Tam’s mouth twitched. “You’re cute when you’re mad,” she murmured throatily. “Rosy glow, heaving bosom . . .”
Erin slammed her cup onto the table. “Don’t even start. You can’t convince me that you’re a lesbian, either, so don’t jerk me around.”
Tam hid her smile in her coffee. “Aw, come on. It keeps ’em guessing. Gives me more space.”
“You have plenty of space,” Erin snapped. “And we’re tired of guessing.”
Tam suddenly thought to peek over at the door, where Rosalia’s wide-eyed fascination suggested that her English comprehension far outstripped her verbal skills. Rosalia’s gaze slid away guiltily, and she nudged the kids deeper into the living room.
“It’s hard to find a category for you,” Erin bitched, dropping into her chair. “How do you define a friend like Tam? Well, if bloodthirsty terrorists were threatening my family with a dirty bomb, she’d be there to rescue us in a blaze of glory with diamond-studded hand grenades. But would she give me a ride to the airport? Fucking forget it!”
The smile sneaked out before Tam could stomp it. “Why should I? What a freaking bore. That’s what men are for. What’s the point of putting up with their crap if they don’t provide abject servitude?”
Erin harrumphed. “Speaking of men and abject servitude and all that good stuff, what am I supposed to tell the pretty boy? That you only do big business with ugly, smelly, badly dressed men?”
Tam picked up the card Erin had given her, and scowled at it. “Don’t tell him anything. Don’t even take his calls. I’ll check him out. Since chances are good that all he wants is to stick a knife into my eye.”
Erin made a frustrated sound. “Why can’t anything ever be just normal or nice for you? A business opportunity, a cute guy to flirt with? A date for the wedding? Why is it always blood and guts, life or death?”
The inane goofiness of the question and Erin’s sad, plaintive voice touched her buried tender spot. Tam’s voice came out so gentle she barely recognized it herself. “There’s no normal or nice for me, Erin,” she said. “There never has been, never can be. But don’t sweat it. I just do the best I can. I’ll be OK. Really.”
Erin looked doleful. “But I want better than that for you.”
Tam stopped the automatic sarcastic reply that rose to her lips with tremendous effort, and stayed silent. “Well, I appreciate that sentiment,” she said, stiffly. “In my own way. For what it’s worth.”
Erin looked down, blinking hard. Several agonizing seconds passed, each more fraught with tension than the last.
Tam snapped under the strain. “Don’t you dare start sniffling on me! One tender moment is enough, all right? I can only take so much!”
Erin sniffed her tears back aggressively. “Oh, fuck you.”
Tam let out a sigh of mock relief. “Thank God. That’s more like it,” she said. “Back on solid ground.”
Erin stalked past her, muttering under her breath, and collected her kid. Kev complained about being separated from his new captive audience, and then, oh joy, then Rachel got cranky too, at having her brand new live toy taken away, and so commenced the mad maelstrom of shrieking and flopping and writhing, then the changing of diapers, the distribution of cookie bribes, the reloading of bags, bottles, binkies, bibs, wipes, snacks—Christ alone could remember what all. Tam was on the verge of shrieking with frustration by the time Rachel was calmed down in front of the boob tube, zoning out on Elmo, and the donkey laden Erin and her baby were finally heading down the stairs.
God help her. She’d helped execute blood-drenched coup d’états in third world countries that were less freaking complicated.
She started down after Erin. “I’ll go down and disarm the—”
“I can do it,” Erin cut in. “I learned the goddamn codes. All eight of them. Good-bye.” And off she flounced without looking back, offspring howling and wiggling, diaper bags swinging angrily. Pissed as hell.
“Leave them off,” she shouted down after Erin’s stiff, retreating back. “It’s about time for Rosalia to leave anyhow.”
Erin muttered something rude, and slammed the door to the security room. Tam shrugged inwardly. What the hell. Narrow-eyed, she stared down at the card that lay on the table. Picked it up, fingered it.
