Kiss Me While I Sleep

“Let’s renegotiate,” he said. “If I can get it up, as a reward I get to pick out a different car tomorrow.”

“And if you can’t, you have to drive this one for the duration?”

He snorted and said smugly, “Yeah, like that’s gonna happen.”

“Then where’s the negotiation?” She stroked the seat. “I like this car. I’m becoming very fond of it. Unlike you, my sexuality isn’t linked to a machine.”

“Guys can’t help it. We’re born with a stick shift, and it’s our favorite toy from the time our arms are long enough to reach it.”

“This car has a stick shift,” she pointed out.

“Don’t get technical. There’s no testosterone here.” He made the high-pitched whining sound again. “See? It’s a soprano. A four-cylinder soprano.”

“It’s a great car for city driving. It’s highly maneuverable, economical, reliable.”

He gave up. “All right. You win. I’ll drive it, but I’ll need therapy afterwards for the emotional damage you’re inflicting on me.”

She stared straight ahead through the windshield. “Massage therapy?”

“H’mmm.” He considered it. “Yeah, that’ll do it. But I’ll need a lot of it.”

“I think I can handle that.”

He grinned and winked at her, and abruptly she wondered if she hadn’t outsmarted herself and let him talk her into something she hadn’t one hundred percent decided to do. Ninety-eight percent, yes, but not a hundred percent. That old sense of caution still nagged at her.

In that uncanny way he had of picking up on her wavelength, he turned totally serious. “Don’t let me pressure you into anything you don’t want to do,” he said quietly. “If you don’t want to sleep with me, all you have to do is say no.”

She looked out the window. “Have you ever wanted anything and been afraid of it at the same time?”

“You mean like getting on a roller coaster, when you really want the ride but your stomach’s already in your throat thinking about that first big drop?”

Even his anxieties were fun-related, she thought, and smiled a little. “The last time I was involved with someone, he tried to kill me.” She said it casually, but the sorrow and tension that still gripped her to this day were anything but casual.

He whistled between his teeth. “That would ruin your day, all right. Was he crazy jealous or something?”

“No, he’d been hired to do it.”

“Ah, honey,” he said, with real sadness in his tone, as if he grieved for her. “I’m sorry. I can see where that would make you cautious.”

“That’s an understatement,” she muttered.

“Gun-shy?”

“In a big way.”

He hesitated, as if he wasn’t certain he wanted to know. “How big?”

She shrugged and said, “That was six years ago.”

The steering wheel jerked in his hands and the car swerved, prompting the driver beside them to blow his horn in warning. “Six—years?” He sounded incredulous. “You haven’t been involved with anyone for six years? Holy shit. That’s—that’s taking caution to the extreme.”

He might think so, but then he hadn’t almost been killed by someone he loved. She hadn’t thought anything could hurt worse than Dmitri’s betrayal, until Zia’s death.

He thought about it another minute, then said, “I’m honored.”

“Don’t be. I wouldn’t be this involved with you if circumstance hadn’t thrown us together,” she pointed out. “If we’d met socially, I’d have blown you off like yesterday’s news.”

He scratched the side of his nose. “You wouldn’t have been tempted by my charm?”

She made a rude sound. “You wouldn’t have got close enough for me to know you were charming.”

“This may sound callous, but if that’s the case, I’m glad you were getting shot at the other day. If you believe in fate, then it was meant to be that I’d be sitting there, at loose ends, just when you were on the losing side of a gun battle.”

“Or it was sheer chance. It remains to be seen whether that was good luck or bad luck—for you, I mean.” And perhaps for her, as well, though she thought she should count her blessings, that even if events went drastically sour, at least she’d had laughter in her life again for a short while.

“I can tell you that,” he said lazily. “It was the best luck I’ve had in a long time.”

She watched his face and wondered what it was like to live inside his skin, to be so optimistic and at peace with one’s self. She couldn’t remember feeling that way since she was a teenager, though she’d been happy while she had Zia.

After Zia’s death, peace and happiness had been totally alien. She had been so focused; all she’d thought about was vengeance for her friends, for Zia. Now Swain was in her life, and her goal had been transformed from something personal to something so hugely important that she had to struggle to grasp the scope of it. Her personal feelings had been made insignificant, and reality had swept her to a different perspective. She knew that although a person never stopped grieving for lost loved ones, the quality of grief changed from gut-gnawing agony to dull pain, to acceptance, to remembering the good times—and sometimes all of those things were felt within a very short time, in no particular order. Her focus had been shifted from herself, her loss, to something outside herself, and with that shift the pain had changed, become less immediate and all-consuming.

She didn’t know how long the surcease would endure, but she was grateful for every moment of it. Swain was responsible, she knew, for a lot of her shift in mood just by being his brash, very American self. Of course, he could lift a woman’s mood just by walking down the street with that lazy, loose-hipped gait of his. She knew because she had seen women watching him, and she knew the effect he had on her.

He reached for her hand and squeezed it. “Stop worrying so much. Everything will be okay.”

She gave a rueful laugh. “You mean: my mystery caller will turn out not to be Rodrigo; he can tell us everything we need to know about the lab’s security; we get in without any trouble, totally destroy the virus, kill Dr. Giordano so he can’t do this again, and get away without anyone the wiser?”

He thought about it. “Maybe not everything; that’s a big laundry list. But you have to have faith things will work out for the better one way or the other. We can’t fail, therefore we won’t.”

“The power of positive thinking?”

“Don’t knock it. It’s worked for me so far. For instance, I was positive I’d get in your pants from the minute I saw you, and look at us now.”

They were once more at a standstill, with a thousand things that needed doing and nothing they could do that day. Swain’s security system expert didn’t get in touch, but now that they knew what they were up against, they both thought the security measures in place would be far more complex than any the run-of-the-mill expert would ever see.

Just to see what they could find, they went to an Internet café to research influenza, before they went to the hotel. There was so much to read that in the interest of saving time, they each paid for computer time and divided the hits between them.

At one point during the afternoon, Swain checked his wristwatch, then took out his cell phone and punched in a long series of numbers. From where she was Lily couldn’t hear what he was saying, but his expression was serious. His conversation was brief, and when it was over, he rubbed his forehead as if he had a headache.

While the computer was loading a large file, she went over to him. “Is something wrong?”

“A friend was in a car accident in the States. I called to check his condition.”

“How is he?”

“Unchanged. The doctors say that’s actually good. He lived through the first twenty-four hours, so they’re a little more optimistic than they were before.” He rocked his hand. “He could still go either way.”

“Do you need to go there?” she asked. She didn’t know what she would do without him, but if this was a really close friend—

“I can’t,” he said briefly.

She took that to mean he literally couldn’t, that he was persona non grata in the States and wouldn’t be allowed in. She touched his shoulder in sympathy, because she knew how he felt. She probably wouldn’t ever be able to go home again, either.

He was scrolling through the CDC Web site. The first time he’d pulled it up, he hadn’t found anything really interesting, but he’d kept clicking on related sites that had links to the CDC, and he gave a satisfied grunt as a long list popped on the screen. “Finally.” He clicked on Print.

“What do you have?” Lily asked, bending down to read over his shoulder.

He lowered his voice so no one could overhear what they were saying. “A list of infectious agents and the safety precautions taken with each one.” He nodded at the computer she was using. “What do you have over there?”

“A projection of illnesses and deaths during the next pandemic. Nothing useful, I don’t think.”

“This should tell us what we need. If it doesn’t, my friend in Atlanta can fill in the blanks. I should have asked him a bunch of these questions this morning, but I hadn’t had time to think about it and he called me a bastard anyway, since it was three AM there when I called him.”

“Understandable.”

“I thought so, too.” Her hand was still on his shoulder, and he covered it with one of his. “Let’s take this stuff back to the hotel to read. We can order room service, and you can get unpacked and settled in.”

“We’ll have to tell the hotel there are now two people staying in your room, instead of just one.”

“I’ll just say my wife has joined me. Not a problem. Keep your sunglasses on and don’t let any of the staff see your eyes, and we should be in the clear.”

“I’ll look pretty silly sitting around a hotel room wearing sunglasses. Colored contacts will be easier.”

“It isn’t just your eyes that are so identifiable. It’s the entire package, the color of your hair, your facial structure. Just duck into the bathroom when room service is delivered. Other than maid service, that’s the only time we’ll be interrupted.” He logged off, then gathered all the pages that had been printed out. He paid for the service while Lily logged off her computer and did the same.

They stepped out into the street, and the wind whipped at them. Though the day was sunny, it was cool enough, and the windchill cold enough, that a lot of people were wearing hats and scarves. Lily pulled her own hat down so it covered all her hair as they walked to where Swain had parked the car. He seemed to have remarkable luck in finding parking space in a city that was notorious for difficult parking, but she was beginning to think Swain was just one of those people born under a lucky horseshoe. If he’d leased a Hummer, somehow he’d have found a place to park it.

He forwent making any more disparaging comments about the Fiat, though she heard him making that high-pitched whining noise under his breath a few times. The days had gotten really short, with winter only a few weeks away, so the sun had already set by the time they got to the hotel and twilight was fading fast, making Lily’s sunglasses unnecessary. She pulled them off but remembered that she still had a pair of pink-lensed sunglasses that she’d used as part of her disguise in London, and fished them out of her bag. The tint was light enough that she could see with the glasses on and wouldn’t look like a total idiot for wearing sunglasses at night but was sufficient to hide the color of her eyes.

She slipped them in place and turned to Swain. “How do I look?”

“Sexy and stylish.” He gave her a thumbs-up. “Just keep your eyelids at half-mast, as if you’re jet-lagged, and we’re home free.”

He was right; no one paid any attention to them at all as he carried her bags through the lobby with her trailing behind. When they were in his room, he called the front desk and told them his wife had arrived, so there were now two occupants in his room; then he called housekeeping and requested extra towels. Lily busied herself unpacking, putting her clothing away in drawers or hanging it in the closet beside Swain’s clothes, and her toiletries in the bathroom.

She got a jolt as she set a pair of her shoes beside his in the bottom of the closet. There was something intimate about the sight, her shoes so much smaller and daintier than his, that brought home to her the fact that she was now, for all intents and purposes, living with him.

She looked up to find him watching her, reading her discomfort.

“It’ll be all right,” he said gently, and opened his arms to her.

25

Lily went to him, burrowed herself close to the comforting warmth of his body, nestled her head in the hollow of his shoulder, and felt some of her tension ease as he wrapped his arms around her. He kissed the top of her head. “I repeat, we don’t have to have sex tonight. If you’re that uncomfortable with the idea, we can wait.”

“Can we?” she asked softly. “Normally I’d wait a lot longer than this, because two kisses and one grope do not a relationship make—”

He gave a bark of laughter. “I guess not, but even though logically I know we’ve known each other only a few days, part of me feels as if it’s been a lot longer than that. A week, maybe,” he teased. “Have I really groped you just once?”

“Once is all that I remember.”

“Then it’s definitely just once, because you’d remember my gropes.” He rubbed his hand up and down her back, coaxing her tense muscles to relax.

“Tonight may be the only night we have,” she said, trying for a matter-of-fact tone but unable to keep out a hint of wistfulness. The truth of that had been in the back of her mind all day. She couldn’t afford to take her time, get to know him, ease into a relationship. Seen in that light, her decision was simple: she might well die tomorrow, and she didn’t want her last night on earth to be spent alone. She didn’t want to die without having made love with him, without sleeping so close in his arms that she could hear his heartbeat. She wanted him to be her love, even if she wouldn’t have a chance to discover if he was the love. At least she would have the hope that he was.

“Hey,” he chided. “Remember the power of positive thinking. Tonight is the first night, not the only night.”

“Have you always been a Pollyanna?”

“Pollyanna saw something good in everything. I see nothing good at all about that Fiat.”

Taken by surprise at his abrupt change of subject, she snickered. “I do. I got a good laugh out of your reaction to it.”

He stiffened. “You mean you deliberately picked out that car just to jerk my chain?”

She didn’t bother denying it, just gave a satisfied sigh as she rubbed her cheek against his chest. “I wanted to see you drive it for just one day. It’s a perfectly good car; I once owned a Fiat, so I know how reliable and economical they are, but you act as if you’re in agony.”

“You’ll have to pay for this,” he said, shaking his head. “And not with all that massaging you promised, either. This is big. I’ll have to think about this one for a while.”

“Just don’t take too long.”

“You’ll know tonight,” he promised, tilting her head up for a warm kiss that lingered, multiplied, deepened. Unlike the night before, he took his time stroking her breasts, cupping them, thumbing her nipples through the layers of clothing. Lily half expected to be tumbled onto the bed, but he didn’t even slip his hand under her top. She was glad; she wasn’t anywhere near aroused. His caresses felt good, though, and when he released her, she was warmer and more fluid than she’d been before.

A brisk knock on the door signaled the arrival of housekeeping with an armful of towels. Swain went to the door and took the towels in the same motion with which he handed over a tip, not letting the maid in, though she would have gladly arranged the towels in the bathroom for them.

“Let’s read over all these papers and see what we’ve got,” he said after he put the towels away, indicating everything they’d printed out at the Internet café. “There’s a lot of extra stuff in the articles that we won’t need.”

She liked that he wanted to take care of business before fun and games, so she joined him in the sitting area, where he had all the papers scattered out on the coffee table.

“Ebola . . . Marburg . . . We don’t need all this,” he muttered, dropping page after page on the floor. Lily picked up a stack of paper and began sorting through it, looking for any information on influenza.

“Here,” she said a moment later. “ ‘How influenza viruses are treated in the laboratory.’ Let’s see . . . ‘laboratory-associated infections aren’t documented,’ but watch out for ferrets.”

“What?” he asked, startled.

“That’s what it says. Evidently infected ferrets pass the virus along to humans fairly easily, and vice versa. They make us sick, we make them sick. That’s fair,” she said judiciously. “What else . . . ‘a genetically altered virus . . . unknown potential. Biosafety Level 2 is recommended.’ What’s Biosafety Level 2?”

“I have that here . . . somewhere.” Rapidly he flipped through a section of papers. “Here. Okay. The threat is considered moderate. ‘Laboratory personnel must be trained in handling the viruses, access to the lab is limited when work is being done,’ but I guess we can safely say access to the Nervi lab is limited at all times. ‘People have to wash their hands . . . no eating or drinking in the area . . . wastes are decontaminated before disposal’—that’s good to know. I guess we could have safely gone in the sewer, after all.”

“I’m just as glad we didn’t.”

“We may have to yet.”

She wrinkled her nose at the thought. Even though the sewer had been her idea and she would go that route if there was no other way, she’d rather not.

“ ‘A biohazard sign must be posted,’ ” he continued. “ ‘Extra care taken when handling sharp instruments’—duh—these are all precautions the laboratory personnel take while handling the bugs. ‘The lab must have lockable doors; no specific ventilation system is required.’ Huh.” He put down the papers and scratched his jaw. “This sounds like a basic lab, no airlock entrances, retina scans, thumbprint locks, or anything else. Looks as if we were borrowing trouble, because if Dr. Giordano follows these instructions, all we have to deal with is a locked door.”

“And a lot of people with weapons.”

He waved his hand. “That’s straightforward.” He tossed the papers on the coffee table and leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “I’m surprised. I thought when you were dealing with infectious bugs, you had all sorts of hoops to jump through; but it’s mostly personal security, not external.”

They looked at each other and shrugged. “We’re back where we started,” Lily said. “We need information about the external security system. Once we get in, we look around for the door with the biohazard sign on it.”

“X marks the spot,” he agreed. They both knew it wouldn’t be that simple; for one thing, the laboratory could be anywhere within the large complex. It could even be underground, which would limit their available exit routes.

Having found out what they needed to know, which was a lot less than they’d expected, there was no need to keep all the copies they’d printed. Swain picked up the ones he’d dropped on the floor while Lily gathered up all the other sheets; then they dumped everything in the trash.

She was at a loss for something to do now. The hour was still fairly early; they hadn’t even had dinner. She didn’t want to take a shower yet, and thankfully he didn’t seem inclined to rush her into bed. Finally she picked up the book she’d brought and kicked off her boots, then curled up on the sofa to read.

Swain picked up his room key. “I’m going down to the lobby to pick up some newspapers. Do you want anything?”

“Nothing, thanks.”

He let himself out. Lily waited to a count of thirty, then got up and swiftly went through his things. His underwear was neatly stacked in a drawer, with nothing hidden between the folded boxer-style briefs. She patted the pockets of everything he had hanging in the closet, finding nothing. There wasn’t a briefcase, but she pulled out his leather duffel bag and searched it. There didn’t seem to be any hidden pockets or a false bottom to it; his Heckler and Koch nine-millimeter weapon was there, neatly holstered. The bedside table yielded a thriller that was dog-eared at about the halfway point. She fanned the pages, but nothing had been slipped between them.

She ran her hand under the mattress, all the way around, and looked under the bed. His leather blazer was lying on the bed where he’d thrown it. She searched his pockets, and found his passport in a zippered inside pocket, but she’d already seen it, so she didn’t take it out.

There was nothing to indicate he was anything other than what he’d told her. Relieved, she returned to the sofa and resumed reading.

He let himself back in five minutes later, carrying two thick newspapers and a small plastic bag. “I had a vasectomy after my second kid was born,” he said, “but I bought some condoms, anyway, in case they’ll make you feel more secure.”

His concern touched her. “Have you done anything risky? Sexually, I mean.”

“I did it standing up in a hammock once, but that was when I was seventeen.”

“You did not. Hammock maybe, standing up a definite no.”

He grinned. “Actually, the hammock dumped me out on my ass, and I haven’t tried that again. It did a real number on the mood. I didn’t get laid that day, after all.”

“I can imagine. She must have laughed herself silly.”

