Wicked Temptation (Nemesis Unlimited) (17 page)

“You entrusted me with a secret,” he said solemnly. “It’s I who should be thanking you.”

Though she merely sat at a table, her heart pounded. She couldn’t believe how he’d responded to her most closely kept secret, and not only had he not shamed her about it, he’d shown remarkable understanding. Surprising sensitivity.

Oh, goodness—he was a very dangerous man. A woman could easily find herself hopelessly enamored.

“Tell me something of yourself,” she pressed.

His expression instantly became opaque, and he leaned back. “Not much to tell.”

She laughed. “I find that difficult to believe, especially of a man in your line of work.”

“I can’t talk about any of that,” he said flatly.

Though she sensed the divide he put up, like a portcullis clanging down, she’d grown bolder in these past few days. Since meeting him. “Then tell me something that has nothing to do with Nemesis or your other line of work. Something about you as a child.”

He rubbed at his goatee. For a few moments, she believed he wasn’t going to answer her. Then, “I was a sickly child,” he said flatly.

“You?” She couldn’t keep the astonishment from her tone. “But you seem so…”
Virile,
her body whispered. “Strong.”

“Malignant scarlet fever,” he said. “Took me years to recover. I couldn’t play. Couldn’t go to school. I thought it would keep me at home as my mother’s
bambino
my whole damn life.” He frowned as if caught off guard by his vehemence.

“You aren’t sick now,” she noted.

“Eventually, I recovered.”

She never would have guessed he’d been anything but capable from the moment of his birth.

“All those years indoors,” she said. “Did you ever learn an instrument?”

He continued to scan the room. “My mother tried to press piano lessons on me. But I tricked the instructor to play for the duration of the sessions, so that when it was time for him to go, I hadn’t played a note.”

Naturally, he’d been devious, even as an ill child. What a trial for his mother. And a source of pride.

So many discoveries in one night. In a day. And none was more astounding than the discovery of him. And herself.

SEVEN

Dawn pinkened the sky, and most of the café’s patrons had either staggered home or else passed out at the tables. The waiters grabbed these men and dragged them out to the curb. The servers sent dagger-filled glares at Marco and a sleepy Bronwyn. Closing time.

She rubbed her eyes as she and Marco got to their feet. “Tonight was a waste.”

“We know he doesn’t come to this café,” Marco said. “But that doesn’t mean our trail’s gone cold.”

They walked out onto the street.

“Easy,” he murmured, when Bronwyn stiffened as he placed his arm around her waist. “Just giving you a little support. You’re dead on your feet.”

Instead of pulling away, she leaned on him. Hunger tore through him at the feel of her. He’d learned tonight of her true passion beneath the genteel surface. She was far more than a society widow. She possessed fierce intelligence and a hidden drive, known only to him. Her secret burned within him like a coal.

He’d planned on suggesting a brief liaison once the mission was over, but those plans couldn’t hold back his body’s needs now. They refused to be denied.

*   *   *

Bronwyn watched, mystified, as Marco released her to duck into a narrow alley. For a moment, she stood on the sidewalk, debating. Was this part of the plan to find Devere? Or did he have something else in mind?

“Bronwyn.” His voice, lower and huskier than ever, curled from the darkness.

An invitation. She’d felt the need in him when he’d held her a moment ago. Need that rang through her own body like the low chiming toll of a bell. She felt poised on the cusp of something, something huge and terrifying and possibly wonderful.

She could refuse the invitation. He left the choice to her.

She stepped into the alley.

The moment she did, predawn shadows enveloped her. And the solid heat of his body, pressed snug to hers, as one of his hands cupped the back of her head. The fingers of his other hand splayed low on her back, pulling her even closer. She couldn’t see him, but she felt him. The hard width of his chest. His firm, sculpted arms. His breath fanning warmly over her face. He felt strong and dangerous, capable of anything.

And still, in the tightness of his embrace, she could sense it. He would let her go, if she wanted.

Instead, she gripped his forearms, rose up on her toes, and brushed her lips over his.

