In His Shadow (Tangled Ivy Book 1) (32 page)

I sat up, keeping my chest covered with the blanket. “How did you get here? How did you find me?”

He looked at me strangely. “Don’t you remember calling me last night?”

I pushed a hand through my tousled hair, trying to remember. I’d been at the hospital, seen Devon, and ran. There’d been a church and somehow I’d gotten a cell phone. I remember looking at the numbers, thinking who could I call . . .

“I remember now,” I said. I shook my head. “They must have given me painkillers in the hospital. I’m so sorry. It’s Christmas, and you flew to Paris . . .” I was stunned that he’d done that and appalled that I’d asked it of him. “I’m sorry,” I repeated.

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Lane said. He glanced around and spied a wooden chair, which he dragged closer and sat on, with a small sigh. “You were hurt and said he was going to kill you. And I wasn’t far.”

At my questioning look, he explained. “Interpol flagged Clay when he left the country. Video showed you with him. I arrived yesterday.”

I felt slightly better that I hadn’t made him board a flight to France on Christmas Day, but still. “How long have you been
here
?” I asked, pointing down to indicate the room we were in.

He shrugged. “Since last night. You were pretty out of it when I got in, so I let you sleep.”

Lane had been here all night and I hadn’t even known? Maybe it should have creeped me out, but the kindness and compassion in his eyes eased my trepidation.

“So you want to tell me what happened?” he asked, nodding toward the bandage on my head. “Who’s trying to kill you? Clay?”

I sighed, took a deep breath, and told him everything—well, almost everything. I didn’t mention the Shadow, Devon’s warning still echoing in my ears, and I had no wish to put Agent Lane in any further danger than I had already. But I did tell him about Mr. Galler and the pendant, Devon and the bank robbery, the journal, Heinrich, and the virus. I ended with confessing how I’d escaped and was on the run from both of them.

“I don’t know if they’d go to the trouble to hunt me down now and kill me,” I said. “But Devon might.”

“I thought you and he were . . .” Lane let the sentence trail off, but I got his meaning. I appreciated his tact in not saying “sleeping together.”

“He . . . used me,” I said, going for vague. I had the gut feeling the fewer people who knew about the vaccine inside me, the better. Likewise, I didn’t tell him about the pages I’d mailed. Without the key, he wouldn’t be able to decrypt them anyway. “And I betrayed him. I think that puts us firmly in the past tense,” I said, swallowing the growing lump in my throat.

I was still having a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that Devon had been playing me that whole time, buying me clothes, showing me Paris, telling me he wanted to be with me longer. All of it had been an act, an act to keep me close so Heinrich wouldn’t find out the truth and the Shadow would have the vaccine.

“You weren’t betraying him, you were saving his life,” Lane said, the bitterness in his tone taking me aback.

“I don’t think he sees it that way.”

Lane’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t say anything.

“You knew Devon was in Paris, but why would you come?” I asked. “I thought you’d been told to stay away from him?”

“Galler was identified as a possible terrorist threat by FEMA,” he replied, “due to his work as a bioengineer. His murder raised red flags, as did Clay’s presence in the city. We knew something was going on, and I’ve been trying to put the pieces together. Now, thanks to you, I have.”

A thought occurred to me and I chewed my lip, trying to figure out how to ask what was on my mind. Lane must have read my consternation because he frowned.

“What is it?” he asked. “Are you hurting?”

“No, not that,” I said quickly. “It’s just, um, it’s Christmas and . . . well, surely you have a family? A wife? Someone that this,” I waved my hand, “is keeping you from?”

Lane relaxed a little at my question, his lips curving into a smile. “My parents are accustomed to my work schedule being a little . . . unpredictable. My dad was a cop, too. He retired a while back. As for a wife, no, I’m not married.”

I thought about asking if he had a girlfriend, but bit my tongue. It wasn’t any of my business, though I was curious about this agent who’d taken such an interest in this case—enough to follow Devon to Paris.

“You realize that if Devon works for the British government, you won’t be able to touch him,” I said.

Lane shrugged, unconcerned. “If he comes after you, I’ll take him out and there isn’t anyone who can stop me, no matter what government he works for.”