She actually felt curious, in spite of her apprehension. Tempted to check it out. Maybe . . . maybe she wouldn’t dismiss this out of hand without investigating further. Very, very carefully, of course. She’d been so wound up in dealing with Rachel’s problems, it had been a long while since she’d organized any sales. The coffers could always use a fresh influx of ready cash. She liked cash.
She stared at the cookies that were left on the plate in the middle of the table. She could smell the butter from the other side of the room.
Some perverse impulse prompted her to grab one. She examined it from every side, sniffing all its glittering, sugary, cholesterol-laden, artery-plugging, insulin-resistance-causing, cellulite-provoking glory.
Deadly in its own way. Like one of her jewelry creations.
Rosalia appeared in the kitchen entryway. Tam’s cookie-holding hand dropped down under the table as if she’d been caught stealing.
Too late. She could tell, by the discreetly delighted smile the older woman tried so hard to hide. “Nine o’clock tomorrow?” Rosalia asked.
Tam mumbled an affirmative. “Go right on out,” she said. “The security’s disarmed. Erin left it open.”
Rosalia nodded toward the cookies. “Enjoy,” she said. “Next time I do the caramel leche cookies. You try, you like for sure, hmm?”
Tam winced inwardly. She’d created a monster. “Tomorrow then.”
Rosalia clumped down the stairs, humming cheerfully. Tam stared at the cookie in her hand. It seemed to stare back, smug and impassive.
Oh, what the fuck. She was destined to die anyhow. She took a bite, chewed. Sugar fireworks went off in her brain. Wow.
She chewed it very slowly and realized with surprise that she was genuinely curious to see just how handsome and charismatic a guy had to be to dazzle a woman as gooey-in-love with her husband as Erin was. He had to have some mojo. He probably thought he was God incarnate, which was a big freaking bore. Or else he was a merciless hired killer engaged to take her out. Which was much more interesting, but a big, fat, dating disadvantage. And mortal danger tended to be a sexual turnoff. She took another bite of deadly bliss, staring down at the card. Janos. Hungarian, maybe. If the name was real, which was doubtful.
She realized she was smiling at the irony of it. Demure little Erin, earnest girl nerd, trying to fix her up. Trying to get her laid, of all crazy things. Hah. Cute. Misguided, wrongheaded, insane . . . but very cute.
She tossed it into her mouth, wallowed in the sugar orgasm, let the buttery, sugary sexuality surrogate melt on her astonished tongue.
Huh. Go figure. She felt . . . inexplicably better. Scary, that.
The only way to know for sure if her current identity was truly compromised would be to suss the guy out, do her X-ray eyes routine on him. Men were easy to read, particularly for her. A few well-placed words to strip them bare, cross section them, and the thing was done.
After all. She’d hate to throw away everything she and Rachel had here out of sheer paranoia. She would have to be careful, but hey. She’d always liked risk. Though she could no longer afford to like it, not with Rachel to factor into the mix. She reached for another cookie.
It might even be kind of entertaining to cut this guy down to size.
Chapter 6
Val stepped into the building that housed Shibumi, an exclusive private dining club, and gave his name to the security personnel at the desk, secretly vibrating with unprofessional excitement while they called up to see if he was expected. They verified that he was and he proceeded up to the sixteenth floor. Shibumi was the meeting place stipulated by Tamara Steele on the computer bulletin board, the only way she would deign to communicate with him after her init
ial phone call the day before. She had posted the meeting location a half hour before. A cautious woman.
He still could not believe his luck.
He wrestled his mind back into matrix mode. Cool, detached, and watchful. He must not betray himself by demonstrating urgency or fear. He couldn’t even think about Imre, sitting slump-shouldered and alone in a dark, locked cell. Or about what could happen to the child in Novak’s hands. Or the fate that awaited Tam Steele if he carried out his mission. The things he’d seen, in Novak’s underground chamber.
Things that still haunted him.
Don’t. He pushed the memories aside. Tonight’s job was simplicity itself. Buy Imre more time until he could think of a fucking plan. That was all. Tonight, he was a rich Roman entrepreneur, on a mission for profit. A confirmed playboy who loved wine, women and money. All he had to do was charm her . . . and seduce her. On film. Hah. Easy.