His mouth took possession of hers. He didn’t waste time on soft, coaxing preliminaries. He hungered. For her. His kisses were openmouthed, his tongue finding hers and stroking it boldly. This didn’t feel like practiced seduction. It was need and want, unfettered, and it poured through her like music, striking every nerve and filling her with sensation.

She’d never had a kiss like this. As though it were lovemaking itself. As though the meeting of lips could be enough. And she kissed him back, with all the hunger that had been building within her for what felt like years. He tasted of wine. Her head spun as she allowed herself to fall into intoxication. His hands were broad and warm and unapologetic in their hold of her.

The alley fell away. Paris disappeared. Everything vanished in a haze, leaving only her and Marco, and the fires they stoked within each other. Fires that could burn everything to the ground, leaving only ashes.

A moan curled up from the back of her throat, answered by his growl. He held her tighter, and even through her clothing, her corset, and all the garments between them, she felt the power of his body. The things this man must be capable of …

God, she’d never known it could be like this. Only in her fantasies. Certainly not in her real life.

At the thought, she tore her mouth away, turning her head to the side. His hold of her immediately loosened, and she found herself leaning back against the brick wall behind her, seeking balance. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and she could just make out his shadowy form, standing like a boxer. Arms at his sides, feet planted wide. Panting as if he’d emerged from a bout. But who was the victor?

“He’s here,” he rumbled. “Standing between us.”

Hugh,
she thought. “Not him. Me.” She pressed her hand to her pounding heart. Was it real? Was this too soon?

“You want this. Us.” There was no question, only statement.

She rubbed at her forehead. “I’m a damned muddle.”

He swore under his breath in Italian. “
Culo di Cristo,
I want you.” The admission seemed to shake him.

“I…” She struggled to speak the words. “I want you, too,” she confessed.

He cursed again. “Have to stay focused on finishing the job.” He seemed to be speaking more to himself than to her.

“You’re right.” She was glad. And angry. With herself. With him. Though she’d stopped wearing her weeds, she was in mourning. No matter how much desire burned within her, long held at bay, she couldn’t give in to it. She couldn’t be untrue. Not to Hugh, but herself. To the faith in herself that she could feel loss without needing to fill that chasm with sensation.

But, oh, did Marco tempt her.

“It’s nearly dawn,” he said. “We need to move on.”

Yes,
she thought, as they left the alley and returned to the street.
Need to move on from the frivolous desire I feel for him.

Yet it would be far simpler to tell herself that than to actually make it happen.

*   *   *

Italians were remarkable in their ability to curse. It was a prized national art form, as much as frescoes or sculpture or pasta.

Marco used that ability to call himself every foul name he could think of. English was far too limited, so he turned to his other native tongue. Because he’d been a goddamn fool to touch Bronwyn, to kiss her. Giving him a taste of what he couldn’t have right now. But the small taste only whetted his appetite for more.

The widow burned. And he wanted to be immolated in her fire.

Do the job,
he repeated to himself.
When it’s over, you can indulge yourself.
It’s how he’d always worked, how he managed to stay alive and sane through nearly two decades of spying and work for Nemesis. His system had never failed him, and he’d be a
testa di cazzo
to stray from a methodology that had kept him breathing, when other men he’d known were in the grave.

Both of them had made the right choice by stopping when they had. It didn’t make falling asleep any easier, though. After tossing around restlessly on his bed, he relieved some of his tension with a fast, hard wank. He’d tried not to think of her as he’d touched himself, yet his damn resolve broke, and it was her hand he imagined around his cock when he came. It didn’t feel quite … right. Though they had kissed, she hadn’t given him permission for anything else. But he’d used her as he’d pleasured himself. And he wasn’t certain how he could look at her without feeling, for the first time, a stab of conscience.

*   *   *

The rows of booksellers lining the Seine looked like a reader’s paradise to Bronwyn. She admired the clever design of the wooden stalls, that opened and unfolded much like books themselves. There had to be dozens of stalls, some selling illustrations or photographs in addition to the countless books, titles on their spines in French, English, Spanish, Italian, and even Latin, for the students across the river.

As she and Marco walked past the booksellers, it was all she could do to keep from stopping and browsing through the stalls’ wares for hours. Much as she loved music, books were doorways leading to worlds she’d never know.

