CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Porsche slid smoothly through the city streets, the headlights bouncing off the wet pavement. Peter loved this car. Genny insisted it was his treat for the long commute every day, but in his heart he knew it was impractical.

He really should give it up. It was too small for his growing family – using car seats in a two-door was better suited to the Cirque de Soleil – and Mahmoud had been eyeing it hungrily. Since Peter had no intention of letting a seventeen-year-old boy out with such a powerful piece of machinery, and because he didn’t trust Mahmoud not to give in to temptation and simply help himself, he was better off without the damned car, even if it made commuting into London less tedious. Maybe something nice and stodgy like a Vauxhall would put Mahmoud off. After all, he had a reputation to uphold with his mates.

He was heading toward the M3 when his mobile rang, and he punched the button on the steering wheel, and Genny’s sweetly American voice came over the speaker. “Are you still at the office?”

“Just left, Miss Spenser,” he said in a sinuous voice he kept just for her.

She laughed, the sound rich and warm. “Don’t mess with me, you wretch. I’m bogged down with infants. Mahmoud just called. He was in town with some of his mates and needs a ride home. Can you pick him up?”

“Of course. Where is he?”

“I told him to go to the office.”

Peter made an unhappy noise. The security at the office was particularly lethal, something Mahmoud, with the blithe disregard of all teenagers, chose to ignore, having outwitted it on only his third try. He ignored all of Peter’s threats, warnings, and bribes, and he had complete faith that when he returned to the office Mahmoud would be sitting behind his desk, hacking into some of the world’s most secret files. “I’m going to kill him.”

“Please don’t, darling. My children need their father and I don’t fancy visiting you in prison. Speaking of which, have you heard anything more from MacGowan? Is he still planning to gut you?”

Again, he could thank Mahmoud for spilling the beans about that particular threat. “Nothing yet. I had another message from Isobel. She says she’s had word that he’s crossing the Atlantic on a freighter, so I imagine he’ll show up sooner or later.”

“And Isobel? Is she staying on Mars or wherever she and Killian have hidden themselves?”

He pulled into the underground parking garage. “No reason not to.”

“If you promise not to kill Mahmoud I’ll put the babies down early and have my wicked way with you.”

“Promises, promises,” he said lightly. “You want me to pick up anything for tea?”

“Not a thing. See you in an hour?”

“Depending on traffic.”

The building that housed the new Committee offices was small, sleek and modern. They owned the top two floors, and the first two were leased by a cover organization. It was after six, and everyone had left, though he’d noticed the light in his office as he’d driven in. Bugger Mahmoud, he thought grumpily, riding up in the elevator.

The outer hallway was dark, not even a security light breaking through the gloom, and for a moment he wondered if he’d been wrong, if he’d simply forgotten to turn off his own lights. He dismissed the idea – he was a careful man, and that care and attention to details had kept him alive in a very dangerous business. No, Mahmoud had definitely managed to break in, and he knew which parts of the walls had electric current running through them.

He opened the first door and froze. There was no mistaking the stink of sudden, violent death, and he slammed the door open to his office as rage and grief washed over him.

A tall, slender form stood in the middle of the room, looking down at the body on the floor, but his head jerked up at Peter’s precipitous entrance.

“There you are,” Mahmoud said in his lightly-accented English. “You’ve got a dead man in your office.”

It took Peter only a moment to keep from grabbing the boy, shaking him thoroughly, and then hugging him. Genny had done wonders at teaching her husband to drop his Englishman’s inhibitions, but Mahmoud would likely gut him if he tried. He pulled his vaunted imperturbability back around him.

“So I see. Did you kill him?”

Mahmoud shook his head. “He was already dead when I broke in. I would have killed him for you if he’d still been rooting around, but one of your traps got him.”

Peter moved around the side of the desk. The man was lying face down on the carpet. He nudged him with his foot, then rolled him over onto his back.

“Fuck.”

“Know him?” Mahmoud said. “Thought so. Who is he?”

“CIA,” Peter said succinctly.