“No, she screamed. I was the one laughing. Even a seventeen-year-old can’t keep it up when he’s doing belly laughs. Not to mention I looked like an idiot, and girls that age are real sensitive about image and things like that. She decided I was very uncool and went off in a huff.”

She should have known he’d be the one laughing. Smiling, she propped her chin in her palm. “Anything else risky?”

He settled in the chair closest to her and stretched out his legs, propping his feet on the coffee table. “Let’s see. Right after that is when Amy and I started going together, and I was faithful to her from day one until we got divorced. I’ve had a few close friends since then, relationships lasting from a couple of months to two years, but nothing casual. I’ve mostly been in places where there was no wild nightlife, unless you count the four-legged kind. Whenever I was in a civilized area, I didn’t want to spend my time nightclubbing.”

“For someone who’s been in the wilds most of his adult life, you’re very sophisticated,” she murmured, suddenly uneasy as that discordant detail registered with her. She should have noticed before, but she wasn’t greatly alarmed because she knew his weapon was in his duffel in the closet—and hers wasn’t.

“Because I speak French and stay in luxury hotels? I stay in places like this when I can, because there’ve been times when all I had between me and the sky was air. I like driving fancy cars because sometimes I’ve had to get around on horseback—and that’s assuming there were even horses.”

“I wouldn’t think French was very common in South America, though.”

“You’d be surprised. I learned most of it from a French expatriate in Colombia. Now, my Spanish is much better than my French, and I also speak Portuguese, plus a smattering of German.” He gave her a crooked smile. “Mercenaries are a polyglot group by necessity.”

He’d never actually come right out before and said he was a mercenary, though of course she’d understood he was either that or something close to it. People hired him to make things happen was what he’d said, and she hadn’t for one minute thought he was talking about corporate takeovers. Her uneasiness faded; of course he would speak several languages.

“Being married to you must have been hell,” she said, thinking of his ex-wife at home with two little kids, not knowing where he was or what he was doing, if he’d ever return or die in some remote region and his body never be found.

“Thanks a lot,” he said, starting to grin. His blue eyes twinkled at her. “I’m a lot of fun when I’m around, though.”

There was no doubt about that. On impulse she got up and deposited herself on his lap, slipping her hand inside the collar of his shirt and cupping the back of his neck as she leaned into him. His skin was warm, his neck hard with muscle. He supported her with his left arm behind her back, while his right hand immediately began stroking her thigh and hip. She kissed the underside of his jaw, feeling the stubble of his beard rough against her lips and inhaling his scent, man mixed with the faint remnants of the aftershave he’d used that morning.

“What’s this for?” he asked, though he didn’t wait for the answer before giving her one of those slow, deep kisses that made her feel as if her bones were melting.

“For being a lot of fun,” she murmured when he lifted his mouth; then she went back for seconds. His lips were more forceful this time, his tongue more demanding. His hand shaped her waist, slid under her shirt and up to her breasts. She caught her breath as he pushed her bra up and molded her bare breast with his palm. His hand was hot on her cool skin, his thumb gentle on her nipple.

She pulled her mouth free and took a deep breath, burying her face against his throat as warm pleasure began tightening her loins. She hadn’t felt desire in such a long time that she had forgotten how it slowly unfurled, spreading throughout her body, making her skin ultrasensitive, so that she wanted to rub against him like a cat.

She wanted him to hurry, to get the awkward first time over with so she could relax, but for all his love of speed, hurrying didn’t seem to be on his agenda tonight. He stroked her breasts until they were so sensitive the sensation bordered on pain; then he tugged her bra back into place and hugged her tightly to him. She knew he was aroused; either that, or he had a backup pistol shoved in his pocket, a big ten-round forty-five caliber from the feel of it. But he eased her back, kissed the tip of her nose, and said, “There’s no hurry, we’ll eat dinner, relax for a while. It won’t kill me to wait.”

“No, but me it might,” she snapped, sitting up and glaring at him.

His mouth quirked into a smile. “Just be patient. You know the saying, ‘All good things come to those to wait’? I have my own version of that.”

“Yeah? What?”

“Those who wait, come good.”

He needed slapping, he really did. “I’ll hold you to that,” she said, rising from his lap. She picked up the room service menu and tossed it at him. “Order.”

He did, lobster and scallops, a bottle of Beaujolais, chilled, and apple tart. Determined to play it as casually as he did, she resumed reading while they waited for room service to deliver their order. He leafed through both newspapers, used his cell phone to call the States and check on the condition of his friend who had been in the car accident—unchanged, which caused his expression to set in lines of worry.

He wasn’t carefree, she thought, watching his face. No matter how much he laughed and teased, his emotions weren’t all on the surface. There were moments when he was lost in thought and there was no humor at all on his face or in his eyes; she had seen flashes of cold, grim determination in him. There had to be more to him than just good times, or he wouldn’t have succeeded in his chosen field, though she wondered if someone actually chose to be a mercenary or gradually fell into it. He’d evidently made some money at it, so that meant he was good. That likeable, charming manner was just part of who he was; the other part would be fast and lethal.

Lily had shied away from relationships with normal men over the years, men who held ordinary jobs and had normal concerns. Not only would someone like that never understand how she did what she did, she had always been concerned that she would overpower a man like that in an intimate relationship. She had to be forceful and decisive, and that wasn’t something she could turn on and off like a water tap. When it came to romance, she didn’t want to dominate, she wanted to be a partner, but that meant by necessity she needed someone as strong in personality as she was. In Swain she sensed an easiness, a self-confidence that wasn’t at all threatened by her. She didn’t have to pander to his ego, or dampen her own personality so he wouldn’t be intimidated. If Swain had ever been intimidated in his life, she would be surprised. He’d probably been gutsy and a hell-raiser even when he was a little boy.

The more she observed of him, the more she respected him. She was falling fast and hard, and there was no net beneath her.

26

After they ate, he watched Sky News for a while, and Lily read some more. They could have been a couple for years for all the impatience he was showing, but she remembered the erection that had thrust against her hip and knew otherwise. A man didn’t get painfully hard when he wasn’t interested. He was giving her time to relax, not pressuring her; he knew, of course, that eventually they would be going to bed together and the inevitable would happen then. She knew it, too, and knowledge was its own seduction. She couldn’t look at him without thinking that soon he would be naked and so would she, soon she would feel him inside her, soon this coiling tension inside her would find a release.

At ten she said, “I’m going to take a shower,” and left him to Sky News. The complimentary toiletries in the marble bathroom were designer brands, and smelled heavenly. She took her time, washing her hair, shaving her underarms and legs—an American habit she’d never lost—then smoothing scented lotion all over herself before blow-drying her hair and brushing her teeth. Feeling as ready as she ever would, and having killed most of an hour, she put on one of the thick hotel robes and tightly tied the belt around her before walking barefoot back into the room.

“You’re a bathroom hog,” he accused, turning off the television and rising to his feet. His gaze went over her from her shiny hair down to the tips of her toes. “I expected you to come out wearing your pajamas. I’ve been thinking about getting them off of you.”

“I don’t wear pajamas,” she said, and yawned.

His brows snapped together. “You said you wore pajamas.”

“I lied. I sleep nude.”

“You mean you ruined a perfectly good fantasy just for the hell of it?”

“It was none of your business what I wore to bed.” She gave him a smug smile and went to the sofa, where she picked up her book and sat down, curling her legs under her. She was pretty sure she’d flashed him all the way to Christmas—she tried, anyway—because he abruptly turned around and went into the bathroom without another word, and about thirty seconds later she heard the shower running. He was in a hurry now.

Watching the clock on the bedside table, she timed him. His shower lasted just shy of two minutes. Then she heard the water running in the basin for forty-seven seconds. Twenty-two seconds after that he walked out of the bathroom wearing a damp towel knotted around his waist, and nothing else.

Lily stared at his freshly shaven jaw. “I can’t believe you shaved that fast. It’s a wonder you didn’t slit your throat.”

“What’s a severed jugular compared to getting you in bed?” he asked, walking to the sofa and taking her hand, then pulling her to her feet. He switched off the lamp and towed her to the bed, turning off lights as he went until the room was dark except for one bedside lamp. He threw back the bedcovers, then turned to her.

Standing beside the bed, he cupped her face and kissed her. She tasted toothpaste; somehow in that race through the bathroom he’d managed to brush his teeth, too. She was in awe of his dexterity, because moving at that speed, if he hadn’t cut his throat shaving, he should have at least jabbed himself in the eye with his toothbrush.

Despite that evidence of his urgency, he took his time kissing her. She put her arms around him and pressed her palms to his back, feeling the smooth damp skin, the flexing of muscles. During the kiss he lost the towel, and the belt of her robe came undone. Lily let her arms drop to her sides, and the robe slid off her shoulders, down her arms to pool around her feet. Then there was nothing between them except sighs and anticipation, and he switched out the last light, then lowered her to the cool sheets.

She reached for him as he got into bed beside her, letting her hands learn him until her eyes adjusted to the dark. She felt the crisp hair on his chest, his hard abdomen and sleek sides, slid her palms up his muscled arms and over the thick curves of his shoulders. He was busy with his own exploration, stroking her bottom, her thighs, then rolling her to her back and stringing kisses from her lips down her jaw and throat, then sliding his open mouth across her breast until one aching nipple slipped into it. He sucked leisurely, gently, and Lily made a soft sound of pleasure.

“I like that,” she whispered, putting her hand on the back of his head to keep him there.

“So I see.” He gave her other nipple equal time, leaving them both wet and hard, standing up like berries.

“What do you like?” She moved her hand lightly across his belly, just brushing across the tip of his straining erection, then reversed direction and searched out his flat nipples, teasing them until tiny points stood out.

“Yeah,” he said roughly. “All of that.” He shivered as ripples of sensation washed over him. Not at all reticent, he took her hand and moved it down to where he wanted it. She closed her fingers around his penis and he jerked, it jerked, pulsing in her grip. Experimentally she gave him a few lingering strokes; her fingers barely reached around him and her inner muscles clenched in response to that thickness.

He blew out a whistling breath and forcibly removed her hand. Lily growled a protest and reached for him with her other hand, managing another couple of strokes before he grabbed that hand, too. “You’d better let me cool down, or this will be over with before it gets started.”

“After all the bragging you’ve done, you’re good for only one round?” she murmured. “I’m shocked.”

“Sassy, aren’t you?” He pinned a hand on each side of her head, then levered himself over her. “I’ll show you one round.” At last, at last, his weight settled on her and her legs automatically parted to cradle him between them, her legs bending so her thighs gripped his hips. She could feel herself opening to him; he released her left hand to reach between them and position his penis. There was heavy pressure at the entrance to her body and she lifted herself into it, wanting to feel that first long, penetrating slide of flesh into flesh, but the pressure began to burn and nothing happened. He drew back a little and pushed again. This time she couldn’t help a small gasp of pain as once again her flesh refused to accept him.

Chagrined, she felt her face begin to burn. “I’m sorry.” She was embarrassed by her dryness. “It’s always been difficult for me to just go with the moment. I can’t seem to stop thinking.”

He gave a rough little laugh, the sound puffing against her hair. He nuzzled her temple. “If not thinking’s a requirement, then I’m not doing it right, because I don’t think I’ve ever stopped thinking. I take that back. For about ten seconds, I definitely don’t think.” His lips moved to her earlobe, and he nipped her with his teeth. “I’m the one who should apologize, darlin’, for rushing you like this.” His accent was stronger, a west Texas drawl slowing his speech. “A woman who hasn’t made love in six years needs tender loving care, and I just skipped right over some mighty important steps.”

“Steps?” He made it sound like programming a VCR. She thought about being indignant, but the little biting kisses he was giving her broke her concentration.

“Um-hmm.” He was nipping at her neck now, then her collarbone. “Or rather, spots. Like this one right here.” He lightly bit down on the ligament where her neck and shoulder joined, and Lily caught her breath as surprising pleasure roared through her.

She clutched his sides. “Do that again.”

He was nothing but obedient, kissing and biting her neck until she was arching beneath him, her breath coming in quick pants. Those little bites were so arousing she thought she could almost climax just from them. He pinched her nipple, a hard, steady pressure that would have hurt just a few moments ago but now made her moan and push her breast against his hand.

He moved down her body, putting the tip of his little finger in her navel, biting the side of her waist, her hip, slipping his hands beneath her and squeezing her buttocks in a rhythmic motion. She tried to reach him to reciprocate some of the pleasure he was giving her, but he pushed her hands away. “Uh uh,” he said in a rough, breathless tone. “I only have one step, and it’s already been taken care of.”

“What is it?” she managed to ask, though it was an effort to be coherent.

“Breathing.”

She couldn’t help herself, she had to laugh, and he punished her with a bite on the inside of her thigh that had the effect of stealing her breath and making her legs part even more. She knew what he was going to do, she’d been dying of anticipation as he worked his way down, but still, the first lick of his tongue shot sensation though her like electricity. She cried out, digging her heels into the mattress and arching her back off the bed. He captured her and dragged her closer for a deeper taste, a deeper probing with both tongue and fingers. The sense of penetration was acute, shivering through all her nerve endings like tiny shock waves that intensified with every slow in-and-out motion.

Oh, he was good. Even when she was ready for him, when she could feel the wetness between her legs, he seemed content to linger with kisses and caresses until she was writhing on the bed and all but begging him to stop, or not stop, it all seemed the same. Finally she grabbed his ears and rasped, “I’m ready,” just in case he was in any doubt.

He turned his head and kissed her palm. “Are you certain?”

Infuriated, she sat up in bed. “Either do it now, or don’t do it at all! You’re driving me insane!”

He laughed and tumbled her back on the bed. Before she could recover her equilibrium, he was on her, pushing into her with a slow, inexorable pressure that made her breath hiss out of her lungs as he filled her. She held herself very still, her eyes closed as she tried to absorb all the sensations, the pressure and heat and heaviness.

He began a subtle back-and-forth motion, rocking inside her. Instinctively she tensed, tightening her inner muscles in an effort to contain him and control the act. He groaned, froze, then rasped out, “Do that again.” This time it was he who held himself still while she loved him with that internal clasping. The act of tightening on him then consciously relaxing, then tightening again, brought her almost to the edge of climax—but not close enough.

He hooked his arms under her legs and held them high, taking total control. She couldn’t limit the depth of his penetration in this position, couldn’t lift herself to meet his thrusts, couldn’t do anything except feel the long, slow strokes as he settled into a steady rhythm. He held himself positioned just high enough, in the perfect position for her to feel the maximum friction, yet the minutes passed and orgasm remained maddeningly just out of reach. Lily felt as if she were being pulled apart, the tension gripping her was so intense. His arms began trembling, his entire body was trembling, and she almost burst into tears as she realized he wouldn’t be able to last much longer and she still hadn’t been able to climax.

“I want to do it from behind you,” he murmured, and pulled out. Before she could change positions, he lay down beside her and pulled her on top of him, on her back, with her head tilted back over his left shoulder. His hot breath teased her ear, and his hands stroked over her breasts, down her belly. He spread her legs, arranging them on either side of his, and reaching down, he held his penis in position while he pushed upward. She groaned as the thick length squeezed into her, shimmying in a paroxysm that carried her close to completion but stopped short yet again. She felt terribly exposed without him covering her. Cool air washed all down her heated body, her legs were spread wide, and with her head tilted backward, she was strangely disoriented, off balance.

“Shhh, I have you,” he said in a reassuring rumble, and she realized she must have made a panicked sound. His hips flexed and rolled beneath her, working himself back and forth inside her. There was more of a tug in this position, a sharper sense of movement. He slid his right hand down her belly and curved his fingers down, between her legs, catching her clitoris in the fork of his first two fingers. He gently closed his fingers together, just enough, and held her as his strokes moved her up and down, back and forth, and the hot coil of sensation tightened inside her to an unbearable degree.

She made a strangled sound and dug her heels into the mattress, shuddering, tilting her hips down to take every inch of him she could, then surging upward against those maddening fingers. She was shaking from head to toe, her thighs quivering, her breath nothing more than sobs that caught in her throat. Closer, closer . . .

A low cry tore from her throat as she was abruptly hurled past the point of no return. Great pulsing waves radiated from her loins, ripping away her last vestiges of control. Finally, finally—she was there and it was happening, more powerful than she remembered, blinding her to everything except the pleasure that held her racked and pierced.

Vaguely she realized she was crying, though she didn’t know why. She was still shaking, so wrung out and limp she couldn’t even lift an arm. She didn’t have to. Swain slid out of and from under her, rolling on top of her and roughly pushing inside. His thrusts were hard and fast, taking him to the hilt each time. Sweat dampened his skin and he was shaking now, the way she had shaken, every muscle trembling as he drove deep and reached for his own pleasure. His rhythm frayed, disintegrated, and a long, deep groan rumbled in his chest, his throat, and with a harsh cry he arched back, pulsing inside her as he gripped her hips so hard his fingers left their marks on her skin. Then slowly he folded forward, still shuddering, jerking, his eyes closed as his trembling arms let his weight down on her.

His lungs were pumping like bellows, huge breaths going in and out. Lily still struggled for her own breath, trying to regain some use of her limbs, while her heart pounded so hard and fast she thought she might faint. She could feel her pulse even in her fingertips.

She had the dim thought that if this was to be her last orgasm, at least it had been a world-class one.

Finally she was able to lift her hand and weakly wipe the tears from her cheeks. Why on earth was she crying? Getting there had been a Herculean effort, but the end result had been worth it.

Face down beside her left ear, Swain groaned. “God. I felt that all the way down to my toes.” He didn’t lever himself off her, just lay there getting heavier and heavier. Lily didn’t care. She wrapped her arms around him and held him as tight as she could.

“I’ll get up in a minute,” he promised in an exhausted voice.

“No,” Lily said, but he was already laboriously moving off her to lie on his side facing her. He put one hand on her waist and pulled her to him, cradling her close, her head lying on his shoulder and arm.

