Wicked Temptation (Nemesis Unlimited) (32 page)

He rose up from his crouch. “Do you want me to apologize for the things I’ve done? Because I won’t.”

She also stood. “Not even for cutting Devere’s face the way you did? As if you enjoyed it.”

“I didn’t enjoy it,” he said through clenched teeth. “I was interrogating him. He wouldn’t have given us the information we wanted without a little coercion.”

“It seemed more like torture than coercion,” she fired back.

He spread his hands wide. “The hell is this about? You want me to be something that I’m not. A stainless hero. But I’m not a goddamn hero, I’m doing a job few can stomach but which benefits many.”

His jab wounded her with its accuracy. Perhaps she did want him to be more than he was. Perhaps she asked too much of him—but she hated seeing him kill and care nothing about it. It had to hurt him, in a way he couldn’t realize or admit.

“So you keep telling me,” she said.

“Dio,”
he muttered, “I didn’t even want to take the mission in the first place.”

She stiffened. “What?”

“I didn’t think it was what Nemesis was for. We’re about aiding the poor, the helpless.”

“And I didn’t fall under either of those categories,” she said tightly. “Except that I did. But you didn’t think so.”

“Not at the beginning.” He paced to the window and braced his arms on either side of the glass, peering out at what appeared to be an alley.

“Then why’d you take the case?” She felt brittle as frost. Who knew that heartbreak could happen so quickly?

“The others wanted to, and they knew I was best at dealing with missions involving finance. So I got assigned.”

“Fortunate for you.”

For a man so astute, it took him a remarkably long time to realize that everything wasn’t right with her. He turned away from the window. “You’re angry.”

She threw up her hands. “Of course I’m bloody angry.” It felt good, but not good enough, to curse. “I just found out that the man who’s been helping me all this time, who has been
sharing my bed
”—
who’s taken my heart
—“doesn’t want to be on this assignment.”

“Didn’t,”
he corrected. “I’ve since changed my mind.”

Her laugh was breakable like glass, and just as likely to cut someone. Herself, most likely. “That
is
fortunate for me.”

“What in God’s name do you want?” He took a step toward her. “I’m here. I’m doing everything I’m supposed to.”

“Because duty dictates.”

He clenched his fists. “I’m a Nemesis agent. Dozens, scores of jobs I’ve worked besides yours.”

“And did you make love to the women involved in those cases? Did you speak to them in Italian, too? Call them pretty names. Maybe not
strawberry.
How about
apple,
or
peach
? I’m sure those both sound lovely in Italian.”

His jaw clenched. “Don’t.”

“Why? Because I’ll wound your feelings?” She planted her hands on her hips. “You’ve done everything in your power to prove that you don’t
have
feelings.”

She wasn’t surprised when he stalked out the door, throwing over his shoulder the command, “Stay here.”

And then she was alone. But then again, perhaps she’d been alone all along.

*   *   *

While the abandoned toy shop wasn’t the sort of place in which Bronwyn wanted to spend any time, she knew better than to venture out into Paris alone, without Marco’s protection. It would be a foolish gesture, one that only put her in danger rather than proved anything to either of them.

Tired, but not weary enough to sleep, she wandered into the shop itself. There, children’s playthings lined shelves, never meant to be actually played with, only serving as a disguise for the shop’s real activity. Still, it was a melancholy sight—all those unused toys, waiting for someone to love them but waiting in vain.

She picked up one of the tin soldiers, now almost completely enveloped in rust. A nonexistent boy somewhere would have lain on the floor and put this soldier in command of a whole platoon, facing off against invisible cannon, leading the charge against the enemy. And when the soldier and his platoon emerged victorious from the gallant battle, that boy would’ve given his soldier a medal made from paper for bravery in the face of terrible odds.

Unlike the boy, unlike the tin soldier, the enemies that faced Bronwyn now were very real. Her hope was for survival, not a paper medal.

She wondered if her heart would survive this, as well.