“What did you do to piss them off?”

“Nothing. It’s not me they’re mad at.” He rose, making a few swift calculations. “You up to helping me get rid of the body?”

“Aren’t there child labor laws?” Mahmoud said with a callous grin.

“Don’t give me that. You find the peaceful life dead boring. Just don’t tell Genny.” He needn’t have bothered to ask. The two of them had an unspoken pact to spare Genevieve from the more violent aspects of his current life and Mahmoud’s former one.

“If they’re not mad at you then who are they after?”

“Killian,” said Peter. “And Isobel.”

Mahmoud gave the dead body a hard kick. “After all these years? Why now?”

“I’d say it’s because MacGowan finally surfaced. I think they’re hoping they can trace the two of them through MacGowan.”

“Can they?”

“Isobel has never been a fool.”

Mahmoud just looked at him. “Is that an answer?”

“God, I hope so.”

MacGowan was better at cheating than she was, Beth realized in no time at all. All her machinations got her exactly nowhere. If the poker stakes were food he’d make sure she won, if they were anything else she was shit out of luck. By the time they were four days out she owed him three hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars and her first three children.

They were sitting in the small room that served as dining hall and meeting room, and it was close to midnight. Dylan had dragged himself off to bed hours ago, disgruntled at being ignored, and Beth knew she should go as well. She couldn’t tear herself away from him.

He hadn’t touched her once in the last few days. He might never have kissed her in the dingy hall outside their hotel room, might never have held her as she wept and shivered. He treated her as he treated Dylan, a combination of brotherly teasing and impatience, and as her wariness faded her own complicated feelings worsened.

She couldn’t begin to understand what she wanted from him. They’d been through too much together for anything as innocent as a flirtation, and he was much too big and scary a creature when he wasn’t mocking her. There were times when she was honestly afraid of him. He could kill, had killed for her on a number of occasions, seemingly without a moment’s hesitation or an ounce of regret. He was mercenary, brutal, charming, devious, and yes, any other woman would think he was sexy as hell. Not her.

Not her. Oh hell, yes, her. The way he moved, as if he understood his body better than any man had a right to and knew just how to use it for a woman’s maximum pleasure. The way his gray eyes slid over her, coolly caressing. It meant nothing, it was part of his stock in trade, and yet she felt it slide over her skin like a physical touch.

They were alone now, and he was dealing the greasy deck of cards with the practiced ease of a professional gambler. She’d always prided herself on her skills – she’d been taught by the bodyguards who’d dogged her every step, and she was used to crushing other players with her innocent demeanor and ruthless guile.

But MacGowan was more than a match for her. In fact, they had quickly fallen into a rhythm, matching each other. He knew her strengths and weaknesses, she knew his.

“Another hand?” he suggested.

“I should go to bed.”

“For what? You’ll just wake up in the morning and we’ll play more poker. May as well keep going.”

“I already owe you too much money.”

“Double or nothing?” His voice was low, almost sexual, and she wanted to slap him.

“Can’t afford it.”

“You might always win.”

“Only if you let me.”

“Then we can wager for more traditional stakes.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Such as what?”

“I’d start with your underwear.”

Okay, that wasn’t what she was expecting. She felt her reaction down low, shocking herself. “I don’t think they’re your style.”

His smile was slow and sensual. “No, they’re not. That’s why I want you out of them.”

For a moment she said nothing. “Clearly you’re bored. You’re forgetting I’ve gotten pretty good at calling your bluff. If you’re trying to make me squirm it won’t work.”

“It looked to me as if you just squirmed quite nicely.”

She could feel her face heat. “Then you’re imagining things. I’m sorry you don’t have some suitable female around to practice on, but we’ll be in Spain in another couple of days and I’m sure you can find someone more appealing.”

“Stop it.”

Her eyes widened. There was no humor, no teasing in his voice now, but an undercurrent of real anger. Don’t pull the tiger’s tail, she thought absently. And did so anyway. “Stop what?”

“Guilelessness doesn’t become you.”

“You think I’m guileful?”