“The first round is now officially over,” he mumbled.

“I take it back. I don’t think I can handle a second round,” she managed to gasp, but his deep, even breathing told her he was already asleep. She took two deep breaths and felt herself sinking, joining him. For the first time in forever, she felt safe, wrapped tight in his arms.

27

Lily woke in Swain’s arms, and felt as if she belonged there. She wished she could freeze time at that exact moment, so she never lost the sense of contentment and security. She didn’t let herself think about the possible disaster the day might bring; she would do what she had to do, so there was no point in worrying about it. If she was lucky, tonight would be spent the same way last night had been.

To her surprise, she’d been up for two more rounds, though she was so sore now she almost regretted it. Almost. He’d awakened her at two o’clock by turning on the lamp, because this time he wanted to see her. She’d been embarrassed by the state she was in, sticky from going to sleep without having cleaned up, but he’d proved beyond a doubt that other than where cars were concerned, he didn’t have a finicky bone in his body. “Sex is messy,” he’d said with a slow smile as he’d hauled her back when she’d tried to leave the bed to go clean up. “And I’m the cause of it, so why should I mind?”

Having the lamp on didn’t bother her, though somehow he’d known the first time would be easier for her in the darkness. She was thirty-seven, not a spring chicken, but she stayed in shape and her body type was naturally lean and small-breasted, so even when some parts started sagging, as they inevitably would, they couldn’t sag very far. Certainly Swain seemed to appreciate every inch of her.

Climaxing the second time was easier, as if her body had remembered how. She wasn’t as tense or desperate, plus Swain made it fun with his unabashed pleasure and very vocal appreciation. Afterward they had showered together, and she spread towels over the wet spots on the sheets before they got back into bed and slept for another couple of hours.

The third time, just after five o’clock, had been long and slow, all sense of urgency gone. She barely remembered stumbling back to bed afterward, and she had slept so soundly that if she dreamed, she didn’t recall. Sunlight now spilled around the edges of the heavy curtains, making her wonder what time it was, but she didn’t care enough to roll over and look at the clock.

He made an indistinct noise that was half sleepy man and half grumbly bear, then lifted her hair and kissed the back of her neck. “Morning,” he rumbled, then nestled her closer.

“Good morning.” She loved feeling all that muscular warmth at her back, loved the feel of his leg thrust between hers and the weight of his arm as he settled it back around her waist.

“Do I still have to drive that Fiat?” He sounded as if he were only half-conscious, but the subject had to be important to him for it to be the first thing he thought about upon awakening.

She patted his arm, glad her back was to him so he couldn’t see her smile. “No, you get to drive any type of car you want.”

“I was that good, huh?” he asked smugly, more awake now.

He deserved something better than a pat on the arm for that, so she reached back and patted his butt. “You were spectacular,” she said with a faintly monotonous, mechanical drone in her voice. “Your technique was fabulous, and your penis is the largest I’ve ever seen. I am the luckiest woman in the world. This is a recording—”

He rolled over on his back and shouted with laughter. Lily slid out of bed and escaped to the bathroom while he was laughing, before he could retaliate. She looked at herself in the mirror and halted, struck by the softness of her features. One night of sex and she looked rejuvenated?

It wasn’t the sex, she realized, though the deep relaxation of her body was a wonderful plus. It was Swain himself, the tenderness and consideration with which he’d treated her, and the feeling that she mattered to someone. It was the closeness, the link, the not being alone. For months now she had felt totally alone, removed from the world she could see around her as if nothing and no one could touch her, surrounded by a moat of pain and grief. Swain’s enthusiasm, his personality, had pulled her out of that solitude, once again connected her with life.

Oh, damn, she was definitely falling in love with him. What a silly thing for her to do right now, with everything that was happening, but how could she stop it? She couldn’t walk away, she needed his help, but even more she didn’t want to walk away. She wanted everything he could give her, every minute. She couldn’t even worry about whether he would be there forever, because what was forever? Today might be the extent of it for her, or tomorrow. All she had was now, and that was good enough.

Because there was only the one bathroom, she hurried so he could get in there. She didn’t have any clothes in the bathroom and the bathrobe was on the floor beside the bed, so she had to walk out as naked as she’d walked in, which didn’t matter because Swain hadn’t yet bothered with clothes, either. He got up from the bed when she came out of the bathroom, his sleepy eyes lingering on her points of interest before he pulled her close for a long hug. His morning erection prodded her stomach, making her wish she wasn’t so sore.

“Wanna take a shower together?” he said against the top of her head.

“I think I’d better take a long soak in the tub instead,” she said ruefully.

He massaged her bottom, lifting her on her toes. “Sore, huh?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Twice was enough, I should’ve kept my hands to myself that last time.”

“It was that third time that earned you your freedom from the Fiat.” She stroked his ribs, moved her hands around to his back, and dug her fingers into the deep groove of his spine.

She felt his lips move against her hair. “In that case, consider your sacrifice worth it.”

“Somehow I thought you’d say something like that.” But she was smiling, too, as she rubbed her nose against his shoulder. “It’s nice to know where I stand in your priorities.”

He paused, then asked cautiously, “Was I supposed to say something really sweet right there?”

“You were, and you’ve failed in the romance department.”

Another pause; then he nudged her with his erection. “Doesn’t this count?”

“Considering you’d have that even if you were alone, no.”

“It would already have gone down by now. You’re what’s keeping it up. See, I am romantic.”

He was getting her back for her crack about the recording, but the slight shaking of his shoulders gave him away. She looked up into blue eyes that were sparkling with barely contained laughter, but since she was about to disgrace herself by giggling, she forgave him for it. She gave him a slap on the butt, then moved away to pick up the robe. “Get cracking, big boy. Are you hungry now, should I order room service?”

“I could definitely use some coffee, so you might as well order food at the same time.” He checked the clock. “It’s almost ten, anyway.”

That late! She marveled at how well she had slept, but it also reminded her that her mystery caller could call at any time. While Swain was in the bathroom, she checked her cell phone, which she’d put in the charger the night before. The phone was on, and the service line showed a nice strong signal, so she hadn’t inadvertently missed a call. She took the phone off the charger and slipped it into the pocket of the robe.

She called room service and put in an order for croissants and jam, with coffee and fresh orange juice. Swain hadn’t professed a preference for anything other than traditional French fare for breakfast, so she went with that. In food, too, he’d proven to be remarkably sophisticated and adaptable. There was a lot he hadn’t told her about his past, but then, she hadn’t told him everything about herself, either, and probably never would. He was healthy, he was heart-whole, and for the moment he was hers. That was enough.

He poked his head out of the bathroom. “Do you want that soak now while I wait for room service, or do you want to wait until afterward?”

“Afterward. I don’t want my soak interrupted by food.”

“I’ll shower now, then.” He disappeared back into the bathroom, and a moment later she heard the shower running.

He came out just ahead of the arrival of their food, looking spiffy in black trousers and a simple white collarless shirt with the cuffs rolled up over his muscular forearms. He signed the check, while Lily stood with her back to the room looking out the window, then he showed the waiter out. He had just turned back from the door when Lily’s cell phone rang.

She sucked in a deep breath and took the phone out of her pocket. A quick look at the window showed that the caller’s number had been blocked. “I think this is it,” she said, and flipped the phone open. “Yes, hello,” she said, switching to French.

“Have you reached your decision?”

On hearing the mechanically distorted voice, she signaled to Swain with a quick nod and he came over to put his head right next to hers. She lifted the phone the tiniest bit away from her ear, so he could hear, too.

“I have. I’ll do it, but on one condition. We must meet face-to-face.”

There was a pause. “That is not possible.”

“It will have to be possible. You’re asking me to risk my life, but you aren’t risking anything.”

“You do not know me. I fail to see what a meeting would accomplish in the way of reassurance.”

He was right about that, but she was already reassured. If Rodrigo had been the one making the call, he’d have jumped at her proposal for a meeting. Sending someone else to meet her, drawing her into the trap by using someone she didn’t recognize, would have been a simple matter. This man was notRodrigo, and wasn’t working with Rodrigo.

She started to say that he was right, a meeting wasn’t necessary, but Swain made an urgent signal and mouthed, “Meeting,” then nodded his head. He wanted her to insist on the meeting.

She couldn’t think of any reason why, but she shrugged and went along with him. “I want to see your face. You know mine, don’t you?”

The caller hesitated, and she knew she’d guessed right. “What does it matter if you know my face? I could tell you any name and you would not know the truth.”

That, too, was true, and she couldn’t think of any logical reason for continuing to insist, so she went with illogic. “That’s my condition,” she said abruptly. “Accept or decline.”

She heard him draw a deep, frustrated breath. “I accept. I will be in front of the Jardin du Palais Royal tomorrow at two o’clock. Wear a red scarf and I will find you. Come alone.”

Swain shook his head, a determined expression on his face that told Lily he wouldn’t budge on this.

“No,” she said. “A friend will be with me. He insists. You are in no danger from me, monsieur, and he wants to be certain I am in no danger from you.”

The man laughed, which was transformed by electronics into a harsh, barking sound. “You are difficult. Very well, mademoiselle. Are there any other conditions?”

“Yes,” she said, just to be contrary. “You wear a red scarf, too.”

He laughed again and cut the connection. Lily closed the phone and blew out a breath. “It isn’t Rodrigo,” she said unnecessarily.

“Seems not. That’s good. We may actually be getting a break.”

“Why do you want to be there?”

“Because a man that reluctant to meet has something to hide, and I don’t trust him.” He picked up her coffee and handed it to her, then winked. “Guess what this means.”

Lily blinked, still so focused on the call and its implications that she was at sea. “What?” she asked, bewildered.

“It means we have today.” He clicked his coffee cup against hers in a salute. “And tonight.”

With nothing to do but enjoy each other, he meant. A slow smile curved her lips. Moving to the window, she opened the curtains and looked out at the brightly sunny day. “If you get bored, we can make that trip to Disneyland,” she said. She thought she could do it now, and enjoy the memories of Zia rather than suffering from them.

“Can you go naked there?” he asked, sipping his coffee.

Knowing exactly where this conversation was going, she pursed her lips and said, “Not likely.”

“Then I’m not leaving this room.”

28

The next day, Saturday, was another cool, sunny day that brought the tourists out in droves. Swain had thought tourists would have been thin on the ground this time of year, but evidently not. A lot of them had evidently felt the need to see the Royal Palace gardens, or maybe there was some sort of festival going on. There had to be something to account for the crowds.

Unfortunately, “in front of” the gardens turned out to be a rather vague instruction. The ornate garden park was large and bordered on three sides by shops, restaurants, and art galleries. One entered the park through a large courtyard dotted with striped stone columns, which he supposed was some artist’s idea of . . . something, but they looked jarringly modern and out of place among the architecture of the 1600s. There was a long line of taller, more stately columns, too, which further reduced lines of sight. Between the columns and the throngs of people, many of whom seemed to be wearing a red scarf, spotting any one person was more difficult than he’d expected.

All in all, he considered this a piss-poor way to make contact, but it was somewhat reassuring. A professional would have picked a better way, which meant the guy they were dealing with was a rank amateur, possibly someone who worked at the Nervi laboratory and was alarmed by what was happening there. They would have a definite advantage over him.

Lily stood beside Swain, looking around. She was wearing sunglasses to disguise her eyes, as well as brown contacts in case she needed to remove the glasses, and the same cloche she usually wore to cover her hair. Swain looked down at her and caught her hand, pulling her closer to his side.

He thought of himself as an uncomplicated man in his wants and needs, his likes and dislikes, but there was nothing uncomplicated about this situation with Lily or the way she made him feel. He was caught in a hell of a dilemma, and he knew it. The best he could do was take care of one thing at a time, in order of importance, and hope to hell everything worked out. It couldn’t work out with Lily, of course, and he felt a fist squeeze his heart every time he thought of what he had to do.

If only he could talk to Frank. Frank was alive, conscious, but heavily sedated, and still in ICU. In Swain’s opinion “conscious” didn’t exactly describe his condition, because according to Frank’s assistant he could respond to such requests as “squeeze my hand” and occasionally mouth the word “water.” To Swain, conscious meant you were holding conversations and having a rational thought process. Frank was a long way from there. He was in no shape for a phone call even if his cubicle had a telephone, which it didn’t.

There had to be some other solution for Lily. He wanted to talk to her: sit her down, hold her hands, and tell her exactly what was going on. Things didn’t have to go down the way Frank had decreed.

He didn’t because he knew beyond a doubt how she would react. At best, she would walk away from him and disappear. At worst, she would try to kill him. Given her past and how wary and untrusting she was in general, he’d bet on the worst-case option. If she hadn’t already been betrayed by a lover who had tried to kill her . . . maybe he’d have had a chance. He’d almost groaned aloud when she told him about that episode, because he knew it had set a terrible precedent in her mind. After barely escaping with her life that time, she wouldn’t be inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt and talk before shooting.

Her emotions were on a hair trigger, and he knew it. She had been battered by loss and betrayal to the point that she had almost totally withdrawn, because she couldn’t bear another blow. He knew very well that only circumstance had forced her to him, though he’d been quick to take advantage of the situation. She’d been starved for human contact even while she shunned it, her life totally devoid of laughter, fun, enjoyment. At least he could give her that, for a little while, and as he’d told her, he was one lucky son of a bitch because that was exactly what she could least resist.

The way she’d bloomed in the last few days broke his heart. He didn’t flatter himself that the cause was his superior lovemaking technique or even his winning personality; it was the simple human touch that had done it, drawn her out of her shell, let her laugh and tease and accept affection as well as give it. But there was no way a few days could offset months, years of conditioning; she was still so delicately balanced that the least hint of betrayal would undo the trust he’d been building between them.

He was in a hell of a mess, because he was as caught as she was. If he’d touched her, she had also touched him. These past two nights, making love to her, had been . . . hell, they’d been the best time of his life. Losing her was going to rip his guts out, and he’d let things progress to the point that he’d lose her no matter what he did, because if he told her what he was and that he’d tracked her down, all she’d see would be betrayal. Son of a bitch. he’d thought he could handle it, have a good time and show her a good time for a little while, but he hadn’t allowed for how important she would become to him. Nor had he known how emotionally battered she’d been, which would pretty much dictate her response if he spilled his guts to her now. He’d been stupid and arrogant, thinking with his little brain instead of his big one, and now he and Lily were both going to pay.

Okay, he deserved to pay, but Lily didn’t. If anything, she was the good guy in this situation. So she’d killed a CIA asset; the son of a bitch had deserved to die, especially in light of what he’d been planning with the flu bug. Not that she’d known about that at the time, her motive had been pure revenge, but to Swain that was splitting hairs. What it came down to was, Lily hadn’t quit. She just kept on throwing herself into the breach, willing to sacrifice herself to do what she thought was right. Not many people had that sort of moral fortitude, or plain stubbornness, whatever you wanted to call it.

The bottom of his stomach dropped out, and his heart started pounding as he realized exactly what had happened, how he’d been blindsided. “Jesus God,” he said aloud. Despite the cool day, he broke out in a sweat.

Lily looked up at him, puzzled. “What?”

“I’m in love with you.” He said it starkly, in shock at the realization of what he was feeling and the disaster looming in front of him. He ground his teeth together, his jaw locked as he fought to keep from blurting out everything. What he’d just said was enough to make him feel as if he’d leaped off a cliff.

Because of the sunglasses, he couldn’t see her eyes very well, but he could tell she was blinking rapidly, and her mouth fell open a little. “What?” she repeated, but this time the word was very faint.

Her cell phone rang.

A fierce scowl twisted her face. “I’m so tired of these damn phone calls!” she muttered as she fished the phone out of her pocket.

Frustrated by the interruption, he grabbed the phone. “I know what you mean,” he growled as he glanced at the little view window. He paused, staring at the number. He knew that number; it was one he’d called just a few days ago. What in hell—? “We have a number this time,” he said to cover his pause; then he flipped the phone open and snapped, “Yeah, what is it?”

“Ah . . . perhaps I have the wrong number.”

“I don’t think so,” Swain said, thinking furiously as the quiet voice confirmed his suspicion. “You were calling about a meeting?”

Perhaps the caller caught his voice, too, because there was a long moment of silence, so long that Swain began to wonder if he’d cut the connection. Finally the caller said, “Oui.”

“I’m the friend you were told about,” Swain said, hoping this guy wasn’t going to blow the whistle on him. He knew Swain was CIA; if he asked Lily about that, the jig was up.

“I do not understand.”

No, he wouldn’t, because his assumption—a correct assumption—was that Swain had been sent to France to take care of a problem, namely Lily. Yet here Swain was apparently working with her.

“You don’t have to understand,” Swain replied, “just tell us if the meeting is still on.”

“Oui. I did not realize this park would be so—I am at the basin in the center. That is an easier meeting place. I will be sitting on the rim of the basin.”

“We’ll be there within five minutes,” Swain said, and closed the phone.

Lily snatched the phone out of his hand. “Why did you do that?” she snapped.

“So he’d know for certain you weren’t alone,” Swain said. That was as good a reason as any, plus it was the only one that came to mind. “He’s waiting for us at the center of the park, at the basin.” He took her arm to lead her into the park.

She pulled her arm free. “Hold it.”

He stopped in his tracks and looked back at her. “What?” He was afraid she was going to insist on talking about his out-of-the-blue statement, because in his experience women loved to talk things to death; but her mind was going in a completely different direction.

“I think we should stick to the original plan. You stay back, where you can watch me. Rodrigo may be slick enough to have known we’d be suspicious if he jumped at the chance for a meeting.”

Let her meet alone with a guy who knew he was CIA? That wasn’t going to happen.

“It wasn’t Rodrigo,” he said.

“How do you know?”