Setting the tin soldier back upon the shelf, she drifted over to a hoop and rod, both in decent condition since they were wooden and less likely to decay. Taking them down, she held the toys in her hands. How long had it been since she’d played with these?

She rolled the hoop up and down the shop, using the rod to keep it upright. It took several tries before she could master it again. It had been quite a while since she’d been a girl taken to the park by her nanny, and her only concern had been keeping this wooden hoop straight and rolling for as long as possible.

So much easier to do this than think about everything else requiring balance.

Perhaps she did want too much from Marco. He could only offer as much as he could. Or
would
. Despite everything, he was still determined to keep himself as walled off as one of those Italian hilltop towns, ready to fend off any threat.

Or maybe the walls protected nothing. Maybe there was an emptiness within those fortifications, either because the town within never existed, or it had been dismantled, piece by piece, and taken away.

She continued to roll the hoop, looking at the empty space inside it.

There was more to Marco than he’d permit anyone—even himself—to see. She felt it in his touch. Saw it in his eyes. He was more than a Nemesis agent or operative for British Intelligence. But if he’d had to do the things he did, if he was no stranger to ugliness and violence, then he’d have to build a protective barrier. It was either that, or leave himself open to attack, with no means of defending himself.

Still, that didn’t lessen the sting of his admission. He hadn’t thought her worthy of Nemesis’s help. Not because of who she was, but because she’d had the blind luck of being born into the upper classes. And that defined her as worthwhile or not.

Or it had. She wasn’t the same woman who’d stood in her empty foyer weeks ago and saw a strange, dark man there. The metamorphosis went deeper than her bones, into the most profound part of her.

Something else had changed, too. She hadn’t thought she’d ever know love. And now she did. But it wasn’t as she’d dreamed it might be. It was complex and brutal and sometimes beautiful, but it solved no problems, only created more.

The only thing of which she was certain was her own uncertainty.

She froze in the middle of rolling the hoop when she heard the boards covering the door move. The only weapon she had on hand was the rod, and she lifted it in preparation to strike whoever might be coming in. But then the door opened, and Marco entered.

He caught the hoop as it rolled toward him. Looked at her holding the rod like a riding crop. Slowly, she lowered her improvised weapon.

They stared at each other for a moment. Behind him, rain started to patter against the front of the shop.

He carried a hamper filled with what appeared to be wrapped parcels of food.

“Supper,” he said.

She nodded. There didn’t seem to be much else to say in response.

After setting the hoop aside, he strode into the back room and set the hamper on the table. Then retrieved two overturned chairs and placed them near the table.

The cane backs were shredded, so as she and he took their seats, they had to lean forward. As though things weren’t already strained and uncomfortable.

He unwrapped their meal of bread, a covered dish of stew, cheese, wine and—to her mortification—apples. It was almost a domestic scene as they sat and ate. Complete with tense silence. As if they were some long-married couple seething with long-held secrets and resentments.

“This will go on my bill, too, I assume?” she asked between bites.

He didn’t answer her.

Well, she wasn’t making things any easier. But she didn’t
want
to make things easier. Hurt still throbbed through her, unrelenting and indifferent to anything but causing more pain.

From inside his coat, he pulled a slip of paper and slid it toward her. Two addresses were scrawled there.

“The private residences of our Grillons bosses, Reynard and Cluzet,” he explained.

She didn’t bother asking him how he’d learned the information. No doubt the police would’ve killed for such knowledge. But he had a way of making the impossible possible. Except for revealing his true feelings. That truly was an impossibility.

“So we’re going to invite ourselves over for dinner,” she said.

“No,” he answered. He took a drink of wine. “Tonight, we’re going to break into their homes.”

THIRTEEN

He’d been in a fury—a rarity in and of itself. Some of his earliest training in intelligence had been removing his emotions from his work—long, painful months that forced him to dull his feelings, and were thankfully long behind him. But it had been necessary. Another survival strategy. But each of Bronwyn’s words had stabbed him like stilettos. Why?