“I think you know exactly what’s between us, and you know that sooner or later you’re going to have to face it.”

“I don’t have to face anything I don’t want to.”

“Yes, you do.” He dealt the cards with brisk, elegant efficiency. “Pick up your hand.”

“I want to go to bed.”

“We can do that instead.”

She couldn’t help her reaction, and he raised his eyes. “Don’t flinch. You know damned well I’m not going to hurt you.”

She didn’t know any such thing. He might not inflict physical pain on her body, but he could destroy any last hope of equanimity she had left. “I came to Callivera for peace,” she said, seemingly a non-sequitur. “If I were interested in a relationship I would have stayed home, not gone to live with a priest.”

“First off, Sister Beth, if you were looking for peace you made a big mistake in choosing a country like Callivera. Second, I’m not offering you a relationship. They don’t work for me.”

“Then what are you offering me?”

“The best sex of your life.”

It was out there now, what she’d been trying to pretend didn’t exist. “That’s not saying much.” The words were out before she had a chance to think better of it.

“I know.” He picked up his own hand, then gave her an evil smile. “One hundred thousand dollars against your bra, Sister Beth. Surely it’s worth the risk.”

She looked down at her hand. Two threes. She gave him a dulcet smile. “You’re on.”

He lay down his hand. Two jacks. “Pay up,” he said.

“I’m not wearing a bra.” She didn’t bother to hide her smirk

“I know.”

Okay, point to him. She resisted the impulse to wrap her arms around her body. It would only draw more attention to her breasts beneath the loose cotton shirt.

He picked up the cards, shuffled, and dealt again. “You are wearing knickers. I’ll up the ante. Two hundred thousand against the knickers, and I won’t even look at my hand.”

“You don’t need to – you cheat.”

His smile was cool. “Live dangerously, Sister Beth. I’ll tell you what – you take my hand, I’ll take yours.” He pushed the cards across the table towards her.

She should get the hell away from him, now while she still could. “I don’t think …”

“Coward,” he said.

She picked up his hand. Three nines. She bit her lip, looking distressed. “This isn’t a good idea.”

She couldn’t read his face, whether she’d managed to fool him or not. “Call,” he said.

She put the hand down, allowing a triumphant smile to curve her mouth. “You shouldn’t have offered to switch hands. There’s such a thing as being too cocky.”

“I don’t think you want to be talking about my cock now, do you?” He laid out his hand. A flush – all hearts. “Pay up.”

“No.”

“You don’t welsh on a debt of honor, Sister Beth.”

“I’ll pay you the extra two hundred thousand.”

“We’re up to three if you count the bra you’re going to have to hand over when I take you back to your room. And no deal. Some things are worth more than money.”

“You’re a degenerate.”

“True enough, but we’ll get to that later. In the meantime strip off those jeans and hand over the panties.”

She didn’t move. He seemed lazy, relaxed, but there was no humor in his hard eyes. They were dark, intent, and predatory and she knew he wasn’t going to back down.

And then he smiled at her, like a Bengal tiger sizing up a stray lamb. “I’ll tell you what, my angel. All or nothing.”

“What do you mean?”

“You can deal. You’ve told me you know how to cheat, though I have yet to see any proof. I won’t even look in case you fumble. You win, you get all your money back, including the reward for delivering you out of the jungle, and you get to keep your underwear to yourself.”

“And if you win?”

“You know the answer to that. Time’s up. We have unfinished business no matter how much you want to deny it. Time to stop running away. Deal.”

She picked up the hand and began to shuffle.

MacGowan leaned back, watching her fiddle with the cards. She did so obsessively, stopping at one point to examine the deck, front and back, looking for anomalies. There were none – his ability to cheat more devious than that.

He had no idea why he would win this particular hand, a hand he wouldn’t even touch. A bloody fortune was riding on it, a large enough amount to ensure a comfortable stretch of time, though with his tastes nothing would last forever. Money came and money went. The Committee, for all its abandoning him like flotsam, paid him obscenely well. He had twice the amount he was wagering in a bank in the Cayman Islands. And he was going to make damned sure he was compensated for those years in captivity. Though killing Peter Madsen might make collecting that back pay a little difficult.