“Because the guy wasn’t familiar with this park; he didn’t know the entrance on a busy Saturday wasn’t a great place to meet. Do you think Rodrigo wouldn’t have checked that out? And look around you; would Rodrigo be likely to try kidnapping a woman with all these people around? This is someone who’s probably on the level.”

“Probably, but not certainly,” she pointed out.

“Okay, look at it this way. If it is Rodrigo, would the presence of one person stop him from what he wanted to do?”

“No, but it would be impossible for him to do what he wanted without attracting notice.”

“Exactly. Trust me, I’m not risking your life, or even my own. Rodrigo would have chosen somewhere secluded for a meet, because it would be stupid not to.”

She mulled that over and finally nodded her head. “You’re right. Rodrigo isn’t a stupid man at all.”

He laced his fingers with hers and started her moving. The feel of her slim hand in his made the bottom drop out of his stomach again, and her trust weighed on him like an anvil. God, what was he going to do?

“Just so you know, I heard what you said.” She peered at him over the upper rim of her sunglasses. It gave him a jolt to see brown eyes looking back at him instead of pale blue ones, as if he’d been sucked into an alternate universe.

He briefly tightened his fingers on hers. “And?”

“And . . . I’m glad.” It was simply said, and arrowed through him. Most women found it easy to say “I love you,” much easier than men, but Lily wasn’t most women. For her, loving and admitting to it must have taken every ounce of courage she possessed—and that was a lot of courage. She humbled him in a way he’d never expected, and had no idea how to handle.

They walked hand in hand into the huge formal park, which had once belonged to Cardinal Richelieu. The large basin with its center fountain sat in the middle. People strolled around, some just enjoying the gardens even though in November they weren’t as lush as they would have been a few months ago, some sitting on the rim of the basin having their photographs taken to go in an album of vacation memories when they returned home. Swain and Lily strolled around the basin, looking for a lone man wearing a red scarf.

He rose to his feet as they approached. Swiftly Swain appraised him. He was a neat, trim man, about five-ten, with dark hair and eyes and the bony facial structure that shouted “French!” From the way his tailored jacket fit him, he either was unarmed or, like Lily, wore an ankle holster. He carried a briefcase, a detail that made him stand out from the rest of the park-goers; this was Saturday, not a time for office workers. He had no spy craft, Swain thought, or he’d know that he should blend in rather than stand out.

Their contact’s dark eyes searched his face first, then went to Lily’s. Surprisingly, his features softened. “Mademoiselle,” he said, and he gave a little half-bow that was completely natural and respectful. Yeah, that was definitely the quiet voice Swain remembered. He didn’t like the way the guy was looking at Lily, though, and he pulled her a little closer to his side in one of those gestures guys use to signal other men that they are edging into personal territory.

The Interpol man already knew his name, but to prevent a slipup in front of Lily that couldn’t be explained, Swain said, “Call me Swain. Now, you know her name and you know mine. What’s yours?”

The shrewd dark eyes studied him. The Interpol man didn’t hesitate because he was unsure what to do, but because he was considering every angle. Evidently he must have decided there was no reason to be secretive, since Swain had his cell phone number and the resources to put a name with it if he chose. “Georges Blanc,” the man said. He indicated the briefcase. “Everything you need to know about the system is in there, but after careful consideration I realize that a clandestine entrance is probably not feasible now.”

Swain looked sharply around, making sure no one was within hearing. It was a good thing the man’s voice was naturally quiet. “We should go somewhere more private,” he said.

Blanc also looked around, and nodded his understanding. “I apologize,” he said. “I’m not well-versed in procedure.”

They walked toward a line of carefully manicured trees. Swain didn’t care for formal gardens himself, preferring his nature in a more unruly state, but there were stone benches scattered about the park and he supposed on a quiet day there would be something serene about the setting. It seemed to appeal to a lot of other people, though this wasn’t his cup of tea. They found one of those stone benches, and Blanc invited Lily to sit. He placed the briefcase beside her.

Suddenly alarmed, Swain stepped forward and seized the briefcase, moving it away from Lily. He thrust it back at Blanc. “Open it,” he ordered, his tone crisp and hard. A briefcase could easily contain a bomb.

Lily was on her feet and Swain moved so that she was behind him, at the same time reaching his hand inside his jacket. If the briefcase did contain a bomb, maybe he could shield her, though he doubted Blanc would explode a bomb while he himself was still standing so close. But what if Blanc didn’t have the detonator, and someone watching them did?

Alarm flashed across Blanc’s face, both at how fast Swain had moved and at the hardness of his expression. “There are only papers,” he said, taking the briefcase and thumbing the catch releases. They sprang open and he lifted the lid, showing the sheaf of papers inside. There was an inner pocket and he held it open for Swain’s appraisal, then riffled the papers. “You can trust me.” He held Swain’s gaze as he spoke, and Swain got the message.

Tension eased from his shoulders and he removed his hand from the butt of his weapon. “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t put anything past Rodrigo Nervi.”

Lily punched him in the back. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Trust her to get pissed because he’d tried to protect her. If she’d known what might be going on, she would have shoved in front of him to protect him, but she wasn’t trained in this type of shit any more than Blanc was and for a couple of seconds she hadn’t realized what Swain was doing. He’d be damned before he’d apologize for doing something she’d have done. He angled a narrow-eyed look at her over his shoulder. “Live with it.”

She glared at him, then deliberately stepped around him and once more sat down on the bench. “Please sit down, Monsieur Blanc,” she said in her perfect French.

With an amused glance at Swain, Blanc did so.

“You said a clandestine approach might not be feasible now,” Lily said, prompting him.

“Yes, the additional external security measures have made that difficult—especially at night, when there are additional guards at every entrance, in every hallway. There is actually less security during the day, when there are more workers.”

That was logical, Swain thought. It wasn’t good for their purpose, but it was logical.

“I propose to get you inside during the day.”

“How are you going to do that?” Swain asked.

“I have arranged for you to be hired by the younger Nervi, Damone, who has arrived from Switzerland to aid his brother. Have you ever met him, mademoiselle?” he asked Lily.

She shook her head. “No, he was always in Switzerland. I gather he’s something of a financial wizard. But why would he need to hire anyone for anything? wouldn’t Rodrigo do that, anyway?”

“As I said, he is here to shoulder some of the administrative burden. He wishes to have an outside firm look at the security measures and make certain they are as impregnable as it is possible to make them. Because this is for the protection of the laboratory, Rodrigo agrees.”

“Rodrigo knows what I look like,” Lily pointed out. “All of his employees do.”

“But he does not know Monsieur Swain, does he?” Blanc said. “That is fortuitous. And I believe you are somewhat skilled at disguise?”

“To some degree,” Lily said, surprised that he knew anything about that.

“So this Damone is going to hire us, sight unseen?” Swain asked doubtfully.

Blanc gave a slight smile. “I have been given the task of locating someone for him. He trusts me, and will not question my judgment. Damone Nervi himself will take you through security, into the laboratory.” He spread his hands. “What could be better?”

29

“This isn’t a simple job,” Swain said. For the sake of privacy, the three had repaired to a small café, where they sat at the most isolated table with their coffee and went over the briefcase’s contents. They were using both French and English, having discovered this worked well for them. Blanc could express himself better in French, but Swain could understand it, and vice versa. Without appearing to think about it, Lily used both depending on whom she was speaking to. “It’ll take at least a week to complete my shopping list,” he continued.

To Swain’s annoyance, Blanc immediately looked at Lily as if for confirmation. She shrugged and said, “I know nothing about explosives and demolition. Swain is the expert.”

He hadn’t told her he was an expert, but he appreciated the vote of confidence. As it happened, he did know his way around a detonator.

“The cover story you set up for Damone is good,” he explained, “but now we have to back it up. From what you’ve said this Damone isn’t stupid—”

“No,” Blanc murmured. “Far from it.”

“—and you can bet Rodrigo will at least be curious enough to check our credentials.”

“At the least,” Lily said wryly. “If he has time, he’ll do a full-scale investigation.”

“We’ll have to make sure he doesn’t have that time. We’ll have to plant the explosives the first time we’re in, because there might not be a second chance. Does Damone trust you enough that he’ll take us into the laboratory before Rodrigo has a chance to investigate us?”

“He does,” Blanc replied without hesitation. “I will tell him I did a thorough investigation myself.”

Swain started to ask if Damone didn’t know Interpol did no investigations, but swallowed the words because there was no way in hell he could explain to Lily how he knew Blanc was Interpol. Blanc wasn’t the only one who had to tread lightly in these conversational waters.

“We’ll need a panel truck or van, business cards, stationery, coveralls—all the outer requirements of a business. The van can carry everything we need; at least these blueprints of the complex give me an idea of the area we might have to cover. I don’t suppose you know exactly where the lab in question is in the complex?”

Blanc shook his head. “Nor do I know if everything pertinent is in one area. Records may be scattered throughout the complex, though that would be shoddy record-keeping, wouldn’t it?”

“Or smart, if there are now built-in redundancies, so if one set of records is destroyed there are backups. That’s something we’ll have to find out while we’re there. Can Damone have Dr. Giordano himself give us a tour? Since it involves security for his own work, he would likely show us any redundancies so we could make certain they’re properly protected,” Lily said.

They were working with a lot of uncertainties here, but Swain remembered that Lily had a reputation for being able to read people. That was why, except for one thing, he’d been totally himself with her. He hadn’t wanted her to detect any phoniness about him. Lily had met Dr. Giordano, gotten a sense of the man. He was proud of his work, she said; professionally it was sheer genius. So, yeah, he might well show them all of the safety measures in place for his research material. It had already been destroyed once; he wouldn’t want that to happen again.

A worried expression grew in Blanc’s eyes. “Will you set off the explosives with so many people around, or wait until night when there are fewer present?”

“We can’t take the chance that someone will spot the packages if we leave them until night. They’ll have to be detonated as soon as possible after placement.”

“We could have a mock bomb-threat drill,” Lily suggested. “Announce it immediately that at some undisclosed time during the day, the alarm will sound and they will be required to make a fast, orderly exit. If anyone sees something suspicious, they’ll probably think it’s part of the drill. In fact, we can make that part of the exercise: tell them that mock explosives are being planted throughout the building, and the test will be if all of them are spotted while the workers are going about their normal routine. They’re not to conduct searches, just be alert, that sort of thing. A bonus to anyone who spots an explosive device. They’re not to touch them, just report the location.”

“Make the workers part of the plot?” Swain half-closed his eyes as he considered it. That would take a lot of uncertainty out of the plan, because then he and Lily would be expected to skulk around planting ominous-looking packages. Dr. Giordano might even show them some good hiding places for the explosives. The plan was so sneaky and brash that no one would be on guard against it. The biggest challenge would probably be disguising Lily well enough that Dr. Giordano didn’t recognize her. “That’s diabolical. I like it. We’d even have an excuse for taking in the explosives, if it’s detected; we could show the workers exactly what Semtex or C-4 looks like, so they can recognize it in the future.”

“You will use plastique?” Blanc asked.

“It’s safest”—safest for the handler, that is—“and the most stable.” Swain didn’t know which he’d be able to get, Semtex or C-4, but as far as handling went, there wasn’t a lot of difference between them. Both were stable, both were powerful, and both required detonators to go boom. Semtex might be more readily available here, since it was manufactured in the Czech Republic, but the new version also lost its plasticity after three years, so if Semtex was what he got, he’d have to make certain it wasn’t too old to work.

“Set us up to meet with Damone a week from today,” Swain told Blanc. “I’ll be in touch with you if there’s a delay in getting everything we need.”

“You wish to meet with him on a Saturday?”

“If there are fewer workers in the complex on Saturday, that would be all the better.”

“Yes, I see. I will try to arrange the meeting for that day.”

“There is one other thing,” Lily said.

“Yes, mademoiselle?”

“The million-dollar fee. I want it deposited in my account before we act. For one thing, we’ll need the funds to buy everything we need.”

Blanc looked startled.

“American,” Lily specified. “That was the deal.”

“Yes, of course. I will . . . see that it is done.”

“This is my numbered account, and my bank.” She scribbled down a name and number and gave it to him. “On Monday afternoon I will check my balance.”

Blanc took the scrap of paper. Swain thought he still had a rather stunned look in his eyes, as if he couldn’t believe Lily would actually take the money instead of acting out of the goodness of her heart. Swain figured she’d do the job even if she had to pay for the privilege, but since Blanc had offered to pay her, she wasn’t fool enough to turn down that much money.

Swain paid for the coffee while Lily neatly placed everything back in the briefcase. She held out her hand to shake hands with Blanc, but the Frenchman instead carried her hand to his lips and kissed it. Exasperated, Swain reached out and freed her hand from Blanc’s grip. “Cut it out. She’s taken.”

“So am I, monsieur,” Blanc murmured. “I am not, however, unappreciative.”

“I’m glad. Now go appreciate someone else.”

“I understand,” said Blanc, and again there was a deeper meaning behind his words.

Lily was chuckling as they walked away. “Frenchmen kiss hands. They don’t mean anything by it.”

“Bullshit. He’s a man, isn’t he? He means something by it.”

“You’d know that from experience?”

“Oh, yeah.” He took her hand himself. “Damn Frenchmen kiss everything they can. There’s no telling where his lips have been.”

“Does that mean I should boil my hand to get rid of the germs?”

“No, but if he kisses you again, I’ll boil his lips.”

She laughed softly, leaning against his arm. There was a slight blush on her cheeks, telling him that some part of her was enjoying his petulance. He put his arm around her shoulders and hugged her to him as they walked.

A week! Even though they would be busy the entire week, Swain felt as if he’d been given a reprieve. He’d have Lily for seven more nights, at least. In a week, Frank might be well enough to talk on the phone—if he didn’t have any setbacks.

“I wasn’t trying to cut you out of the money,” Lily said abruptly, bringing his attention snapping back to her. “I’ll transfer half to you.”

“I didn’t even think about the money,” he said with total truthfulness. He was operating on Uncle Sam’s time, here, even though his actions weren’t sanctioned; he was already being paid. “Keep it. I have money, and from what you said you need to rebuild your savings.” That also was the truth. Whether she would be alive to enjoy those savings was up in the air.

She’d have to be. He couldn’t bear it any other way. Frank would just have to see reason.

That night when they were in the hotel room, she came up to him while he was sitting at the desk going over the blueprints and schematics that had been in the briefcase. Blanc had very helpfully marked the function of each room on the blueprint of the laboratory complex, so Swain was able to narrow down the area they would need to cover. They wouldn’t need to level the entire place, just select parts of it. For instance, there was no need for them to take out the bathrooms or meeting rooms; that would be a waste of plastique. When Swain had the total area condensed into square feet, then he’d be able to estimate how much plastique they needed.

Lily leaned against his back and draped her arms loosely around him, then planted a kiss below his ear. “I love you, too,” she said in a somber tone. “I think. I’m pretty sure, though. It’s scary, isn’t it?”

“Damn terrifying.” He dropped the pen he’d been using to figure the square footage of the rooms and turned in his chair so he could haul her down onto his lap. “I thought we’d just have some fun together; then the next thing I knew I was worrying if you ate enough for breakfast. You’re like a Stealth bomber. My radar never showed a blip.” He frowned down at her.

“Don’t look at me,” she protested. “None of this was my fault. I was minding my own business, having a little shoot-out in which I was outnumbered, when you charged into the middle of it. By the way, that was good driving, the way you slid the Jaguar around.”

“I miss that car,” he said reflectively. “And thank you, ma’am. That’s called a state-trooper turnaround, for when you need to reverse directions and don’t want to fool with details like stopping and backing.”

“I thought you were happy with the Mercedes.”

The afternoon before, they had returned the Fiat and he’d gone for yet another luxury car with a powerful motor, a Mercedes S-Class. Lily had actually been more comfortable in the Fiat, but evidently Swain’s ego was directly connected to how many cylinders were under the hood of whatever car he was driving, so she’d gone along with it. The Fiat had been fun while it lasted, and since he was paying for it, she supposed he might as well drive what he wanted. She was just glad a Rolls hadn’t been available.

“I am,” he said. “Nobody makes a motor like the Germans. But the Jag was cool, too. And the Mégane handled good.”

Lily wondered how they had segued from a discussion about being in love into one about cars. She looped her arms around his neck and nestled against him. Where did they go from here? And was there any point in worrying about the future until they were sure they had one?

“Stay in the—” Swain began.

“Don’t even start,” Lily interrupted. “There’s no way I’m staying in the car.”

“You’ll be safer,” he pointed out with impeccable logic.

“But you won’t,” she returned just as logically. He scowled at her. He hated that her logic was as impeccable as his. She scowled back, twisting her face into an exaggerated expression to mock him.

“I don’t need anyone to cover me.”

“Fine. Then I’ll do it, since there’s no danger.”

“Shit.” He scrubbed his hand over his face, then drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. At least the steering wheel belonged to a real car, a black Mercedes S-Class; that was the only comfort he could find at the moment.

This buy had him as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. He had a prickling feeling on the back of his neck, from all his instincts screaming at him that this could get nasty. If he had been the only one involved, he could have handled it better, looked at it more as a challenge to his talents, but Lily was involved and that changed everything.

It had taken him three days to find a supplier for as much plastique as they needed, and the guy had insisted they meet in a bad section of Paris, where the explosives and money were supposed to change hands. As far as bad sections went, Swain supposed this was the pits. Slums were slums, and he’d been in a lot of them, but there was a bad smell here that put his back up.

The supplier’s name was, supposedly, Bernard. It was a common enough name, so maybe it was his. Swain doubted it, but he didn’t care if that was the guy’s real name or not. All he cared about was making sure the plastique was usable, handing over the money, then getting out of there alive. Some unsavory characters made a very good living selling the same illegal merchandise over and over again; just kill the purchaser, then keep the merchandise and take the money.