He would deal with all the rest of it one fucking minute at a time.
He had identified a short list of priorities as a basic framework to work from. One, keep Imre in one piece. Two, keep the child far from the action. Three, spare the woman. Four, stay alive himself, if at all possible. If not, pazienza. He died. So what? He hadn’t really expected to live all that long anyway.
The elevator opened onto an elegant, tasteful room decorated with Japanese paneling and screens. He informed the impassive Asian man behind the desk of his appointment. The man picked up the phone, murmured into it in Japanese. Moments later, two tall, very broad men came out. One was fair and one was dark. He recognized them both from the surveillance cameras he had mounted outside the McClouds’homes. The blond man was Davy McCloud, the dark one was Nick Ward.
Their muscular bodies were dressed in surprisingly good suits, discreetly tailored to make room for their shoulder holsters. They had the requisite flat, watchful look of security personnel on their faces.
“Mr. Janos?” said McCloud. “Come with us, please.”
McCloud led the way, while Ward fell into place behind him. Val had been surprised to hear the man pronounce his name correctly. Yah-nosh. They returned to the elevator, and proceeded to the next floor, which evidently housed the private dining rooms. A key card opened one of the doors. A small, paneled anteroom had a closet for his coat. The security men watched him while he hung it up.
“Ms. Steele does not want to meet with anyone carrying a weapon,” McCloud said.
Val thought about that for a moment. “Ironic,” he murmured.
The man’s expression did not change. He waited.
“Will she abide by the same terms?” Val asked.
The two men glanced at each other and shrugged. “Not our business,” said Ward. “Ask her yourself. See what she says.”
“You’re free to leave, if you don’t like it,” McCloud added.
He crouched and pulled the knife out of his ankle sheath. It was just as well that he’d left the pistol, considering it out of character for a wealthy businessman. He’d figured that the knife was an accessory that any man abroad in an unfamiliar foreign city might choose. He felt naked without it. But his hands and feet were weapons themselves after years of intensive training in various martial arts disciplines.
McCloud took his knife. Ward stepped up, gesturing for him to lift his arms. “Excuse me,” he said, sounding far from apologetic.
Val submitted to a thorough pat down. “Do you two work for the club or for Ms. Steele personally?”
“We do our job,” Ward said. “We don’t talk about it.”
Fair enough. McCloud opened a door to an adjoining room, and gestured for him to enter. It was large, candlelit, a table positioned next to a floor-to-ceiling window with a spectacular view of the evening cityscape and the expanse of Elliott Bay.
“Wait here,” Ward said. “Ms. Steele will be in when she’s ready.”
The door clicked shut behind him. Val looked around at the beautifully appointed room. On one side was a long conference table with chairs around it. Against the opposite wall was a lavishly stocked bar, a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice, a bowl of fruit, a crystal carafe of water, an assortment of glasses. The beige carpet woven of sand-grass had a subtle, complex pattern and a sweet, earthy scent. Low, intimate chairs faced each other over the dining nook. It seemed a spot for a lovers’ tryst, not a business meeting.
He wondered at the choice of place. Probably for the privacy, the controlled atmosphere. Ease of monitoring entrances and exits.
He wondered if he was being watched, and sat on the urge to look around for the surveillance equipment. If these people were as professional as they appeared, he would not find it, and he would reveal too much about himself by searching. Val Janos, the pampered Roman uomo d’affare, was not paranoid. He had no reason not to simply pour himself a drink, sit down, and enjoy the view.
Val did exactly that, but he let his foot tap with the jittery impatience of a rich man not accustomed to being kept waiting. It was not good to seem overly controlled, either. That, too, was incongruous.
He stared out at the city lights and added data to the matrix. Watched it shift and turn as he prepared his mind to take in more. To observe all, forget nothing.
The door opened. The anteroom beyond was brighter than the room he was in, and Steele was poised in the door with her face in shadow, backlit for maximum effect. Her slender, gracefully curved body was clothed in black, sinuous as a cat. She held a large leather case. He’d asked her to bring a wide range of designs.
