Peyton Riley (7 page)

The bell chimed, the doors opened, and he led the way to their room—Gustave had taken it for granted they'd be staying together—and without a fumble nor a twitch of the fingers, he had the card key out and the door opened.

Then the door snicked closed, ending the world outside, and Peyton found stood face to face in a dim hotel room hallway with an uncharacteristically serious Carson, his eyes boring into her. Her hand was still tight in his grip.

He watched her gaze flick to their entwined fingers. "I don't want to let you go," he whispered.

"You'll have to."

He shook his head and took a step closer, and another, and another one; until she was pinned between the bottle-green wall paper and his navy-jacketed form. His hand remained closed around hers while the other drifted up to cup her face.

"Things should have been different between us," he whispered, touching his lips delicately to hers. He kissed her on the temple, and then on the cheek. "Every day, I wake up and I see you sleeping just inches from me," his lips found the hollow behind her ear, "I want you so much." His nose nudged her jaw and then he held her cheeks between his hands. "I want you so much it makes me ache." His lips touched her bandaged forearm and then murmured against her neck. "Even if there's all this between us. I'll take you any way I can. If you'll have me."

Her hands went back to his curls and she pulled him away to stare back into his eyes. The weight of them seemed to pin and drag her beneath their depths. "I shouldn't," she whispered. "You're drunk and you want me, but you're only trouble," she sighed.

He only stared back, and Peyton drifted in the undertow.

"I shouldn't, but I want to," and then she parted her lips for him and he kissed her deep.

"Peyton," he sighed, pulling off her coat, gently peeling away her blouse, kneeling and pressing his face against her flesh. "Oh, you smell so good." His breath was hot against her skin as he rubbed his cheeks against her ribs and belly. One arm wrapped around her hips while the other danced about her skin. "You're a goddess, you know that?"

"Don't you ever shut up?" she murmured, her own hands, buried in his curls, raising his head to kiss her again, deeply and completely, and then she fell against him.

"I can't shut up about you," he said, turning so she lay under him, and now he kissed-nuzzled-smelled her, burying his face and kissing and licking against her neck and in her cleavage and against her belly, grazing his teeth and running his lips against her elbows and on her waist, like a man enjoying her bounty, like someone who could not get enough of what she had to offer. She felt welcoming and warm and abundant, a rich red apple, a fairytale temptation.

In Carson's arms, Peyton was a
feast
.

His fingers busied themselves removing her brassiere and zipping off her skirt, and in a languid unfurling of limbs and flesh, she was bare beneath him. Carson groaned at the sight. She cupped his face.

"I think of you," he said, feverishly shrugging off his jacket, unbuttoning his shirt, ripping off a foil packet. "All the time." His hand reached out to cup her own cheek and traced a path from her jaw, down her neck and along the milky river of her skin. His finger trembled slightly.

"Kiss me," she said, raising herself on her elbows.

And then he fell upon her, giving himself over to the kiss, and they were a tangle of arms and limbs eager to strip the remaining clothes off him, and the sigh that came from them when they were both bare, skin finding home in skin, was that of relief.

Carson's hands and mouth were greedy; unable to decide where to linger, they roamed all over her. Peyton was no less insistent: her thighs clamped around his waist, her nails raked his back, her teeth sharp against his neck and shoulders and jaw and arms as his movement against her drove her wild. She skirted the edge of control, unable to find the edge of her desire, and when she felt him hard against her she arched up, took him in her hands and guided him inside.

The first sensation of him inside her was intense—she whimpered and shut her eyes at the power of the feeling. It was mingled desire and satisfaction; a sense of surrender and fulfilment; and at the center of the emotion, stronger than she imagined possible, was a sense of home. Her body felt engulfed and whole with Carson inside her, and though there was bitterness at the edge of her pleasure at the thought of his betrayal, her flesh pushed the thought away and delighted in their coupling.

He thrust against her, his mouth avid along her jaw, and she gripped him tight within her arms and legs, willing him deeper, inarticulate in her pleasure.