Very probably some purchasers showed up with the reverse idea in mind: kill the seller, keep the money, and take the merchandise. Profit went both ways. That meant this Bernard would likely be as edgy as Swain. That was not good.

“I can’t guard your back from here in the car,” Lily said, checking what she could see of her reflection in the visor mirror. She was practicing her disguises. Tonight she was wearing black from head to foot under a black leather coat that had a boxy fit and disguised her lean but definitely female figure. Instead of her usual stylish boots she was wearing motorcycle boots with two-inch heels, which increased her height and were also clunky enough to obscure the size of her feet. She had bought skin-colored latex from a specialty store and was learning how to build up the lines of her jaw and brow to look more masculine. She was also wearing the brown contact lenses, and her blond hair was covered by a black knit cap that was pulled down almost to her eyebrows, which had been blackened to match the medium-size fake mustache she had glued under her nose.

He’d burst out laughing when he first saw her, but now that the only light was from the car’s dash lights, the getup looked much more genuine. She looked masculine and scary. She had started to trim her eyelashes shorter so they wouldn’t look so feminine after she put mascara on them to darken them, but Swain had stopped her. If anyone looked at her closely enough to notice her eyelashes, they were in trouble anyway.

She was holding her pistol in her hand. If she needed to use it, the seconds it took to pull it from her boot or from a pocket could be too long.

Swain was in a sweat about her stepping foot outside the car. If he’d had his way, he’d have had her encased in body armor, and maybe worn a vest himself. Unfortunately, he’d lost the argument about whether she should come with him or stay in the hotel, and now he’d lost the one about her staying in the car. It seemed as if he was losing every argument with her lately, and he didn’t know what to do about it. He’d thought about tying her to the bed at the hotel, but he’d have to untie her eventually—and this was Lily Mansfield, not some soccer mom on vacation. He didn’t know what she’d do, but he was sure he’d be in pain because of it.

A cold front had rolled in during the day, and what had been cool but pleasant had turned cloudy and downright cold as the sun set. Nevertheless, Swain had the windows partially down so they could hear anyone approaching the car, and he had angled the outside mirrors down, to catch anyone coming in low. As for the rest of the area, he and Lily just had to keep watch. The only direction from which he didn’t expect attack was straight up, but that was only because he’d parked far enough away from the derelict buildings that no one could jump the distance.

He turned off the dash lights so there was complete darkness in the car, and reached for Lily’s hand. She was wearing gloves, because her hands were another giveaway that she was a woman—and that was a problem they’d have to solve if she entered the laboratory as a man. He squeezed her fingers. She was steady as a rock, not showing a hint of nerves. When it came down to it, he’d rather have her at his back than anyone else who came to mind.

A car turned a corner, moving slowly toward them. The headlights were on bright, and he heard a familiar high-pitched whining noise. Bernard, the son of a bitch, was driving a Fiat.

Swain immediately started the engine and turned his headlights on bright, too. If Bernard didn’t want them to see how many others were in the car with him, Swain returned the sentiment.

Since he had turned off the car’s interior lights, too, there was no telltale light when Lily opened her door just enough for her to slide out; she sort of slithered, rather than getting out and standing up the way she normally would. With his brights blinding the occupants of the Fiat to that slight movement, they didn’t see her leave the car and, still crouching down, move around to the rear.

Swain slipped low behind the steering wheel, positioning it so it blocked the top part of the headlights shining in his eyes. With that small difference in the glare, he could see the shapes of three heads in the Fiat.

The Fiat crept closer. When twenty feet separated the two cars, it stopped. To see if he could get Bernard to follow suit, he killed the brights on the Mercedes. The bright headlights had played a part, but now that part was finished. A few seconds later, the lights on the Fiat dimmed.

Well, thank God. At least now they weren’t all blinded. He checked his rearview mirrors, but couldn’t spot Lily anywhere.

The passenger door of the Fiat opened and a tall, heavyset man with a short dark beard got out. “Who are you?”

Swain stepped out of the Mercedes, George Blanc’s briefcase in his left hand. He didn’t like not having the engine block for cover, but took some comfort in the fact that the other guy had only a car door between him and a bullet, too—which wasn’t saying much. A bullet went through a car door like a hot knife through butter. The only part of a car that provided much protection was the motor. “Swain. Who are you?”

“Bernard.”

Swain said, “I have the money.”

Bernard said, “I have the merchandise.”

Jesus. It was all Swain could do not to roll his eyes. They sounded like a bad spy movie.

He wore his weapon in a shoulder holster under his leather coat, which was why he’d kept his right hand free. He was acutely aware, though, of the two other men sitting in the Fiat. Bernard didn’t have a weapon in his hands, but Swain was damn certain the two men in the car did.

Bernard didn’t have anything in his hands. “Where’s the merchandise?” Swain asked.

“In the car.”

“Let’s see it.”

Bernard turned back to the car and opened one of the passenger doors. He pulled out a small duffel bag that was bulging with something. Until Swain saw for himself, he wasn’t assuming the bag was full of plastique.

“Open the bag,” he instructed.

Bernard grunted and set the bag on the ground, then unzipped it. The headlights from the two cars plainly showed the bricklike contents, wrapped in cellophane. “Take one out,” Swain said. “From the bottom, please. Then unwrap it.”

Bernard made an impatient sound, but he reached into the duffel, scrabbled around, and pulled out one of the bricks. He tore off the cellophane covering.

“Now pinch off a corner and roll it between your fingers,” Swain instructed.

“It’s new,” Bernard said resentfully.

“I don’t know that, do I?”

Another impatient noise. Bernard tore a corner from the brick of plastique and rolled it into a ball. “There, you see? It is still malleable.”

“Good. I appreciate your honesty,” Swain said with heavy irony. He opened the briefcase to show the money inside. American dollars, as specified, eighty thousand of them. Why did no one want payment in euros? He closed the briefcase and latched it.

Bernard stuck the ball of plastique back on its mother brick, and dropped it into the duffel. A slow smile moved across his face. “Thank you, monsieur. I will take the money now, and if you’re very careful, all will go well—”

“Monsieur.” The voice was Lily’s, so quiet that only he and Bernard could hear it. “Look down.”

He froze at the intrusion of that unexpected voice. He glanced down, but couldn’t see anything; the headlights prevented it.

“You can’t see me, can you?” Lily’s voice was so low that if he hadn’t known she was a woman, Swain wouldn’t have been able to tell. “But I can see you. At this angle, I am afraid that my best shot is at your testicles. The bullet would angle upward, of course, tear out your bladder and colon, part of your intestines. You might live, but the question is, would you want to?”

“What do you want?” Bernard croaked, though of course he knew.

“Just the merchandise,” Swain said. He felt as if he might croak the words himself. Lily’s threat had made his blood run cold. “The money is yours. We aren’t cheats, and we don’t like to be cheated. Very calmly, we will make the exchange. Then you will tell your driver to back the car away, and you will walk beside it. Do not get in the car until it is at the end of the block. Is that understood?”

As long as Bernard wasn’t in the car, he was a clear target. Walking alongside it was a guarantee that his driver wouldn’t ram the Mercedes while Lily was still under it. The Mercedes was heavier, but a solid blow by the Fiat would still slide it some distance.

Warily Bernard approached. “Do not do anything!” he said, raising his voice for the benefit of his cohorts in the Fiat.

Swain extended the briefcase with his left hand, and Bernard extended the duffel bag with his left. Swain let go of the briefcase and for a split second Bernard was holding both briefcase and bag, but then Swain’s left hand closed over the duffel’s strap and he took custody of the bag. His right hand was inside his coat.

Bernard backed away, clutching the briefcase. “We have honored our agreement,” he babbled. “There is no need to panic.”

“I’m not panicking,” Swain said calmly. “But your car isn’t backing up, either, so a panic attack could be coming on.”

“Idiot!” Bernard said fiercely, whether to his driver or Swain was a toss-up. “Back up to the corner, slowly. Do not shoot!” He was probably imagining a hot bullet plowing into his crotch.

“Lily,” Swain hissed. “Get out from under the car, now!”

“I already am,” she said from the other side of the car as she opened the door and slid inside.

Shit, she hadn’t waited to see if Bernard did what he was told, but then how many men would ignore that particular threat? Swain tossed the duffel bag into her lap, then swiftly got in and slammed the transmission in reverse, spinning the car around with a sharp turn of the wheel, then accelerating with a squeal of rubber. Behind them, a car door slammed; there was a high-pitched whine as the Fiat’s engine was revved up and it took off in pursuit. Swain thought it sounded like a sewing machine. Then a sharp crack sounded behind them.

“The fucker’s shooting at us,” Swain said grimly. If he had to change cars again, he was going to be seriously pissed.

“That’s okay,” Lily said, lowering the window and rising to her knees. “I’m shooting back.” Shooting from a moving platform at a moving target was more along the line of asking for a miracle than using any real skill, but she levered herself half out of the window, steadied herself as best she was able, and squeezed off a carefully aimed shot. Behind them, the Fiat swerved wildly before once more straightening out, telling them that she’d scored at least a windshield.

Swain put the gas pedal to the floorboard and let all the horses run. The Fiat rapidly fell behind, and Swain snickered as he imagined them all pedaling frantically, knees working up and down.

“What’s so funny?” Lily asked.

“If I’d still been driving the sewing machine, we’d never have made it.”

30

“You scare the hell out of me,” Swain said crossly, stripping off his leather coat and tossing it across the bed, then shrugging out of his shoulder holster.

“Why is that?” Lily asked mildly, succumbing to an impulse she had every time she saw his coat. She picked it up and stroked the butter-soft leather, then slipped it on. The garment was too large, of course, hanging off her shoulders, and the sleeves reached way past her hands, but it was warm from his body and the feel of the leather was so scrumptious she almost purred.

“What are you doing?” he asked, diverted.

“Trying on your coat,” she replied, giving him a look that said Duh. What did it look like she was doing?

“Like there was any way it was going to fit?”

“No, I just wanted to feel it.” She pulled the edges together and stepped in front of the mirror, then had to laugh at her reflection. She was still wearing the mustache and black street clothes, and the knit cap pulled down over her hair. She looked like a cross between a street punk and Charlie Chaplin.

Gingerly she peeled off the mustache and latex, then removed the knit cap and ran her hands through her hair to fluff it. She still looked like a clown, so she removed the coat and tossed it back on the bed, then sat down and began removing her boots.

“Why do I scare you?” she asked, returning to his previous statement.

“You don’t scare me; I’m scared for you. Though my balls did draw up when you told Bernard where you were going to shoot him, but I guess any man would have that reaction. Scared the hell out of him, anyway. Jesus, Lily, what if the Fiat had rammed the car while you were under it? Do you know how—What are you doing?”

“Taking off my clothes,” she said with that Duh look again. She was down to her underwear and she unhooked her bra and dropped it on the bed, then skimmed out of her panties. Totally naked, she picked up his coat again and slipped it on, then walked back to the mirror.

There, that was more like it. The coat still swallowed her, but now it looked sexy, with her tousled hair and bare legs. She put her hands into the pockets and hunched her shoulders, then rolled her neck. She turned around to get a back view. “I love this coat,” she crooned, lifting the hem just enough to show the beginning curve of her ass. She felt breathless and a little too hot, as if someone had raised the thermostat setting in the room. She lifted the hem higher.

“You can have it,” he said hoarsely. His eyes were glazed. He came up behind her and gripped her buttocks in both hands. “You just can’t ever wear it when you have other clothes on.”

“That’s awfully limiting.” She had all she could do not to pant. Her nipples were so hard they ached, and he hadn’t even touched them. Where had this intense sexual need come from? She didn’t know, but she felt as if she would die if he didn’t enter her.

“Take it or leave it.” His palms were hot as he kneaded the rounded cheeks.

“Well, okay, I’ll take it.” She took her hands out of the pockets and stroked the sleeves. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“That’s not all I drive that’s hard,” he muttered, reaching between them to unzip his fly. “Bend over.”

Because she was all but melting, her inner muscles clenched tight against the surging lust that gripped her, she bent over and braced her hands against the wall, going up on her tiptoes while he bent his knees. She caught her breath as he worked the broad head of his penis into her, then with a long, steady push sank to the hilt. He gripped her hips, anchoring her as he pulled back and thrust again.

Her feet almost came off the floor, and her head bumped the wall. He swore and slid one arm around her hips, holding her to him as he swung her around and took her to the bed. He didn’t pull out, didn’t change their basic positions, just bent her over the bed and began pumping.

Normally she needed direct stimulation in order to climax, but she was so ready for him just the friction of those long strokes was doing it for her. There was something about the combination of adrenaline, the sensuous leather on her bare skin, the knowledge that she was naked except for his coat, while he was still fully clothed, the primitive position, that was sending her responses soaring. She clenched her legs together, tightening herself around him, and the feel of that next stroke squeezing him deep into her was all that was needed. Choking back a scream, she buried her face against the bedspread and gripped fistfuls of fabric as the spasms of release shook every muscle in her body.

Swain leaned over her, bracing his hands on each side of her shoulders, driving so strongly that the impact of each thrust shuddered through her. He made a guttural sound, his penis growing impossibly hard; then he began short-stroking and his back arched and he began to climax, gripping her hips hard and grinding against her.

Five minutes later, they both managed to stir. “Don’t move,” he said thickly, drawing back and sliding the leather coat up so he could look at her bottom. He groaned and shuddered. “Oh, yeah, I think I’ve just discovered a fetish.”

“Mine or yours?” she managed to say. Little lightning bolts were still zinging through her and she suspected the same thing was happening to him, because he hadn’t softened very much.

“God, who cares?” He blew out a breath and gripped her buttocks hard, spreading the cheeks and dragging his thumbs down the crease until they met where her sensitive flesh was stretched tightly around his erection.

Her entire body flexed at the sensation as he massaged her; then gradually she relaxed under the soothing ministration. “This is depraved,” she murmured sleepily. “We were shot at tonight; we should be upset, not turned on.”

“Adrenaline does funny things to the system, and you have to burn it off somehow. But if this is how you react, I’ll start shooting at you myself.”

She shook with laughter, making him slip out of her. Groaning, he straightened and began to pull off his clothes. “C’mon, let’s take a quick shower. I worked up a sweat.”

She shrugged out of the leather coat and went with him into the bathroom. She’d have liked a long soak in the tub, but was afraid she’d fall asleep, so she settled for a shower. Refreshed, she put on clean underwear and one of his shirts, and a pair of socks so her feet wouldn’t get cold. The room was untidy, with clothes scattered everywhere, but she wasn’t in the mood to pick them up, and other than hanging up his leather coat—he had to take care of that coat—evidently neither was he. Instead, after pulling on a pair of pants and nothing else, he opened the duffel bag and began testing the bars of Semtex.

The good bars went on one side of him, the bad ones on the other. After all the bars were out of the duffel, there were only five bars that were too old to be used. “We’re okay,” he said. “There’s enough of the good stuff. I allowed for some of it to be bad, just in case.” He began packing the good bars back into the duffel.

Lily nudged an old bar with her toe. “What are we going to do with these?”

“I guess putting them in the trash might not be too smart. The only way I know of to dispose of plastique is burn it or blow it up, so I guess we’ll have to take them with us to the laboratory, try to detonate them with the others. Even if they don’t blow, they’ll burn in the fire.” He had acquired a combination tool—knife, pliers, miniature saw, and she didn’t know what else, all in one handy-dandy implement that was banned on all airlines—and he used the blade to notch the old blocks so he wouldn’t get them confused with the others. Then he replaced them in the duffel, and stowed the duffel on the top shelf of the closet.

“I hope the hotel’s too classy to have nosy maids,” he said, then yawned. “I could use some sleep. How about you?”

Lily had gotten progressively sleepier since getting out of the shower, and his yawn triggered hers. “Fading fast. What’s our next step?”

“Detonators, radio controlled. We’ll have to be a safe distance away when I set off the charges, and running hundreds of yards of det cord all through the lab might make someone suspicious. Once we have the hardware, then we’ll work on the peripherals: the business cards and coveralls, the van. They won’t be that hard to get, and a magnetic sign on the side of the van will take care of the customization.”

“There’s nothing else we can do tonight, then.” She yawned again. “I definitely vote for bed.” Now that the adrenaline rush was gone and the bout of earthy sex had relaxed her, she felt as if her bones were turning rubbery. She turned toward the bed and left him to take care of the lights. She was so tired all she did was pull off her socks; then she fell into bed.

She was vaguely aware of him peeling her out of his shirt, then skimming her panties down and off. She could have slept comfortably in both, but liked being naked in his arms. She sighed as he got into bed and cuddled her close to him. Her hand drifted across his chest. “Love you,” she mumbled.

His arms tightened around her. “I love you, too.” She felt his lips brush her temple; then it was lights-out for her.

Swain lay awake for a long time that night, holding her close and staring into the dark.

On Saturday, D-day, Lily took her time in front of the makeup mirror. The disguise had to be as good as she could make it, or this wouldn’t work. If Dr. Giordano spotted her, all bets were off.

Her options had been either to cut her hair short and dye it or to buy another wig. She didn’t mind coloring her hair, but she didn’t want to cut it as short as a man’s unless there was nothing else to be done. Luckily, very good wigs were available in Paris. The one she bought was longish for a man, but not inordinately so. Nor had she wanted to duplicate the brown color she had used as Denise Morel, or her own blond color. That left black or red. She had opted for black, as it was a much more common color than red. In fact, most of the world’s population had black hair. Over the wig she wore a cap printed with the initials of the fictitious security company Swain had invented, Swain Security Contractors, SSC. He had gone with an American name, since there was no way he could convince anyone he was anything but American.

