebrow as she said, “Clay’s told you about his wife?”
The nonchalant way she said that contrasted sharply with the impact those words had as they hit me.
Devon was married?
“I can see that tidbit might have gone unmentioned,” Vega said with satisfaction. “Clay’s been lying all his life. It’s what he’s paid to do, amongst other things.” She shrugged one slim shoulder. “His purpose in life—his absolute focus—is doing what I tell him to do. I’d keep that in mind, if I were you.”
“What does this have to do with me?” I asked.
“I just wanted to see you again, have another little chat, face-to-face,” Vega said. “You didn’t think we’d just forget about you, did you? After Paris?” She leaned forward again, and menace replaced the false friendliness in her voice. “If you’re hiding anything, I will eventually find out. Devon will probably tell me himself.”
“I’m a bank teller,” I said. “What could I possibly have to hide?”
“And yet, he keeps coming back,” she mused.
“And with a wife, no less,” I said bitterly. “However does he find the time?” How could Devon have not told me he was married? It was all I could do to keep a brave face in front of Vega, though my chest felt like a warm ball of wax someone was squeezing too hard.
“You should ask him about her,” Vega said, getting up from her chair. She opened the door, but paused. “And you should remember—we’re always watching. Don’t forget that.” Then she was gone.
My breath rushed out of me, the stiff spine I’d been maintaining went limp, and I folded over the table, resting my head on my arms. Devon had spoken in nearly reverent terms about how much he owed Vega for saving him. His loyalty to her was unquestionable. And it was obvious that went both ways since she knew he had a wife, and I—the woman he’d been having an affair with—didn’t.
Plus, Vega suspected I was hiding something. She had the power to have me apprehended at customs heading into the Netherlands. She could send armed men anywhere in the world to hunt me down. No one could protect me from her. Not even Devon. And now I wondered—deep in my gut—if he would even attempt to do so, should Vega give him orders to the contrary.
The door reopened and I jerked upright, eyes wide at what might be in store for me now, but it was just the same guard who’d brought me in here almost two hours ago.
“Come with me. You’re free to go,” he said. He held out my passport.
It took me a moment to process this, then I jumped to my feet and hurried forward to claim the very important document certifying my false identity. I grabbed my purse and followed the guard a different way out. He eventually opened a door that dumped me near the terminal exit.
I looked around the masses of people moving past, but couldn’t see Devon. Would he have waited? Or would he and Reggie have left so his mission wouldn’t be compromised? As I stood there, searching in vain and increasing panic for his familiar face, it seemed my question had been answered.
“There you are.”
A hand on my shoulder spun me around and I was face-to-face with Devon.
“Oh, thank God,” I said, then promptly burst into tears.
“Shh, darling, it’s all right,” he comforted me, taking me in his arms.
But it wasn’t all right. Vega had threatened me . . . and Devon was married. I wasn’t sure which was worse at this point.
“Come, let’s go,” he said, pressing his pocket square into my hand. He took my elbow, leading me outside.
“Where’s Reggie?” I asked, wiping the tear tracks from my face. I had to suck it up and get through this, and falling apart wouldn’t help any.
“I sent him on to the hotel with strict instructions,” Devon replied as he flagged down a cab. “Which means by now he’s probably hacked into the Netherlands’ seat of government.” He sounded irritated and I guessed he’d dealt with Reggie and his spontaneous ways before.
A cab pulled over and Devon held the door while I climbed inside. All I could think about was Vega and what she’d said. Should I tell Devon about it? What would he do? What could he do? And did any of it even matter now that I knew he was married?
Devon had an entire life that I apparently knew even less about than what little he’d told me, whereas everything in my life was an open book to him. It wasn’t hard to feel bitter about that.
After he’d given the driver our destination, he turned to me. “What happened in there?” he asked. Lifting his hand, he cupped my cheek, his fingers sliding into my hair. “I nearly had a heart attack when they took you.”
It was nice to know he’d been worried. But now I had to make a decision. Come clean? Or lie? After all, he’d lied to me.
“It was a misunderstanding,” I lied. “There’s another Rose Ross on Interpol’s list. Once they got the photos and compared them, they let me go. It just took forever.”
Devon frowned slightly, his eyes studying me. I forced a small smile, feeling my gut sink that my instinct had been to lie. But I was nothing to him—a mere blip on the radar of his life—compared to what Vega was. And apparently another woman was even more than that.
I recognized the cold feeling inside for what it was—the acid burn of betraya
l and bitterness, which was the real reason I’d lied. I wasn’t ready to hear whatever excuse he might come up with to explain this.
“Where are we staying?” I asked, just to change the subject. Breaking our gaze, I glanced out the window at the passing scenery. Night was falling and the unfamiliar city felt strange and hostile to me. “Somewhere nice, I hope.”
“Of course,” he said, pulling his hand back. My skin felt cold in the absence of his touch. “Would I put you anywhere else?”
The teasing note in his voice made me turn back to him. Our eyes met. The lies between us were an invisible wall that only I could feel. I forced a smile I didn’t feel.
The hotel was beautiful and I gasped when I saw it. Sitting on the edge of the water, it was lit up like a golden Christmas tree, and when we alighted from the cab, the doorman was wearing a three-piece suit complete with a top hat.
My eyes widened even further when I saw the inside of the hotel, the opulence of which rivaled the exterior. The entry had deep red carpet and walls, with two entire rows of chandeliers presiding over the seating along the hallway. The musical chords of a piano filtered through the room and I glimpsed a man seated at the instrument and playing on the far side.
“This way,” Devon said, leading me to the elevator. A few minutes later, he was knocking on the door to a room. Reggie answered.
“Hey, glad they let you go,” he said to me. “That was scary.”
“Yes, I’m not quite sure what I would’ve done if they hadn’t,” I said.
Neither man replied to that and Reggie’s gaze shifted nervously aside.
Well.
“Our key,” Devon reminded him.
“Oh yeah, here you go,” Reggie said, digging in his pocket and handing the key over to Devon.
“Stay out of trouble,” Devon said, poking Reggie in the chest with his finger. “We have enough to worry about without you getting in dire straits.”
Reggie just grinned, unabashed and unrepentant. Devon sighed.
We headed back to the elevator and went up another floor, where Devon let us into our room. As I’d known it would be, it was a suite that probably cost more a night than I made in a month. I was a girl who liked nice things—who didn’t?—and the room definitely fell into that category.