He looked at her. He’d been hoping the memory of that wretched time in the foul apartment might have dissipated some of his roaring lust. Instead he couldn’t stop thinking about her, couldn’t stop remembering the feel of her beneath him. Her hands, clutching at him as he rocked against her, her mouth underneath his, the feel of her, the smell of her skin, the taste …

She’d been doing her absolute best to keep him at a distance. Her devotion to that told him all he needed to know, even without catching her staring at him when she thought he wouldn’t notice.

She refused to flirt, refused to let him anywhere inside the walls she’d erected around herself. They might never have shared that desperate trip out of the jungle, the narrow cot in the cabin, the bone-shaking kiss in the hotel hallway. He understood – he had the same walls around him and no one was getting inside them.

“Don’t look so worried, Sister Beth,” he said, lightly mocking. “I’m only talking about a good, nasty fuck. We’ll both be the better for it.”

He expected an argument, but she ignored him. Shuffling. Shuffling. He knew she’d take the wager. She might even try to cheat. He’d watched her deal from the bottom of the deck before and she wasn’t that bad. No match for him, of course, but not bad. It wouldn’t do her any good, and neither would dithering. He was going to have her tonight, and she knew it. Wanted it, against her better judgment.

He stopped for a moment, considering whether his overwhelming need for her was clouding his perceptions. Maybe he was fooling himself into thinking she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

No. There were some things he knew. What lay between them was unstoppable, unbreakable, and there’d be no peace for either of them until it was done.

She glanced up at him, and he looked into her deceptively calm eyes. The pull, the demand was there like a dark, living thing between them, and she didn’t even seem to recognize it. That, or she chose to ignore it.

“You’re going to have to face the fact that you want this, you know,” he said suddenly, his patience beginning to wear thin.

“Want what?” The riffling sound of the cards was loud in the charged silence.

“Sex. With me.”

She slapped the cards down. “This game is over.”

“No, it isn’t.”

She picked them up again, and began to shuffle, ignoring him, and something snapped.

“If you shuffle those fucking cards one more time I’m going to throw them overboard,” he snarled.

“Fine.”

“Deal.”

He saw the flash of uncertainty in her eyes, and then her mouth thinned. “Fine,” she said again. And she dealt the cards, fast, neat, no attempt at stacking the deck.

“We’re agreed on the stakes?” he said, looking at the cards that lay face down on the scarred old table.

She was afraid, he realized with sudden shock. It should have made him back off. But he was like a wolf who’d found his mate, and he wasn’t about to let her go so easily. Not when her fear was irrational and misplaced. He wasn’t going to hurt her, and deep inside she had to know it.

“Yes.” Her voice didn’t shake. Her hand did.

“You first.”

She picked up the cards, looked at them, then spread them out on the table. A full house, eights and jacks. She didn’t bother to hide her relief, and the look she gave him was triumphant. “Too bad,” she said lightly.

“Don’t you want to look at my hand?”

“Even you aren’t that lucky.” She flipped the cards over, one at a time. Ten of spades, jack of spades, queen of spades, the bitch goddess of the card deck and his personal favorite. He relaxed, knowing he had her.

Her hand stilled and her fear was back, running neck and neck with his anticipation. King of spades. Ace of spades.

“Royal flush,” she said bleakly.

“Yes.” It would be spades, he thought, not the juicy red hearts. What lay between them was darkness and pain, not valentine’s day.

He rose, and held out his hand to her. If she refused, tried to bargain, he told himself he’d walk away. She was way too much trouble. The sex would be lousy with a semi-virgin like Sister Beth, and he just wasn’t interested in a challenge at the moment.

Fuck that. He couldn’t walk away. Sane or not, he wanted her too badly. He waited, not saying anything.

She looked up at him, trying to hide the fear that danced in the back of her eyes. She put her hand in his and rose from the table.