She had practiced with the latex of the sort used in movie makeup. She was nowhere near as good as a makeup artist, but she didn’t have the luxury of years of practice to perfect her technique. She could widen her jaw a tad, build up the bridge of her nose so she had a classic Roman profile instead of a near-beak—which was the only way she could think of to disguise her profile, which was every bit as distinctive as her eye color—darken her brows and lashes, and add the mustache to hide her full upper lip. She had decided against building up her brow ridge, because she never could get it right and always looked Neanderthal. Dark brown contacts—darker than the hazel brown she had worn as Denise Morel—and wire-framed glasses completed the facial disguise. She had to be skillful with the base that colored the latex the same shade as her skin, because she didn’t want anyone to notice that she was wearing makeup.

She had even covered the tiny holes in her pierced earlobes with the latex. A man might have one ear pierced, might even wear an earring to work, but most men definitely did not have both ears pierced. She supposed some did, but she didn’t want anything about her to attract attention.

The cold spell that had ushered in December was still with them, which was a blessing. To hide her figure she had wound a wide elastic bandage around her breasts, and the dark blue coveralls she wore were loose enough to disguise the shape of her hips. The weather was cold enough that she added a lightweight fiber-fill vest over the coveralls, and that last touch completely hid her figure. Thick-soled work boots with lifts added three inches to her height.

Her hands were a problem. Her nails weren’t polished and she had clipped them very short, but her fingers were slender and undeniably feminine. Because of the weather she could wear gloves while she was outside, but what about inside? She couldn’t help Swain plant the charges and keep her hands in her pockets at the same time. The best she could do was use blue eyeshadow to outline the veins on the backs of her hands and make them look more prominent and, as a crowning touch, add adhesive bandages to two of her fingers to give the impression that she sported the nicks and cuts of someone who did work with her—his—hands.

At least she wouldn’t have to talk much. Swain was the mouthpiece; she was the labor. She could pitch her voice into a lower register, but that was hard to maintain. To coarsen her voice for when she did have to talk, she had forced herself to cough enough to irritate her throat.

Swain, of course, thought her hoarse voice was sexy. She was beginning to think she could sneeze and he would find it sexy. As often as he’d made love to her over the past week and a half, she suspected he’d lied about his age and was really just twenty-two, with premature gray in his hair. Not that his attention wasn’t flattering; in fact, she soaked it up like a plant starved for rain.

However, it wasn’t as if they hadn’t been doing anything other than going at it like bunny rabbits. Either Swain had a talent for locating the sleazoids in the city, or he had some really questionable acquaintances. While Lily—always disguised—had handled the peripheral things they needed, such as locating a van that fit their requirements and having two magnetic signs made, getting the business cards printed up as well as forms with very official-looking technical checklists on them and “SSC” at the top, clipboards, a variety of tools, their coveralls and boots, Swain had been associating with some very rough characters in order to buy the detonators they needed.

He had wanted to build the remote control himself, something he said was easily done with the remote-control system from any radio-controlled toy—such as a car or an airplane, available in any good toy or electronics store—but decided that using a custom control would look more professional, so he had forked over the money required, and bitched about the cost for days.

Then, going by the information contained in the blueprints, he had set about determining where the charges should be placed, and how strong they should be. Lily had never really thought about demolitions from a mathematical standpoint, though she’d known Averill had taken pride in calculating the strength of his charges to exactly what was required to do the job, and nothing more. Swain had explained it all, reeling off numbers as if they were general knowledge: this much Semtex would do this much damage. He used the terms plastique and Semtex interchangeably, but when she asked, he acknowledged that they weren’t exactly the same. C-4, plastique, and Semtex were all in the same family of explosives, but plastique was the more widely known term and was used all-inclusively, but incorrectly. Lily hated when details were wrong; too often her life had depended on getting the details right, so she insisted he say Semtex when he meant Semtex. He’d rolled his eyes, but humored her.

He’d spent hours showing her how and where to place a charge and set the detonator. The detonator was the easy part, but he was very particular about where the charges went. He had numbered the locations, then prepared the charges for each and labeled each charge with the number corresponding to where he wanted it to go. They had studied until they could reel off each location and its number without hesitation, memorized the blueprints, then driven out into the country, where he had marked off the distances to give them a better feel of the size of the complex and how long the job would take.

The good news was, they had a cover for being in the complex. The bad news was, depending on what they found when they got in there, placing all the charges could take a couple of hours or more. The longer they were in there, the better the chance of discovery. Swain was safe; Lily was not, especially if for some reason Rodrigo showed up. He would know from Damone that “security experts” were touring the facility, and he might be curious. If he did appear, Swain would handle the meet-and-greet while Lily busied herself elsewhere and hoped Rodrigo wouldn’t insist on meeting the other “expert.”

Dr. Giordano was the other danger, as far as recognizing Lily was concerned. Likewise, she would try not to attract his attention, though that would be more difficult. After all, the facility was his and his work was his pride and joy. He would be very interested in Swain’s opinion of the security measures in place. Since Swain was supposedly the owner of SSC, he would be more the focus of attention than Lily, but she couldn’t hope to escape completely.

Neither of them had forgotten that this was to be Dr. Giordano’s last day on earth. Lily remembered how kind he’d been to her when she’d been so ill, but at the same time she knew he was at the heart of an evil scheme. So long as Giordano was alive, the knowledge of how to mutate a virus so it would pass from human to human could be used to produce a pandemic. If not avian influenza, then it would be something else. Viruses were deadly enough without his help. The pandemic might occur anyway, at any time, but she’d be damned if she would let it be deliberately timed so someone would make a lot of money.

The plan was, after the charges were set, they would hold a mock bomb-threat drill, timing how fast the buildings could be emptied. When everyone was outside, Swain would detonate the charges and almost simultaneously Lily would execute Dr. Giordano. The percussion and fire from the explosions would certainly cause panic, perhaps some injuries. They themselves would slip in earplugs before detonation, and make certain they were standing behind something for shelter. In the confusion they would get into the van and drive away—they hoped. Nothing was taken for granted.

A luxury hotel wasn’t the best place they could have chosen to prepare explosive charges. Everything had to be tidied away every day before the arrival of the housekeeping service, and they didn’t want to put the charges in the van as they were completed, in case the van was broken into. The last thing in the world they wanted was some punk in possession of that much Semtex.

“Are you ready, Charles?” Swain asked. Charles Fournier was the name they had chosen for Lily. Swain got such a kick out of it he’d been calling her Charles even when they were alone.

“I think this is the best it’s going to get,” she said, getting up from the vanity and pirouetting for him as best she could in the heavy work boots. “Do I look okay?”

“Depends on your definition of ‘okay,’ ” he said. “I wouldn’t ask you out on a date, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’ll do,” she said, satisfied.

He grinned. “I don’t even want to kiss you. That mustache gives me the willies.” He had just finished packing the charges, some in the duffel bag and some in a box. The detonators were in a separate box, and as a precaution he’d taken the batteries out of the remote control.

He was dressed in coveralls that matched hers, with SSC embroidered on the left breast pocket, but underneath he wore a white dress shirt and a tie, to denote he was the boss and draw attention his way. The coveralls were unzipped enough to reveal the tie, and they were loose enough to hide the line of the shoulder holster he wore. She had opted for her familiar ankle holster, though with these boots, getting to her pistol was more difficult than usual. They weren’t entering a fast-draw competition, though; when the time came, if everything was working right, she’d have plenty of time to pull her weapon.

He carried the duffel bag and the box containing the charges, while she carried the box with the detonators. They had the elevator to themselves, but they didn’t indulge in any small talk, or go over the plan one more time. They each knew what they had to do.

“You drive,” Swain said when they reached the van, taking the keys from his pocket and tossing them to her.

Her eyebrows went up. “You’re trusting me to drive?”

“A: I’m the boss and I’m the driven, not the driver. B: a van’s no fun to drive.”

“That’s what I thought,” she said drily. The van must handle as agilely as a beached whale for Lucas Swain to have willingly turned over the keys.

They were supposed to meet Damone Nervi at the complex at three pm. Swain had chosen that time because in the afternoon people are tired and less alert than they are in the morning. When they reached the complex, Lily couldn’t help looking at the small park where the gun battle had erupted just two weeks before. The incident had been mentioned in the news; then when no additional excitement was added by someone dying, it had been completely dropped the next day. She was pleased to see that even though it was a weekend, the cold weather had kept most people from enjoying the park. It was mostly deserted, except for the very occasional hardy soul walking a dog. The fewer people who were about, the better.

As they approached the gate where two guards waited, she coughed several times again, to roughen her voice. One guard held up his hand and she obligingly eased to a stop, then lowered her window. A blast of frigid air made her glad she was wearing the vest. “Monsieur Lucas Swain to see Monsieur Nervi.” Before she could ask, Swain handed over his international driver’s license for the guard to check. She fished out her new fake license and handed it over, as well.

“Fournier,” the guard said, reading the name off the license. They checked the names against a list, which, she noticed, had only the two names on it, so completing their task didn’t take very long.

“Go to the main entrance on the left,” the guard instructed, returning the licenses to them. “Park in the slot marked for visitors. I will call Monsieur Nervi and notify him of your arrival. Beside the door is a buzzer; press it and someone inside will release the lock for you to enter.”

Lily nodded as she slipped the license back into her pocket, and raised the van window to shut out the cold air. She coughed several more times, because she didn’t think she had sounded hoarse enough when talking to the guard. The more she coughed, the worse the cough sounded, as if her throat was getting into the spirit of things. It was already a little sore, so she needed to be careful not to overdo.

Two men stepped out of the entrance. One was Dr. Giordano. “That’s the doctor on the left,” she said to Swain. “The other man must be Damone Nervi.”

There was, in fact, a strong family resemblance, but where Rodrigo was a very good looking man, Damone Nervi was probably the most handsome man she had ever seen, though in no way was he effeminate. His looks were classic, from his thick black hair to his smooth olive-toned skin. He was tall and trim, elegantly dressed in a double-breasted charcoal gray suit that draped on him the way only the Italians could get a suit to fit. Dr. Giordano was smiling in welcome, but Damone’s face was set in an aloof, rather stern expression.

“Something’s off,” Lily murmured.

“How?” Swain asked.

“Supposedly we’re here at Damone’s insistence, so he shouldn’t look as if we’re as welcome as the plague.”

“An apt simile,” he observed. “Yeah, I see what you mean. The doctor’s smiling, Damone isn’t. Maybe he isn’t a smiley type of guy.”

Sometimes the most simple explanation was the best one, but Lily couldn’t shake her vague uneasiness. She parked the van in the appropriate slot and tried not to be obvious as she studied the two men.

Swain didn’t wait. He left the van and strode confidently to the entrance, where he gave both men a brisk handshake. His bearing had changed, Lily realized, the habitual lazy saunter had been replaced by a walk that said, “get out of my way.” Everything about his body language had subtly changed, and he looked like an aggressive, no-nonsense businessman.

According to their plan, she got out and went to the back of the van, opening the doors and getting out two clipboards that each held a thick sheaf of printed forms, plus two circuit testers that were totally useless for anything they were supposed to be doing but which Swain had decided looked impressive. They might even test a circuit or two, just to look as if they were doing something.

Laden with this paraphernalia, taking care she held everything as a man would hold it rather than clutching the clipboards to her chest as women did, she approached the three men. “My associate, Charles Fournier,” Swain said, indicating her. “Damone Nervi, Dr. Giordano. The doctor has agreed to give us a tour, show us all the security measures in place in order to save time.”

Her hands were occupied to prevent her from shaking hands, so everyone contented themselves with nods and greetings. Dr. Giordano was still relaxed and welcoming; if anything, Damone’s expression had gotten more stern. Lily’s uneasiness grew in proportion. Why was Damone acting as if this “inspection” hadn’t been his idea from the beginning?

Damn. Could all of this have been orchestrated simply to draw her into a trap, into a private building where anything could happen to her and no one would ever be the wiser? Was Rodrigo even more cunning than she’d imagined? She had to admit that if so, he’d merely borrowed a page from her own book and drawn her into the trap by not jumping at the first few chances to capture her. Taking her off the street would have been noticed, and while Rodrigo had the political capital to make an incident go away, why spend it when he could simply be patient and lure her into a place where no one would notice anything? For all she knew, the lab was empty of personnel and the vehicles in the parking lot were just window dressing.

If she had miscalculated, she had caused not only her own death but Swain’s also. She thought of all that laughter and zest for life being snuffed out, and went cold inside. The world would be a darker place without Lucas Swain in it. If anything happened to him because of her—

But now Damone had turned away, and Dr. Giordano was chiding him for being so morose because his fiancée had cancelled a scheduled visit. “Perhaps you should visit her,” the doctor teased, slapping Damone on the back. “Women like it when we men come to them.”

“Perhaps tomorrow,” Damone said, shrugging and looking faintly sheepish.

Lily relaxed. Her imagination had been running away with her; Damone was simply in a bad mood because his girlfriend hadn’t visited.

Dr. Giordano pressed a series of numbers on a keypad at the door, and it buzzed open. “We used to each have a card which we slid through a scanner, but people were forever losing their cards and the security company decided a keypad would be more secure,” he said as he stepped inside and they followed.

“That’s true,” Swain said, “so long as no one gives the entry number to unauthorized people. However, I’ve been here two minutes, and I can already tell you that the number sequence for entry is six-nine-eight-three-one-five. You didn’t block the keypad with your body when you keyed in the number. Even worse, the keypad is tonal. I could hear it.” He pulled a tiny digital recorder from his pocket. “I activated this when you started to unlock the door, just in case.” He pressed the play button and a series of six different-toned little beeps sounded. “With this, I could open the door even if I didn’t know what the numbers were.”

Dr. Giordano looked acutely embarrassed. “I assure you, I’m not usually so careless. I did not think I should be on guard against you.”

“You should be on guard against everyone,” Swain replied, really getting into his role. “And the keypad should be changed so you don’t hear the tones. That’s the real weakness.”

“Yes, I see.” Dr. Giordano pulled a notebook from the pocket of his lab coat and made a notation in it. “I will have this taken care of immediately.”

“Good. After the tour, there are two exercises I’d like to conduct, if I may. My associate and I will plant fake explosives in various parts of the complex, and we will see how long it takes any of the workers here to spot something they consider suspicious. If no one notices anything, I’d like to make an announcement about what we have done, and invite them to look around, and notify you whenever they spot anything out of the ordinary. That raises their awareness, first knowing that these packages were put in place without being noticed, and again by in effect teaching them where to look and what to look for. Lastly, I’d like to conduct a bomb-threat evacuation, to time how long it takes everyone to clear the buildings, see what routes they use, and possible alternate routes. This would really be best done when your workforce is at its maximum number, but today was the only day available, so we’ll work with what we have.”

Lily was impressed. Swain was doing a hell of an acting job. Not only that, she hadn’t known he had that tiny recorder. He must have acquired it while he was picking up the other electronics he thought they’d need.

“Of course, that’s brilliant,” Dr. Giordano said. “Now, if you’ll please follow me?”

To Lily’s consternation, Damone fell in step beside her while Swain walked beside Dr. Giordano. The last thing she wanted was one-on-one conversation with anyone. Because her hands were full, she couldn’t cover her mouth, but she turned her head into her shoulder and gave two hard coughs.

Swain looked back at her. “Charles, that cough is sounding worse. You should take something for it.”

“Later,” she croaked, and for good measure coughed again.

“You are ill?” Damone inquired politely.

“A cough only, monsieur.”

“Perhaps you should wear a mask. Dr. Giordano is working with influenza viruses, and anyone who is already sick would be especially vulnerable.”

Dr. Giordano turned his head and said with concern, “No, no, we won’t enter that lab.”

“Do your workers often fall sick from the viruses and bacteria they’re working with?” Swain inquired.

“It happens, of course—so often that no one keeps records. But I am trying to develop a vaccine for a particularly virulent strain, and anyone who enters that lab must show no signs of illness, plus I instituted strict measures requiring the wearing of masks and gloves.”

It was good to know the doctor was taking care his bug didn’t spread to the general populace before the vaccine was available to make them millions of dollars, Lily thought. She stared at his back, at his well-shaped head. He seemed such a nice man, but he was the cause of it all. Because of him, Zia was dead.

Lately—since Swain—she had been able to sometimes think of Zia without the crippling pain of grief, with more a fond and sad remembrance. But looking at Dr. Giordano and knowing he was the reason she no longer had Zia, everything rushed back at her in full force. She clenched her jaw to keep from moaning aloud, and fought the burn of tears. It wouldn’t do for “Charles” to start weeping.

They had all—she and Averill and Tina—fretted because Zia seemed to catch every bug that went around. By the age of ten she had already had pneumonia twice. Whether her immune system had been weakened by the deprivation of her first few weeks of life, or she was just unlucky, didn’t matter. Every winter Zia had been ill several times, and she had always caught at least one summer cold that would inevitably turn into bronchitis. She would have been almost certain to catch such an influenza as Dr. Giordano was planning to unleash on the world, and what were the odds she would have been one of the unlucky ones who died?

In trying to stop that from happening, Averill and Tina had set in motion a train of events that had led to that very outcome anyway. The irony of it was bitter.

Hard on the heels of pain came a hot rush of hatred, so strong that she shook with it. She sucked in a harsh breath, trying to wrestle her emotions back under control before she did something stupid and blew everything.

Walking beside her, Damone gave her a curious look. Lily covered for herself by turning her head and giving another cough. She just hoped the latex on her jaw held up under all this stress. Even more, she hoped that Damone didn’t notice that she had a mustache, but not even a hint of a five o’clock shadow on her face.

They walked down a long hall and turned right. “This is my office,” Dr. Giordano said, indicating a door with his name lettered on it in gold, and another keypad entry. “Next to it is the main laboratory, which I would like to show you. It is where I do my most important work. Monsieur Fournier, you should perhaps remain outside.”