He rose to his feet as she walked in. She gave him a brief nod of greeting, turned to lay her case upon the large conference table, and crossed the room toward him with that loose, feline gait that had fascinated him on the video footage.
She stared into his face. The matrix flashed, sparked and melted in his mind into soup under her direct, unflinching gaze.
He kept a bland smile on his face as he regrouped. He hadn’t been prepared for the physical effect of her upon his senses.
The sheer, raw, electric force of her. He was buzzing, breathless.
Her costume was elegantly simple. Snug black trousers, gleaming, spike-heeled black boots and a tailored black silk blouse, to set off a dazzling array of collars, pendants, earrings. Her hands were loaded with rings, her wrists with bracelets. Her hair was slicked back with gel, plastered to her head and twisted into an intricate knot, which was stabbed through by cruelly sharp sticks, adorned with a snarl of silver and obsidian beadwork. The look was severe and striking.
Her gaze did not waver. His heart quickened. His cock stirred.
Don’t, he told himself. His dick had no say in this. Detach. Three steps back. Seduction yes, but controlled seduction.
Her face was both flawless and unique. Elegant bone structure, each feature bordering on perfection; her lips lush and full and yet delicate in a way that bee-stung silicone lips could never be. The jut of her cheekbone was echoed by the sweep of her eyebrows. Her piercing eyes were huge, tilted at the corners. Her lashes were long and curling.
Hazel green. Not her original color. His lust to know their real color startled him. She wore no makeup on her fine-grained, flawless skin, and needed none. Just a slick of colorless gloss on her lips.
“Mr. Janos.” She also pronounced his name correctly. Her voice was low, husky, but intensely feminine, full of rich colors, spices, smoky sweet overtones. It went straight to his groin, like a bold caress.
“Ms. Steele.” He held out his hand. She hesitated, just long enough to make him consider dropping it, but instinct prodded him to persevere.
She took it, finally. Her skin was soft and smooth. The chilly, textured hard metal of her jewelry was a sharp contrast. A shock of electric awareness shot up his arm from the physical contact, zinging through his nerves, making lights flash, bells ring inside him.
She felt it, too. He sensed her sudden stillness, the way her smile tightened. He released her hand reluctantly. The silence between them felt suddenly awkward, too long.
Charged with meaning.
“Would you prefer to conduct our conversation in Italian, Signor Janos?” she asked him, in flawless Italian. “We could, if it would be more comfortable for you. It’s all the same to me.”
Interesting that she would let him choose the language. He could sense her mind-set shifting in a way that wasn’t American at all. Very civilized, very European. Concealing far more than she would ever reveal.
“I am tempted,” he replied in the same tongue. “Italian sounds beautiful on your lips. I usually prefer English for business. I appreciate its clarity. For pleasure, however, perhaps later . . . ?” He let his voice trail off suggestively. Let his eyes gleam with discreet hunger.
“English, then,” she said crisply. “I see you have already made yourself comfortable.” Her eyes flicked to his whiskey glass.
He acknowledged the subtle slap-down with a rueful smile. “May I get you a drink?” he asked. “I chose the Macallan.”
“You are a connoisseur, then. The Macallan is a favorite of mine, too. Mr. Takuda put it out for me especially.”
He seized a tumbler. “Straight up?”
“Of course,” she murmured.
He was grateful to have a moment with his back turned, to collect himself. A few seconds of relative privacy to get the matrix re-established, the data feed started back up. He had a method. A good one. Stick to it, testa di cazzo. Detach.
He handed her the glass. Candlelight sparkled on her rings and bracelets, off the cut crystal tumbler, the amber swirl of liquid, the bright awareness in her eyes. She lifted the glass to her lips.
He dragged his eyes away. He was sweating, for the love of God. His collar tight, his face hot. This was absurd.
He stared down at her hands and nodded at their glittering load. “A one-woman arsenal, I assume?”
Her lips curved. His lungs suddenly stopped working, his heart speeding up. Her smile was a weapon in itself, spiced with danger and challenge, hinting at unheard-of delights. “I enjoy the feeling of a secret advantage,” she said. “It is the spirit behind all of my designs.”
Ultimate Weapon Page 9