I forced a weak nod, though the thought of anyone “taking out” Devon made me sick to my stomach. But I wasn’t crazy about the idea of him killing me, either.

“I got you some clothes,” Lane said, getting to his feet. He grabbed a paper bag from the floor and handed it to me. “I saw you didn’t have anything last night so I took a guess on your size.”

“Thanks,” I said. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, but stopped, my gaze lifting to Lane, who still stood next to me. His eyes were on my bare thighs.

“I’ll just get dressed,” I said pointedly.

“Oh! Yeah, right, sure.” He quickly turned his back and I could have sworn his ears turned red.

I dropped the blanket and dumped out the bag, glad though slightly embarrassed to see he’d even bought me underwear. No bra, but I guess for a man that would really be pushing it. The jeans were a little big around the waist, but would do. The top was a thin, pale pink sweater, its cut simple with long sleeves and a V-neck.

It was obvious I was cold, but there was nothing I could do about that. Maybe in Paris, no one would notice my lack of appropriate underwear. The clothes were quite different from the designer brands I’d worn yesterday, but I didn’t complain. It had been exceedingly thoughtful of Lane to get them for me.

“I don’t have a brush or anything,” I said, trying to finger-comb my hair.

“Oh, yeah, I got you a few toiletries,” Lane said, digging in the pockets of his coat. He deposited a pile of things in my hands: a little toothbrush and travel tube of paste as well as deodorant and a purse-size brush. “Once you’re ready, we’ll get you something to eat. The embassy is closed on Christmas, so we won’t be able to replace your passport until tomorrow. We’ll have to stay another day here, is that okay?”

It seemed he’d thought of everything and, for a second, I was overwhelmed at the kindness of a near stranger. I looked up at him and the tears shining in my eyes seemed to alarm him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Did I forget something?”

I shook my head. “I’m fine,” I managed. “It’s just been a . . . really tough couple of weeks.” Understatement of the century. My life had been turned upside down and inside out, my body taken more abuse than it had in years, and my heart . . . my heart was a dead ache inside my chest. Glancing up at Lane, the concern in his eyes was my undoing and a lone tear escaped to trickle down my cheek.

Lane stepped closer and wrapped his arms around me, cautiously pulling me toward him. I let him, leaning my head against his chest while he rested his chin on the top of my head. He was a big guy, his arms and chest solidly muscled, and it made me feel better to stay like that for a few minutes. I didn’t feel quite so alone.

We didn’t speak as we stood there, and finally I pulled back. “I’d better finish getting ready,” I said, swiping a hand across my wet cheeks. I went into the bathroom, spending an inordinately long time brushing my teeth, washing my face, and generally just going through the motions. My hair was almost too much for the little brush, but I used it carefully, brushing my long hair until it gleamed, the white-blonde strands thick and straight as they fell over my shoulders and down my back.

When I emerged, Lane was sitting in the chair, his elbows braced on his knees and his hands loosely clasped as he studied the floor.

“Ready,” I said.

He glanced up and went still, his eyes taking a quick journey from my head to my toes and back. Then he cleared his throat.

“Great. Let’s get something to eat. You’ve gotta be starving.” He got to his feet and reached for his coat, swinging it over my shoulders. “You need this more than me.”

“It’s okay, you don’t have to—”

“Give me a little credit,” he interrupted with a grin. “I have some manners.”

I smiled back, pushing my arms into the way-too-long sleeves. The coat was big on me, ending mid-thigh, and smelled like Agent Lane, a spicy kind of musk that was comforting.

The streets were nearly deserted and we walked a few blocks in search of a restaurant that was open. When we came across one, I hesitated. It seemed the only restaurants open in Paris on Christmas Day were the kind Devon had taken me to the other night—the expensive kind. I knew Lane was a kind of cop, and I knew cops didn’t make much money, plus I didn’t have a dime on me. He opened the door, but I stayed on the sidewalk.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Let’s not eat here.”

“You don’t like this place? Um, okay. Well, we can keep looking.”

That made it sound like I was being a pain in the ass, but I’d rather he viewed me as that than say anything about money. Men usually didn’t take well to that sort of thing.

We were nearing the real hoity-toity part of Paris now and the next two places we found open were the same—high class and high dollar. After turning down the second, Lane confronted me.