Lily nodded. Swain took one of the notebooks and circuit testers from her and said, “We won’t be long.” She leaned against the wall the way she’d seen men do, the picture of patience as the three men went into the laboratory. She was just glad Damone hadn’t chosen to remain with her.

They were out within ten minutes, Swain making notes. She hoped he’d used his trusty little recorder to get the tonal codes of the keypad when Dr. Giordano had entered it, because that time the doctor had been very careful to shield the keypad with his body when he was punching in the sequence. They would need to get into both the lab and the office to set charges.

“Charles,” Swain said absently, “I want you to check the GF modulator on the 365 BS detector in the doctor’s office.”

“Yes, sir,” Lily croaked, diligently writing down the gibberish. She had no idea what a GF modulator was, or if such a thing even existed, and the only BS she knew of was what was coming out of Swain’s mouth almost every time he opened it. It sounded impressive, though, and gave her an excuse for being in Dr. Giordano’s office.

It was that way throughout the tour; whenever they “inspected” an area that Swain deemed on their hit list, he would reel off a set of instructions designed to get either himself or Lily back in that area. Not once did he repeat himself, probably because he couldn’t remember all the numbers and initials he’d used before. Dr. Giordano was obviously impressed by Swain’s comprehensive knowledge, though Damone’s expression was more enigmatic. Lily suspected Damone would be a hard sell on anything, which further underscored how much he must have trusted Georges Blanc, in order for him to have accepted Blanc’s recommendation.

At last they were finished, and Swain gave a brief smile. “That will do, I think. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse us, we’ll check those items I mentioned to Charles, and then we’ll sneak around hiding our little surprise packages. This will probably take . . . an hour, perhaps a little longer. Then we’ll have some fun with your employees that I hope will impress on them how vigilant they should be, and then we’ll have that evacuation drill.”

“Of course,” Damone said, and gave a very Continental little bow. “Thank you both for coming. If you don’t mind, I won’t remain here. Dr. Giordano knows far more about the facility than I, and he is the heart of all the research here. It has been very good to meet you.” He shook hands with Swain, then extended his hand to Lily and she had no choice but to accept his handshake. She tried to grip his hand firmly, and gave it one brisk shake before letting go and slipping her hands into her pockets.

Damone gave her a long, unreadable look, but said nothing and took his leave. Something in her relaxed a little in his absence. He’d been nothing but polite, but she had often felt his gaze boring into her as if he sensed something odd about her but couldn’t quite decide what it was.

After Damone had left, Lily and Swain returned to the van and began dividing the charges between them. Her notes told them where the charges needed to go. Swain had shown her how to use the detonators; there was nothing to it. Destruction was always a lot easier than construction.

“Almost finished,” Swain said. “You okay? You almost lost it there at the beginning.”

So he’d noticed that her emotions were getting the best of her. “Yes,” she said, her eyes dry and her hands steady. “I’m ready.”

“Here we go, then. I’d kiss you for good luck, but your upper lip is hairy.”

“Just for that, I’m going to wear the mustache to bed tonight.” Joking felt strange, given what they were about to do, but in a way the humor anchored her. She just hoped that, come night, they both would be still alive and together.

“That’s a scary thought.” He shrugged his shoulders, as if working out the tension. His blue eyes were deadly serious as he surveyed her. “Be careful. Don’t let anything happen to you.”

“Same here.”

He looked at his watch. “Okay, let’s hustle. I want all of these planted within half an hour.”

They reentered the building and, after one long look, went in opposite directions. Neither of them looked back.

31

Because Swain had numbered the rooms on the blueprint and marked the charges accordingly, Lily knew which charges went where. He’d shown her where to place them for maximum effect, but hidden well enough that they were likely to stay hidden until they could get the buildings evacuated.

It’s almost over. The thought kept running through her mind as she walked the hallways of the complex, not making any attempt to avoid detection. Almost no one paid her any attention, and no one questioned her. It was as if, just by being inside the complex, she’d proved her right to be there. The Nervis and Dr. Giordano had become acutely aware of security after the first incident, but for everyone else it seemed to be business as usual. The workforce was light, anyway, since it was the weekend. Those who were there were probably dedicated to the point of being blind to everything else, or tired and resentful that they were working when most others weren’t. The end of the workday was growing near, and a lot of people were just killing time.

It’s almost over. For four long months she’d had one aim: vengeance. But this had grown into something larger than her personal vendetta against the Nervis, something more important. What Averill and Tina had started, she was about to finish, in honor of a young girl who had died while she was still trembling on the cusp between childhood and adolescence.

Lily’s own life had taken a bizarre turn when she was eighteen, but she’d hoped to see Zia live a normal, happy life: marry, have children, be in step with most of the world’s population. Those who went with the flow, who fit in with the crowd, often had no idea how very lucky they were. They belonged. She had wanted Zia to belong, to have the things she herself either had never had or had been forced to give up.

What a special child Zia had been! As if she had somehow known her life would be short, she had spent it in a fizz of effervescence. Everything had been a source of wonder and joy to her. And she’d been a chatterbox, trying to get everything said that could be said, talking at a mad pace until they’d had to laugh and tell her to slow down.

It was almost over, Lily’s quest. She placed a charge against the wall behind the filing cabinets that held Dr. Giordano’s documentation of his experiments and results, and stuck a detonator in the mound of Semtex. Soon all of this would be nothing but ashes.

Almost over, she thought as she placed the explosives in the office where all the records were put on computer disk and stored. A small charge under each computer, and another bigger charge where the disks were stored. Everything had to go. There could be nothing left of Dr. Giordano’s research.

Swain was taking care of the doctor’s office, and the two laboratories in which the live virus was kept. Unfortunately, that was also the area where the vaccine was being developed.

Lily wished there were some way the vaccine process could be saved, because in a year or so there could very well be a desperate need for it. There was nothing they could do, no way they could protect that part of Dr. Giordano’s research. She just hoped that when the time came, some other lab had been working on the same thing and would be able to step up to the plate.

She went down a long, steep flight of stairs to the basement and set the largest charges under critical walls, to make certain the destruction was complete. By the time she climbed back to the top, she was out of breath and her heart was pounding.

She could no longer tell herself she was still recovering her strength. There was no doubt about it: any exertion made her short of breath. She couldn’t tell if the breathlessness was getting any worse, but she faced the truth: when she was able she would have to find a good cardiac specialist somewhere and see about getting that pesky valve fixed.

A lot of what she would do next depended on Rodrigo Nervi. She would have to leave France; there was no question of that. Leave Europe, in fact. Swain hadn’t said anything about afterward, and neither had she. First they would see if there was an afterward. She tried to imagine a future by herself, and couldn’t. Whenever she saw herself now, she was with Swain.

Where would it be safe for him to go? Not back to South America, and neither of them would be safe going back to the United States. Mexico, perhaps, or Canada. That would get them close to home. Jamaica was a possibility. Swain didn’t like cold weather, so she didn’t think he would choose Canada, though that would have been her first choice. Perhaps they could summer in Canada and spend the winter farther south.

A harried-looking man wearing a lab coat and carrying a thick notebook went past her with only a nod. Glancing out through a window, she saw that the sun was setting; the short December day was almost over. Their timing was good; at this time of day, everyone was thinking of home.

The charges had all been placed, with no problems or interference from anyone. It had been so easy it was almost frightening.

She made her way back to Dr. Giordano’s office. Swain was already there, sitting on the comfortable sofa in the office and drinking a cup of coffee. Dr. Giordano indicated the carafe. “Please, help yourself,” he said. “The coffee will be good for your throat.”

“Merci,” she said. She had coughed so much she had definitely irritated her throat. The first sip of hot coffee soothed the membranes and she almost sighed with pleasure.

“You have a definite problem,” Swain was telling the doctor. “We planted the charges without anyone asking us what we were doing, or becoming alarmed. Awareness is your first defense, and your people are so absorbed in their work they are thinking of nothing else.”

“But scientists are like that,” Dr. Giordano protested, lifting his hands in a very Italian gesture. “What can I do? Tell them not to think about their work?”

Swain shook his head. “The obvious solution is to have people inside who aren’t scientists—trained security personnel—rather than relying so completely on electronics. You should have both. I’m surprised your security company didn’t suggest that.”

“But they did. Our work here is so sensitive I elected not to have people in the complex who didn’t understand the safety measures we must take with these viruses.”

“Then that’s a trade-off you have decided to make. It does leave a big hole in your security, but if you are aware of it—” Swain shrugged, as if to say there was nothing he could do. “I’ll have my recommendations put in a report to you. Implement the ones you want. Now, are you ready to have your people see if they can spot the charges?”

Dr. Giordano looked at his watch. “Their time is short. I am afraid this must be a brief lesson.”

“Of course.”

They went to the intercom system, and Dr. Giordano pressed the switch that opened the loudspeakers. He cleared his throat, then began an explanation of what had been going on that afternoon. Lily imagined that all over the complex workers were looking at each other, then uneasily examining their surroundings.

Dr. Giordano checked the time again. “You have five minutes in which to see if you can spot any of these mock explosives. Don’t touch them, just call me and report.”

He clicked off the loudspeaker and asked Swain, “How many of these charges are there?”

“Fifteen.”

They waited, watching the time. Four calls came in during the allotted five minutes. Dr. Giordano sighed, looking sad, and announced the results over the loudspeaker. He turned back to Swain with a “what can I do?” expression on his face.

Lily sat down and rubbed her right leg as if it were aching. She felt an unaccountable sadness, now that the time was here. Considering her earlier rage and hatred, why should she feel sad now? But she did.

She was so tired of killing. She wondered if there would ever be an end to it. Rodrigo Nervi would search for her until the end of his days; she would have to look at every stranger as a possible threat, never relaxing in public.

Swain got up. “You didn’t tell them about the bomb threat drill. That’s good, I think. Your people have been remarkably unaware, so let’s see if I can perhaps stir them to a little more action. May I?” He indicated the intercom system, and Dr. Giordano waved a hand in permission, smiling. Swain turned on the loudspeaker again and in his rough French said urgently, “The explosives are real! There has been a mistake! Get out, get out, get out!”

He turned and began swiftly ushering Dr. Giordano out the door. Behind them, Lily started to retrieve her pistol from her boot, but Swain looked over his shoulder and gave a sharp shake of his head. “Move the van,” he mouthed.

She couldn’t believe they hadn’t thought of that before. The van was parked too close to the building. If she didn’t move it to a safer distance, they wouldn’t have transportation. Swain couldn’t do it because she had the keys, and he was already busy taking the batteries for the remote control from his pocket, trying to insert them while he was moving at a fast clip.

People were hurrying out of various rooms and laboratories, confusion on their faces. “What is it?” one woman asked. “This is a joke?”

“No,” Lily said briefly. “Hurry!”

As they went out the door, for Dr. Giordano’s benefit she said, “I have to get something from the van,” and ran for the vehicle.

Evidently taking her action as something they themselves were supposed to do, those lab workers who drove instead of taking the train began running for their own vehicles. The guards at the gate, seeing this unusual activity, stepped out of their little building with their hands on the butts of their weapons, leaving them still holstered but ready to draw on a second’s notice.

Lily started the van and rapidly backed it out of the parking space. Dr. Giordano gave her a startled look, but Swain said something and distracted him by pointing at what the workers were doing, at the same time walking at a fast clip to a safer distance and urging Dr. Giordano along with him.

She pulled the van between Swain and the guards, blocking their view but also positioned in such a way that it gave them some protection from the coming blast. As she got out, she heard Swain say, “Is that everyone, do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Dr. Giordano replied. “Not many were working today, but as to how many—?” He shrugged.

“You should always know, otherwise how can you get a head count?” Swain asked reasonably, and, to Lily’s surprise, turned and handed the remote control to her.

“You do the honors,” he said.

She had watched him test the device, and he’d explained to her how it worked, but why was he deviating from the plan? She didn’t have time to ask, because Dr. Giordano was already looking puzzled. Before he could ask questions or become alarmed, she activated the device. A little green light glowed, showing it was on, and she pressed the button that sent the radio signal to the detonators.

There was a sort of deep, muffled whoomph; then all hell broke loose.

Parts of the complex blew up and out, the percussion of the blast hitting them like a blow. Black smoke and fire billowed, and a dark cloud of debris arced overhead. People screamed, ducking and protecting themselves as best they could. Flying glass pierced several people like arrows. One man went down under a chunk of the debris that rained down on them like rocks thrown by a giant.

Dr. Giordano turned to Swain with an expression of horor on his face. Lily reached down for her weapon, but Swain already had his hand inside his coveralls. He pulled out the big H & K, shoved it directly against Dr. Giordano’s chest, and pulled the trigger twice. Dr. Giordano slumped to the ground, already dead.

Moving swiftly, Swain pushed Lily toward the van. She climbed into the driver’s seat, but he kept pushing, so she clambered over into the passenger’s seat, and he took the place behind the wheel. The engine was still running. He slammed the door, put the vehicle in gear, and started it rolling forward as one of the guards ran past them. The other was on the phone in their little building, shouting frantically into the receiver. He was still on the phone when they went out the gate.

Damone was in Rodrigo’s office when the phone rang. Rodrigo answered it, and his olive complexion turned a strange ashen color.

Damone got to his feet. “What is it?” he asked when Rodrigo hung up.

Rodrigo’s head was bowed, his shoulders slumped. “The laboratory has been destroyed,” he said hoarsely. “Explosives. Vincenzo is dead.” Slowly he raised his head, horror dawning in his eyes. “He was killed by the security consultants you took into the complex.”

Damone took several deep breaths. Then, very quietly, he said, “I couldn’t let you release that virus.”

“ ‘couldn’t’—?” Rodrigo blinked rapidly, trying to make the words mean something else. But they remained the same, and Damone stood there with a very calm expression. “You—you knew what they were going to do?”

“I paid them to do it.”

Rodrigo felt as if the world had shifted on its axis, that nothing he had thought was real had any substance. In a blinding moment of clarity, he knew. “You were behind the first explosion. You hired the Joubrans!”

“Unfortunately, Vincenzo was able to duplicate his work, so I had to take more drastic measures.”

“Because of you, Papa is dead!” Rodrigo roared, surging to his feet and reaching for the weapon that was always in the desk drawer.

Damone was faster, his own weapon much closer to hand. He didn’t hesitate. He pulled the trigger three times, putting two holes in Rodrigo’s chest and an insurance shot to the head. His brother sprawled over the desk, then crashed to the floor, overturning the wastebasket.

Damone let his hand drop to his side, and a tear rolled down his face.

It had come to this, from events he had set in motion back in August. He sucked in a deep breath and wiped his eyes. The road to hell was truly paved with good intentions. All he had wanted was for that virus to be destroyed. He couldn’t let his father go through with his plans to release it.

Giselle, his wonderful, brave, fragile Giselle, would never have survived if she had contracted the influenza. She had had a kidney transplant just the year before, and had to take drugs that suppressed her immune system, and even the vaccine could not have saved her. She had been reluctant to accept his proposal because she couldn’t give him children, and she knew how important family was to Italians in general, but he had eventually convinced her. He loved her more than he could express, more than he could explain even to himself. For her, he had taken steps to destroy the virus.

He had never thought his father would discover who had set the first explosion, and he’d been heartsick when he learned the Joubrans and their daughter had been executed, as a lesson to those who would cross Salvatore Nervi.

But the Joubrans had had a friend, this Lily Mansfield, and their deaths had sent her on a quest for vengeance that put his papa in the grave.

She had been the perfect choice to complete the Joubrans’ mission. With George Blanc’s help—Damone had almost panicked when she demanded a meeting, but an urgent call to Blanc had persuaded him to appear in Damone’s place—he had devised a plan to get her and her friend inside the complex.

He hadn’t been prepared for how he would feel when he actually saw her, the woman who had killed his father. For a moment he had wanted to kill her, punish her for his anguish at what he himself had caused. He was certain that “Charles Fournier” was this woman in disguise, though it was such a good disguise he’d been taken aback and unsure that there wasn’t a third person involved. But he had deliberately forced her to shake hands with him, and the feel of that slender, feminine hand in his had convinced him.

So. She had accomplished the mission—and forced him to pay her a million American dollars to do it. He hadn’t intended to follow through on the payment, but she had outsmarted him by insisting on payment in advance.

He wished she had died in the explosion. Perhaps she had; he didn’t know yet if there were any fatalities other than Vincenzo. But if she had escaped alive, he would call a truce. Lily Mansfield was safe from the Nervi organization. She had reacted to an event he had caused, and in the same way that a snowball rolling downhill becomes an avalanche, so things had proceeded to this point.

He had murdered his brother. His immortal soul was perhaps damned for this, but he thought the lives he had saved by destroying the virus would be weighed in the balance. And he had saved Giselle.

Damone stepped to the door. The sound of the shots had of course been heard, but no one had entered. He opened the door and saw several nervous men standing just outside, wearing uncertain expressions. He looked over the faces and picked out that of Tadeo, Rodrigo’s man. “Rodrigo is dead,” he said gently. “I have assumed control of all operations. Tadeo, would you please make certain my brother’s body is treated with all due respect? I will take him home, bury him next to Papa.”

His face pale, Tadeo nodded. He knew the way things worked. He could become Damone’s man, or he could die.

He chose to live. He murmured some quiet words to the other men, and they went inside the office to take care of Rodrigo’s body.

Damone went into another room and placed a call. “Monsieur Blanc. It is over. Your service to me has ended.”

32

“Why Greece?” Lily asked as she swiftly gathered her things in Swain’s hotel room.

“Because it’s warm, and because it’s the first flight out that I could get us on. Do you have your passport?”

“Several.”

He stopped what he was doing and gave her an oddly tender smile. “The one in your real name. That’s what I booked your ticket under.”

She winced. “That might cause problems.” She hadn’t forgotten that she had to be on guard against the CIA, too, though so far she seemed to have gone in under the radar on that one. After what had happened today, whether that would remain true was anyone’s guess. “Turn on the television. Let’s see if anything is being reported on the news.”