As he’d stalked the shadowed streets of Paris in search of information, his mind had been uncharacteristically clouded with thoughts beyond his objective. Thoughts of her, and her anger. Shouldn’t she have been pleased that he’d changed his mind about her? Did she have to say such brutal things about him? And why should it matter to him what the hell she thought?

Except that it did. Her anger had confused him. Made him want to—God—apologize. Beg for forgiveness. Confess his feelings. Which he could not do. There were few people who trod this earth that he could reveal his emotions to—and they all shared his last name. Family was safe. Everyone else held danger. He’d learned that early as the grandson of a self-made man, and as a spy.

Emotions were weapons, and he was determined not to arm anyone.

So he kept silent, his fist knotted around his heart. As much as that dumb piece of flesh and muscle craved her. Wanted her close. He had to protect himself.

Even so, he’d said too much. Given her the tools to hurt him.

Nemesis had never, until that point, helped any member of the aristocracy. It made sense that he’d be reluctant to do so.

Until he’d learned that she was very different from what he’d expected. That she continued to surprise him. And herself.

Then to throw out the taunt that he’d slept with other clients or women he’d encountered on his Nemesis missions. He’d only done so when it was a matter of furthering the case. What he and Bronwyn shared was … different.

But what could he say to her? That she touched places within him no one ever had? That he was feeling the phantom pain of a lost limb—or perhaps that what he experienced was the aches that came with growth, the same he’d felt as a boy as his body had stretched and shaped itself for manhood.

Easier to focus on the demands of the job. He could plan and operate in regard to everything. Except her. So he’d done what he knew best: spied. It hadn’t been a simple task, learning where Cluzet and Reynard lived, but the very complexity of the objective had been a relief. At least he knew exactly what needed to be accomplished, and how. He’d gone to the train station and searched until he’d found the Grillons men positioned there. When the men had left in order to be relieved by the next shift of thugs, Marco had followed them to an elegant building in the Marais, which had to serve as the Grillons’ headquarters.

Not much of a surprise to see that the building was heavily guarded. It was a measure of Les Grillons’ arrogance that they didn’t bother hiding the sentries. No pretense that anything other than something nefarious transpired inside.

Marco tensed. Devere’s assassin emerged from the building, then walked with purpose toward the train station.

Getting inside to find the addresses of Reynard and Cluzet would be next to impossible. There had to be a softer target, some other way to find out where the two commanders lived.

He spotted an expensive-looking wine shop around the corner. Entering the shop, he was approached by a heavyset man in a perfectly tailored suit.

“How may I assist you, monsieur?”

“I’d like a case of champagne each sent to Monsieur Reynard and Monsieur Cluzet,” Marco answered.

The shopkeeper narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Clearly, he knew the two men and that they were part of Les Grillons. Likely, the shopkeeper paid the syndicate in order to stay in business. “Some occasion you’re celebrating?”

“Funny little tradition of mine,” Marco replied. “I send my friends gifts on my birthday. Reminds them how important I am.”

This lessened the shopkeeper’s misgivings—slightly. “Which champagne, monsieur?”

“Veuve Clicquot. Seventy-four.” A pricey vintage, but if everything went according to plan, the cost would be covered by Les Grillons themselves.

At this, the wine merchant looked far more pleased. “Of course, monsieur.”

Marco paid, and, to ensure lack of suspicion, left the shop. He flagged a cab.

“We’ll be following someone,” he said to the driver. “Five francs if you keep yourself from being seen.”

“We’ll be like ghosts, monsieur,” the cabman answered.

Eventually, the delivery wagon from the shop pulled out from an alley. True to the cabman’s word, he kept a discreet distance, always with several other vehicles or horses between them. Marco kept his gaze sharp for any Grillons operatives on the street. If he was spotted, the plan would come crashing down.

The first delivery was made to an impressive house in Saint-Germain—though whether it was Reynard’s home or Cluzet’s, Marco couldn’t tell. The second delivery was made to a home in the sixteenth arrondissement. Clearly, both Reynard and Cluzet didn’t lack for ill-gotten wealth. Both homes were also well guarded.

Now he had his addresses. But it wouldn’t be an easy task to get inside them.