“Okay, what’s the problem?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “I thought we’d just try to find a, you know, a place that’s not quite as . . . fancy.”

Lane frowned. “You’re kidding, right?”

My face warmed in embarrassment and I blurted, “These places are really expensive.”

He looked at me strangely. “Yeah, I know.”

I shrugged helplessly. “I don’t have any money.”

Lane finally seemed to get it, his frown melting into a smile. “Ivy, it’s okay. Though the circumstances are a little . . . unusual, the fact is that I’m in Paris, on Christmas Day, with a stunning woman. Let me buy you dinner.” He shrugged. “Call it a once in a lifetime event, but I’d rather enjoy the experience and not sweat the price tag.”

His words eased my trepidation and I let out a breath in relief, giving him a shy smile. “Okay.”

We were near Place de la Bastille and the restaurant was full, the smell wafting through the doorway when we entered, making my mouth water. Though they were busy, they found a corner table for two and soon we were seated. I was self-conscious given what I was wearing compared to the other patrons, but there was nothing I could do about it so I just held my head high and ignored the looks cast our way.

Lane leaned toward me. “We may be a little too American for this place,” he said in an undertone, then gave me a wink.

I laughed lightly. He’d caught the disapproving glares, too. “Maybe,” I agreed.

They had a prix fixe menu for Christmas so there wasn’t much choosing to do, which was fine with me. It all looked good. Though when the cold oysters arrived, Lane eyed them skeptically.

“Have you ever had oysters?” I asked.

He shook his head. “My protein is usually the kind that roams the fruited plain.”

I grinned. “Try it,” I said. “Here, like this.” I picked up a shell, turned it to the wide end, and slurped the fish and liquid into my mouth. I chewed a couple of times, then swallowed. “Yum.” I smiled. “Your turn.”

“Well I’m not about to let a girl show me up,” Lane teased, then copied my movements. He grimaced a bit when he chewed, but swallowed the oyster.

“What’d you think?”

“I think I prefer hot wings as an appetizer,” he deadpanned.

I laughed out loud at that. “More for me,” I said, reaching for another oyster in the tray of ice.

Lane watched me finish off the tray, and as the waiter removed it, asked, “So where did you learn to eat oysters?”

I shrugged, taking a sip of the champagne paired with the course. “Fancy dinner dates. I like to try new things. And my grandma always said I had champagne taste on a beer budget.”

“And where’s Grandma?”

“Back in Dodge City.”

“That’s where you’re from?”

I tipped up the champagne flute, letting the cool liquid slide over my tongue as I eyed Lane. Once I emptied the glass, I set it aside. “You’re telling me you don’t know that already.”

He had the grace to look a bit sheepish. “Yes, I’ve looked at your records,” he said, “but I wanted to hear it from you.”

The waiter brought the next course then, thin slices of foie gras with toast paired with a sweet white wine. I took a bite, savoring the delicacy, before answering Lane.

“My parents died when I was little. I was raised by my grandparents. Have a useless degree that I still enjoyed getting, and a job that pays the bills but isn’t exactly rocket science. End of story.”

“And the stepbrother out on parole? The one who attacked you in the parking lot?”

I sat back in my chair, raising an eyebrow. “Really? You want to bring that up
now
?”

He hesitated. “Fair enough,” he said. “So tell me what this stuff is.”

I explained the awesomeness that was foie gras, and he liked it better than the oysters. By now I was feeling pretty good after drinking the wine and champagne. Maybe a little tipsy, but it would be tacky to get tipsy on Christmas, so I decided I was just really relaxed.

“So do you have a first name, Agent Lane?” I asked. “Or shall I keep calling you
Agent
?”

He grinned at my teasing, resting his arm across the back of my chair. “I do, actually. It’s Scott. Scott Lane.”

I held out my hand. “Nice to meet you, Scott Lane.”

Scott took my hand and turned it palm down before brushing his lips across the back of my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, too, Ivy.”

My eyebrows flew up in surprise.

He shrugged, his lips tipping up in a one-sided smile. “When in Paris . . .”

His chocolate eyes were warm and deep enough it seemed I could drown in them. My hand was gently cradled in his, his thumb softly sliding across my knuckles in a chaste caress.