"Peyton," he said, and the helplessness in his voice made her whimper.

"Peyton," he said again, a plea. "Peyton." He sounded like he was begging. He buried his face in her neck as he begged again and again, thrusting desperately inside her.

"Carson," she finally answered, bucking back, matching him thrust for thrust, the sweat pooling between them, their shut eyes now opening and finding each other's gaze as they pressed and they pounded and chased their ecstasy.

When it hit, it felt like the earth opening beneath her. She was swallowed up in the climax, the overwhelming wall of pleasure so complete and full that her breath left her for a few moments, and above her Carson was similarly frozen. It felt that they were spinning out in the vastness of space, and the only tether that kept them from flying completely away was the connection between their eyes.

They clung to each other as they floated back to earth.

Chapter 9

She awoke with a start to the sound of murmuring voices. Her arm smarted; the night's activities dislodged the bandage. One eye squinted in the dim room—a lamp cast a feeble yellow glow and the drapes were still drawn—but at the round table near the TV where business travelers were supposed to set up their laptops and work, two silhouetted figures sat and talked. She realized who the second figure was, and in a brief flash of panic (A lamp shining on her face! Where was she?) she yelped and drew the duvet around her.

A switch was flipped and the cove lights came on.

"Ah, Mademoiselle Peyton," said Gustave. Peyton glanced at the clock underneath the TV. Improbably, and at six in the fucking morning, Monsieur Gustave was impeccably dressed in one of his shark-gray suits, his longish hair expertly styled into place. Carson looked bleary and dim beside him in his hotel bathrobe.

"Gustave," she said archly, sitting up and trying to cover up the triphammer of her heart with a cold and imperious manner.

Gustave was not fooled. He looked her up and down with an amused smirk, and turned his sardonic gaze back at Carson. "I was just telling our friend Carson here that you must get all packed up and on the earliest train to Amsterdam. At this moment. We have wasted enough time."

She merely looked back, mind still fuzzy at the improbable wake up call.

"That is all I had to say," he replied cheerfully. He stood and gave her a courteous little bow. "And also that haste is required. The pieces are in place; Lady Anastasia is in agreement. Carson, it is now in your favor—" and Gustave gave her the most pointed and briefest of leers "—to work your magic on our Anja Rubinstein." He took a few steps, turned and buttoned up his jacket. "That painting must not be sold. By any means necessary. Understood?"

"Yes," said Carson.

Gustave was out the door with a flourish.

At precisely 8:52 the gleaming red train pulled out of the Brussels station and sped towards Amsterdam. In first class, Peyton and Carson chose seats next to the window. Though the plush-covered chairs faced each other over a bolted-down table, each instead watched the old country flash beyond the glass.

Since Gustave rang the bell to their hotel room that morning, Carson felt the loss of the spell breaking between Peyton and himself. The night before was intense and sexy. He'd finally consummated his desire for Peyton. It had never left him, since Cosa Imbah'i, and strengthened through the days when she was out of his reach. It had felt like a low-grade fever lingering in his muscles and bones. And then, last night: blessed, delicious release.

Then came their employer to remind them of their duties, and the fire between them died, replaced by a hard frost.

They'd packed up and checked out in silence, each consumed by their thoughts, but in the frown on Peyton's face and the terseness of her replies, Carson had a very good idea what ran through her mind.

A trolley with their meals arrived, but neither was interested in eating it. Peyton sipped at her water, still resolutely looking at the window.

"Peyton."

"Mm."

"When we get back to–"

"I have it covered," she said absently.

"Gustave wants us coordinating." He groped in his breast pocket and pulled out a pair of tiny devices, small, flesh-colored wireless ear buds.

She looked at his palm then made a face. "I don't do puppetry."

"You're the takedown specialist. I'm the charm offensive. We need to work together on this."

She sipped her water. "Back to shop talk, I see."

He pulled her uninjured arm across the table and held her hand. "Let's just get this job done and then–"

"And then we go back to our lives. You to whatever racket you've got going on, and me to my boss in London."