But things were tense between her and Marco, dimming her enjoyment of the books. He and Bronwyn hadn’t spoken much to each other all day. There was almost remorse in his gaze. Did he regret kissing her? And did she feel the same? He was the first man she’d kissed since Hugh’s death—and she was still theoretically in mourning. Yet she wanted to grab Marco and kiss him again. What was wrong with her?

How was she supposed to feel?

She tried to distract herself with the books. “I almost wish we weren’t meeting Simon and Alyce.” Her voice sounded strained, thin. “It would be wonderful to find a copy of
The Count of Monte Cristo
in its original language.” Though she hadn’t any money to buy the book, even if she found it.

“Monsieur Verne holds more appeal for me,” Marco said.

She raised her brows. “Seems awfully fantastical for a pragmatist like you.”

His mouth tilted in a slight smile. “Yet even pragmatists like to believe in impossible things.”

She seized on the topic, grateful for the distraction from her thoughts. “Do you think it will ever happen? Ships that fly all the way to the moon? Electrically powered submersibles? It seems so outlandish.”

He gave one of his shrugs. “It may be as commonplace in the future as a Channel crossing. A man alive a hundred years ago would scarcely believe he could travel from London to Edinburgh in only a matter of hours.”

“Perhaps they’ll invent a potion that makes us live twice as long,” she said. “How amazing it would be to see such miracles come to pass.”

Despite the circumstances for her being in Paris, she wanted to revel in this moment, with the timeless Seine and limitless books. But between their search for Devere, and her confusing feelings about Marco, she couldn’t.

She caught a glimpse of Simon and Alyce up ahead, both looking at a book Alyce held. Their heads were bent together, and they exchanged small, intimate smiles.

Longing pierced Bronwyn. She’d never had that kind of closeness with Hugh. They’d been content to share a house, a table, and sometimes a bed. At the time, she hadn’t felt deprived or lonely. All marriages she knew were conducted in the same way.

But here was a glimpse of something she’d never truly witnessed: genuine love and respect between a husband and a wife. It glowed in Simon’s eyes and shone in Alyce’s smile, and the way they unfashionably found excuses to touch one another. A hand brushed against a sleeve. How Alyce sometimes bumped her shoulder against her husband’s in a gesture of affectionate teasing.

As she and Marco approached the couple, she glanced at him from the corner of her eye. Hoping to see a similar look of longing on his face. But he was as opaque as ever. An expert in hiding what he truly thought. One might imagine nothing affected him at all.

But she knew differently after last night.

Simon glanced up as they neared. He was a well-trained operative, because he didn’t wave or call out, or any of the things ordinary people might do when spotting friends on the street. He only gave them a clipped nod.

“Productive night?” he asked when Bronwyn and Marco reached him.

“Devere can’t afford whores,” Marco reported bluntly, “and he’s not looking for company in the cafés, either. At least he wasn’t last night.”

“A bloke of single-minded purpose,” Alyce said.

“So it seems,” Bronwyn answered. Barges floated up and down the Seine, and pedestrians strolled along the stone quays and beneath the bridges spanning the river. Rubbish floated on the surface of the water and boatmen shouted curses at each other. How would she remember this moment later? Therein lay the beauty of remembrance. One could select things to recall and draw a veil over the rest. Years later, when she thought back to this time, she’d remember the darkly handsome, purposeful man beside her, the books, and the ancient river.

“And you?” Marco picked up a volume and idly thumbed through its pages. It appeared to be about tropical plants. “Have you uncovered where we can run our gambling friend to ground?”

Simon stuffed his hands into his overcoat pockets, yet somehow he still looked elegant. “Alyce and I learned some things as we suffered through the world’s most excruciating dinner party.”

The Cornishwoman rolled her eyes. “They spoke English for my benefit, but they kept saying they suffered from
ennui,
which, close as I can figure, means ‘having too much money and not enough brains to find something to do.’ For God’s sake, they live in palaces and eat foods I can’t even figure out, but they say they’re just so
bored.
” She shook her head in disbelief.