His grip tightened. "You and I both know that we've got something here."

"Whatever we've got, it's best to leave it in Brussels." She turned to the window. "Never good to complicate things. As Gustave would say—the job is critical."

"Look at me." His voice was hard enough to startle her, and she looked up. "I'm the sort of guy who'd die for a job well done. I have my own set of principles too, and I know what I'm paid for. But since I met you …since Cosa Imbah'i…"

"Don't talk to me about Cosa Imbah'i!"

"Peyton, you got me thinking that maybe there's more to things than the job."

"
I
was just a job," she said, and though her voice was steady, her eyes flashed. "You said it yourself, you know what you're paid for, and you're
still
doing a great job getting me this far. Don't continue the play longer than it needs to be."

"I'm not playing!"

She snatched her hand from underneath his. "Don't think I'm stupid," she said. "I'm here till we're done, and then we're
done
. There's no need to mindfuck me, on top of everything else."

"Last night…"

"Last night was two people pretending they were someone else."

Carson looked like he had been slapped. He turned to the window and ran his hand through his curls. For several long minutes only the sound of the train and the dim chatter of their carriage filled the space between them, the ambient noise of two people refusing to speak to each other.

"Gustave still wants us to coordinate," said Carson.

"Gustave can go choke on a dick."

Carson bit his lip, trying not to smile. "I still need your help, you know. I don't know this takedown shit. I'm just the–"

"The charm offensive, I know."

He held the devices out to her again. "Please?"

She pursed her lips and looked away.

"For the sake of the job." His hand was warm against hers and stupidly reassuring; as corny as it sounded, it was like her skin yearned for his touch.

She took one of the devices and fiddled with it. "Fine."

The train pulled up in the busy Central Station. They stepped out, Carson gallantly carrying her overnight bag.

"You hungry?"

Peyton thought of the untouched meal on the train. "Sure."

He led her across the street to an old building, where a café nestled within high arched windows, some diehard patrons braving the chill on the colorful outdoor tables.

Inside a man beckoned Carson over to a dim table well away from the large windows. Peyton shot Carson a curious look, which he returned with a self-assured smile.

"Carson," said the man. He was short, dark and shifty, with a ridiculously stiff mustache waxed so that the tips pointed upwards like Salvador Dali. He had a thin package on his lap, under the table, and his fingers twitched when he handed the leather envelope to Carson.

"This it?"

The man's eyes darted to Peyton.

"She's with me."

"It is," said the man. He had an Eastern European accent.

"Do you want to see it?" Carson asked her.

"Not here!" hissed the mustachioed man.

"Ivor, Ivor," Carson shook his head. "Do you really think I'll take this sight unseen?"

"Come on man," said Ivor, his voice taking on a reedy, whining quality. "You know my product; I'm quality, man."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Carson smirked.

"Is this the–?" asked Peyton, as Carson surreptitiously tore the wrapping under the table.

Ivor looked like he was about to sweat bullets. "Carson, man, be careful, eh?"

Peyton eyed the small man. "You jonesing, Ivor?"

He flinched. "None of your business."

Carson tutted. Half the package was now open on his lap; Peyton ducked her head and made out a violent abstract full of agitated reds and angry yellows. He ran a finger over the pigments, which seemed to have been applied with such force that the paint bunched up in some places. Ivor leaned over the table, darting eyes shifting from the painting to Carson's fingers to Peyton's face and at the nearly empty chairs around them like a particularly strung-out reptile.

"See man?" Ivor whined. "Mid-century canvas. Period-specific paint. Not easy to come by. You see the strokes, man? That's skill, that is."

"Who did it?" Carson murmured, squinting at the frame.

"You know I can't tell you that."

He raised an eyebrow. "We had a price point, Ivor."

"You said we're selling to a dealer. They'd
know
."

"Ivor…"

The small man spasmed and tugged at his mustached. "Just a couple grand, Carson, you know how hard it is to put things together."

"Bullshit," said Carson cheerfully. "I called this out two days ago, Ivor; if you didn't have this lying around looking for a rube to hack it off to then I'm a monkey's uncle."

He tugged his mustache so hard Peyton worried he's pluck it right off. "Alright, alright man!" He spread his hands on the table and looked up at them with a junkie's most pitiful begging face. "Listen, what if I give you some information, man? You need a hook with that Rubinstein girl, don't you?"

Carson slipped the painting back into the folder. "You holding out on me, Ivor? After all I do for you?"

"Hey man, I just got this tip hot, yes? What if I tell you I know how you can meet the girl? Guaranteed."

"Continue," said Carson.

He cocked his head in a particularly lizardlike gesture. "Nothing in life is free, eh?"

"What do you want?" said Peyton, covering one of his hands with her own and then twisting his pinky finger back so quickly he bit back a yelp, eyes watering in pain.

"Peyton!" Carson scolded.

"I'm getting a little tired of the back and forth, sirs," she said, giving the finger a little more pressure and causing Ivor to press his forehead on the table. "Clock is ticking. He's either shitting us or he can help; either way, he's wasting time."

Carson gently pried her fingers off Ivor's. "There's no need for that." Ivor cradled his pinky and glared at her balefully. "But you heard the girl, Ivor. Time's a-ticking."

"Fine. I want two grand, down. Then I speak."

Carson peeled some bills off his money clip. "This is coming off our per diem, Peyton," he pouted.

"I don't like eating cheap," she glared back at the mustached man. "You better talk and it better be worth it, sir, or I snap that clean off."

So he talked.

The Stedelijk was shaped like a giant kitchen sink and stuffed with people enjoying contemporary art on an improbable weekday. Peyton stood behind one of the bookshelves in the museum's large and airy bookshop, watching Carson browsing among hipster children's books (graphic design alphabets primers and artsy pop-ups), waiting for their mark. In her ear was the device: a combination mic and earphone, a flesh-colored button pressed into the canal, unobtrusive to only the most curious and intimate of inspectors.

She hated it. Save for the required safe phone, Peyton preferred the clandestine, the analogue, the tactile. Roi sometimes called her Smiley after John le Carre's 70s spymaster—but it wasn't an endearment; rather an impatient shaming of her Luddite tendencies. She saw her old boss's white-blonde mustache once again, how it squirmed when he chewed and worked his lips (a surefire sign of annoyance), and an answering panic rose within her. She'd have hell to pay when this job was done, and she was sure that an impatient nickname would be the least of her worries when she returned to London.

She pulled out a heavy art book and turned the pages absently. Nudes leapt out at her—angular and abstract and fleshy and hyperreal and some rather on the porn-y side. Scenes from Brussels flashed in her mind and she shut the book with a snap, her cheeks heating. Peyton was the farthest thing from a prude or a scrupulous Catholic schoolgirl (her 'upbringing' made sure of that), and she felt irritated at the heat in her cheeks. But the truth was that being with Carson, from the island where they met under false names (not that Carson had volunteered his own), to the night in Brussels that had brought out all their borrowed intimacy back to the surface, was something unlike she'd ever felt before. She was used to using sex for control, for leverage, and sometimes simply for release. But with Carson, it turned to–

A flash of white blonde killed her train of thought. Anja Rubinstein entered the bookshop, her distinctive hair nearly luminous against the black of her coat. She browsed among the displays, looking ludicrous with her shades indoors.

"Blondie's inside," Peyton murmured. Carson's head snapped up and scanned the room. Locked on his target, he crossed over to the displays. Peyton retreated into a shadowy corner behind a couple of shelves, the gaps between the volumes giving her a muddled view of Carson and Anja taking their seats by the sunny windows.

"Miss Rubinstein," Carson said. She could hear the smile in his tone. Charm offensive indeed.

"I am sorry," said Anja. "How did you find me again?" She sounded nervous, her voice shakier than when Peyton had overheard her in the Grand Amrath hotel.  Peyton could make out the crossed arms protective in front of her coat.