Either the explosion was being kept quiet or they had missed the story in the news item rotation, and they didn’t have time to wait through another segment. Rather than call a bellman, Swain carried their luggage down himself, then checked them out of the hotel.

“We have to go to my apartment,” Lily said when they were in the car. They had ditched the van several blocks away from the hotel, and walked the rest of the way.

Swain gave her a disbelieving look. “Do you know how long that will take us?”

“I have to get my pictures of Zia. I don’t know when or if I’ll be able to come back, so I’m not leaving them behind. If I see we’re going to miss our flight, I’ll call and cancel the reservations and book us on the next one.”

“Maybe we can make it,” he said, a devilish grin on his face, and Lily braced herself for the ride of a lifetime.

They did make it to her apartment building in one piece, but Lily kept her eyes closed most of the way and didn’t open them no matter how close the screeching brakes and blasting horns were. “I won’t be a minute,” she said when he pulled to a stop.

“I’m coming up with you.”

She gave him an incredulous look as he climbed out of the car and locked it. “But you’re blocking the street. What if someone wants to get by?”

“Then they can damn well wait.”

He climbed the stairs with her, his left hand on the small of her back and his right hand on his pistol butt. Lily unlocked the door, and Swain went in first as she reached in and flipped on the light switch, sweeping right to left with his pistol until he was certain no one was waiting for them.

Lily stepped inside and closed the door. “We can leave our weapons here.” She dragged a lockbox out of a cabinet. “This is sublet for a year, and I have eight months left.”

They both put their weapons in the box, and she locked it, then put it back into the cabinet. They could have put the weapons in their checked luggage, disassembled and in a lockbox, declared them to the airline, and perhaps had no trouble collecting them on the other end, but she doubted things would go that smoothly. It was always easier to acquire weapons once she got to where she was going than to try to take one with her. Besides, they didn’t want the airline personnel paying any particular attention to them.

She got Zia’s photographs and added them to her tote bag, and they were out the door. As they were going down the stairs, Swain said, grinning, “Was that the bed you bought from a nun?”

Lily snickered. “No, it came with the apartment.”

“I didn’t buy the nun story for a minute.”

Though he drove like a demented bat out of hell, it became obvious they weren’t going to make it to the airport in time to catch the flight. Lily called and canceled their reservations and made new ones for another flight, and after that he actually took his foot off the gas pedal occasionally, so she dared to keep her eyes open.

“Why did you shoot Dr. Giordano?” she asked, watching the traffic instead of him, because the fact that he’d deviated from the plan bothered her. Had he noticed that moment when she’d become emotional, and been afraid she might botch the shot?

“I wondered when that subject would come up,” he muttered, and sighed. “I did it because it was personal to you, and because you didn’t need the guilt I knew you’d feel afterward.”

“Salvatore Nervi was a personal hit, too,” she pointed out. “I don’t feel one shred of guilt about him.”

“That was different. You actually liked Dr. Giordano, before you found out what he was doing. Killing him would have hurt you.”

He was probably right, she thought, leaning her head back against the headrest. In setting up the hit on Salvatore, she had been carried along on a tide of pain so great it had overwhelmed everything else. But between then and today, she had found sunshine again; somehow, killing Dr. Giordano would have blotted out some of the sun. She didn’t understand it. Giordano was a righteous hit, perhaps the most righteous of all—but she was glad she hadn’t done it. It was that gladness that both puzzled and upset her. Was she losing her edge . . . and had Swain noticed? Was that why he’d done it?

He reached over and took her hand. “Stop fretting about it. It’s done.”

It was done. Over. Finished. She felt as if a door had closed behind her, sealing off her past. Other than go to Greece with Swain, she had no idea what she would do next. For the first time in her life, she was adrift.

They reached the airport and turned in the Mercedes to the rental company, then made their way to the ticket counter and checked in. They had a couple of hours to kill before their flight and they were both hungry, so they went into one of the airport restaurants. They chose one of the rear booths from which they could watch the entrance, though checking in had been totally uneventful. No one had tried to detain them; no one blinked an eye at Lily’s name. It was unnerving.

The restaurant was one with multiple televisions on the wall so the patrons could keep up with news, sports, and weather while they ate. They both looked up when they heard the name “Nervi” mentioned.

“In shocking news tonight, Damone Nervi has announced that the explosion that devastated one of the Nervi properties late this afternoon has resulted in the death of his older brother, Rodrigo Nervi. The brothers lost their father, Salvatore Nervi, less than a month ago. Damone Nervi has assumed leadership of all the Nervi holdings. The explosion that killed Rodrigo Nervi is believed to have been caused by a faulty gas line. Authorities are investigating.”

Lily and Swain looked at each other. “Rodrigo wasn’t there,” she hissed.

“I know.” He looked thoughtful. “Son of a bitch. I believe there’s been a coup.”

Lily had to agree. Damone had evidently seized the opportunity to kill Rodrigo and make the murder look like an accident. It must have been an impulse, a spur-of-the-moment decision precipitated by the destruction of the laboratory. But Damone was widely reckoned as the brilliant one, the one with the Midas touch; would he have acted so impulsively, when the outcome could just as easily have resulted in his own death?

The only other possibility was that Rodrigo’s death wasn’t an impulse at all. And that could be only if—“My God,” she blurted. “He planned the whole thing.”

Three weeks later, Lily woke from a late afternoon nap to hear Swain out on the terrace, talking on the satellite telephone he’d wrangled from somewhere, saying angrily, “Damn it, Frank—No. No. Fuck it, no. All right. I said all right, but I don’t like it. You owe me, big-time. Yeah, I said you owe me, so you’d better be damn sure you’re right.” He slammed down the phone and walked to the low wall of the terrace, where he planted his hands on his hips and glared out at the blue Aegean.

She slipped from the bed and went out through the double doors onto the terrace, walking up behind him and sliding her arms around his waist. She laid her head against his bare back and kissed his warm shoulder blade. “You finally got to talk to Frank?” Frank was his friend who had been in the car accident. Two weeks earlier Frank had been moved out of ICU into a regular hospital bed, but he’d evidently been guarded by someone who had been adamant that he not be disturbed. The day before he’d been moved into a rehab facility, but judging from the way Swain had sounded, their first conversation hadn’t been to his liking.

“The hardheaded son of a bitch,” he growled, but he caught one of her hands and pressed it to his chest.

“What’s wrong?”

“He wants me to do something I don’t want to do.”

“Such as?”

“Take a job I don’t like.”

That wasn’t welcome news. In the three weeks they’d been in Greece, on the island of Evvoia, they had slipped into a lazy routine that felt like heaven. The days were often cloudy but definitely warmer than in Paris, with highs often reaching into the seventies. The nights got cold, but that was all the better for cuddling in bed. Today had been almost perfect, sunny all day long, and so warm Swain had been shirtless most of the day. Now that the sun was setting, the temperature would drop like a rock, but for just a few minutes more they were comfortable.

They made love; they slept late; they ate whenever they wanted; they strolled through town. They were staying in a house on the mountain slope above the port town of Karystos, with a spectacular view of the sea. Lily had fallen in love with the house, a simple white house with bright blue shutters and an air of peace. She could have stayed there with him forever, though she knew the idyll would eventually end.

Evidently it was going to end sooner than she’d expected. If Swain took this job he didn’t want to take—and Frank was obviously twisting his arm to take it—he would have to leave the island. She could stay here without him, of course, but the big question was: Did she want to? An even bigger question was whether she’d have the option of going with him. They still hadn’t discussed the future; the present had been so very pleasant she had luxuriated in it, letting the days drift past.

“If you take the job, where will you have to go?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Then how do you know you don’t want it?”

“Because I won’t be here.” He turned in the circle of her arms and kissed her forehead. “I don’t want to leave.”

“Then don’t.”

“Frank’s pulling one of those ‘do it for me’ deals.”

“It’s obvious he can’t do it himself. How long will he be in rehab?”

“At least a month, he said, and God only knows how long it’ll be before he’s back to normal.”

“If you take the job, how long will you be gone?”

He was silent, and her heart sank. A long time, then. “I could go with you,” she offered, though she hadn’t meant to. If he wanted her with him, he would say so. Surely he did, didn’t he? He said “I love you” every day, several times a day. He showed it in the obvious enjoyment he took from being in her company, in the attention he paid to her, the way he touched her.

“You can’t,” he finally said. “If I take it, that won’t be an option.”

That was that, then. “When do you have to decide?”

“In a few days. Not right now, at any rate.” He cupped her chin and turned her face up, studying her features in the growing twilight as if he were trying to memorize them. His blue eyes were darkly intent. “I don’t know that I can do it,” he whispered. “I don’t want to leave here.”

“Then don’t,” she said simply, and he laughed.

“I wish it was that easy. Frank . . . well, he’s a hard man to turn down.”

“Does he have something on you?”

He laughed, though the sound was more wry than humorous. “It isn’t that. He’s just one of those persuasive people. And I hate to admit it, but I trust him more than any other man I know.” He shivered suddenly, as the dropping temperature finally got the best of him. “Let’s go inside. I can think of several things I’d rather be doing than worrying about a job I might not take.”

He didn’t mention it again, and because he didn’t, Lily left the subject alone. They went inside to a simple supper of new potatoes cooked with dill and capers, feta cheese in olive oil, bread, and Boutari wine. They had hired a woman from town named Chrisoula to come up and do the cooking for them every day; at first she had wanted to prepare large evening meals, in the Greek tradition, but they had impressed on her that they preferred to eat more lightly at night. She didn’t like it, but she complied. For one thing, this meant she got home at an earlier hour, where she could enjoy the long evening meal with her own family.

The house had no television, and neither of them missed it. In the three weeks they’d been there, Swain had bought a newspaper twice. That lack of outside interference had been just what she needed, a chance to just be, no pressures, no looking over her shoulder. On the warmer days she sat on the terrace for hours, soaking up the sunshine, letting her psyche heal. She had put one of Zia’s pictures out in the bedroom where she could see it, and a day later Swain had taken the pictures of his kids out of his wallet and propped them up beside Zia’s. Chrisoula thought all three kids were theirs, and they didn’t disabuse her of the notion, which wouldn’t have been that easy in any case, because neither of them had a good grasp of the Greek language and Chrisoula’s English wasn’t much better. They managed to eventually communicate on most things, but it was an effort.

That night, knowing that Swain might leave soon, Zia was very much on Lily’s mind. Some days were like that, with memories ambushing her at every turn, though now she would go days without crying. And because she was thinking so much about Zia, she wondered if Swain had days when all he could think about was his kids.

“Don’t you miss them?” she asked. “Chrissy and Sam?”

“So much it hurts,” he readily replied. “I figure it’s what I deserve.”

She had known he felt guilty about his kids; she just hadn’t realized he embraced the guilt. “Instead of wearing that hair shirt, why don’t you move closer to them? You missed most of their childhood, but that doesn’t mean you have to miss their adulthood, too. One of these days you’ll be a grandfather. Are you going to keep yourself away from your grandchildren?”

He turned his glass of wine around and around, staring thoughtfully at it. “I’d love to see more of them. I just don’t know if they’d like to see more of me. When I do see them, they’re friendly, they’re fond of me, but maybe that’s because I’m on the periphery of their lives. If I try to horn in . . . who knows?”

“So ask them.”

He gave a quick grin. “A simple answer for a simple problem, huh? To a little kid, nothing matters as much as just being there, and I let them down. That’s the hard truth.”

“Yes, it is. Are you going to let it go on being the hard truth for the rest of your life?”

He stared at her for a long minute, then drank the rest of his wine and set the glass down on the table. “Maybe not. Maybe one day I’ll work up the nerve to ask them.”

“If Zia was still alive, there’s no way I wouldn’t be there.” That was another hard truth, and implicit in the statement was She isn’t alive, but your children are. She didn’t know why she was hammering at him about this, except that she’d been thinking of Zia and Swain might not be here much longer for her to say this to him. They had covered this ground once before, but it didn’t seem have to sunk in with him—either that or he was so acutely aware of the mistakes he’d made that he was punishing himself by staying away from his kids. The more she knew about him, the more she suspected the latter.

“All right,” he said with a wry smile. “I’ll think about it.”

“you’ve been thinking about it for years. When are you going to do something?”

The smile turned to a bark of laughter. “God, you’re as bad as a snapping turtle.”

“Turtles nag?”

“The old saying is that if a snapping turtle bites you, it won’t turn loose until it hears thunder.”

She tilted her head. “I don’t think I’ve heard thunder since we’ve been here.”

“I know we haven’t. Okay, I promise I’ll call my kids.”

“And—?”

“And tell them I know I was a lousy father, but ask would they hate it if I saw them more often?” He made it a question, as if he wasn’t certain that was the correct answer, but his blue eyes were dancing.

She clapped her hands, like someone applauding a performing child.

“Smart-ass.” He was laughing aloud now, getting to his feet and taking her hand to pull her up and into his arms. “I was going to show you something special tonight, but now I think you’ll just get the same old, same old.”

If he thought that was punishment, he was way off target. Lily hid a smile as she pressed her face into his shoulder. She loved him so much she would enjoy her time with him down to the last minute, and not worry about whether or not he took this job his friend Frank wanted him to take. wasn’t that part of what she’d just been talking to him about, making the most of your time with the people you love, because you don’t know how long that time will be?

She wouldn’t think how unlucky she was to love him and lose him. Instead she would consider herself lucky for having met him at a time in her life when she had needed him so much.

The next day was another unusually sunny day, with the temperature warming as rapidly as it cooled down at night. By April, the daytime temperature would be in the nineties; by July, soaring over a hundred wouldn’t be unusual. But the weather in early January was pleasant, if sometimes a bit rainy, especially when compared to Paris at this time of year.

Chrisoula prepared them a lunch of meat patties, flavored with herbs and fried in olive oil, served on saffron rice. They ate on the terrace, enjoying the weather. Because the stones of the terrace reflected the sun’s heat, Lily wore a loose, gauzy white dress that she’d bought in town, though she had a shawl nearby in case she needed it. She liked being able to wear whatever she wanted without having to worry about whether it concealed her ankle holster, and she had embraced the island’s tourist fashions with enthusiasm. The locals probably thought she was crazy for wearing summer fashions in January, but she didn’t care. She wanted to wear sandals, and she had bought a silver anklet that made her feel feminine and carefree. She might stay on Evvoia even if Swain left, she thought. She loved it here.

“Who was your handler?” he asked abruptly, telling her that his thoughts had been far different from her lazy enjoyment of the day. “The guy who got you into the business. What was his name?”

“Mr. Rogers,” she said, smiling ironically.

He almost choked on his wine.

“He never gave me his first name, but you can bet it wasn’t Fred. It doesn’t matter; I doubt that was his real name anyway. Why are you asking?”

“I was watching you and thinking how young you look, and wondering what kind of bastard could approach a kid with a job like that.”

“The kind who gets the job done, regardless.”

After lunch she napped on one of the chaises on the terrace, and woke to incredible pleasure brought by Swain’s tongue. He had lifted her skirt to her waist and removed her underwear and knelt with his head between her spread thighs. Lily gasped, her body arching in delight even as she choked, “Chrisoula will see—”

“She left a few minutes ago,” Swain murmured, and gently slipped two of his fingers into her. She climaxed rapidly under that double stimulation, and was still quivering with the last spasms when he loosened his pants and covered her with his body. His penetration was smooth and slow, the fit perfect now after making love so many times during the past month. He was tender and attentive, holding off until she had climaxed a second time, then going deep and holding himself there while he shuddered with his own release.

Making love alfresco was wonderful, she thought after they had tidied themselves and she was once more completely dressed. The air had felt like silk on her skin, heightening her response. She stretched, utterly relaxed, and smiled at Swain when he brought over their glasses of wine. She took hers and he sat down on the chaise beside her legs, his warm hand sliding under her skirt to lazily caress her thigh.

“Why did Chrisoula leave so early?” she asked as she sipped the fragrant wine, thinking she hadn’t slept that long. Chrisoula hadn’t had time to prepare their dinner.

“She wanted to go to the market for something. I think.” Swain smiled. “Either that or a pig was on top of her house.”

“I’m betting it was the market.” Sometimes their attempts at communication had laughable results, but Swain threw himself into it with enthusiasm.

“Probably.” His stroking hand had worked its way down to her ankle. He played with the silver anklet, then lifted her foot and pressed a kiss to her ankle. “We could be having the pig for dinner, though, so we’ll see how far off I was in my translation.”

“What do you want to do for the rest of the afternoon?” she asked, finishing her wine and setting the glass aside. She didn’t know that she would be able to move a muscle. Two orgasms had left her bones feeling like butter. She hated to waste such a gorgeous day, though, so if he wanted to go into Karystos, she would make the effort.

He shook his head. “Nothing. Maybe read for a while. Sit right here and watch the bay. Count the clouds.” He patted her ankle, then stood up and walked to the terrace wall, where he stood, sipping occasionally from his own glass. She watched him, everything female in her appreciating the width of his shoulders and the narrowness of his ass, but especially enjoying that lazy, sexy saunter of his that said this was a man who took his time at what he did. Even Chrisoula responded to him, flirting and laughing, and she was a good twenty years older. Not to mention that when she flirted, he usually had no idea what she was saying, though that in no way kept him from replying to what he thought she’d said. Lily had no idea of the exact meaning, either, but she could tell from Chrisoula’s blushes and body language that she was definitely flirting.

A feeling of great lassitude swept over her and she let her eyes close. She was so sleepy, so relaxed . . . she shouldn’t have had that last glass of wine . . . it was putting her to sleep—

She forced her eyes open, and found Swain watching her with an expression on his face that she didn’t recognize, alert and watchful, no hint of humor at all.

Fool, an inner voice said. She had been caught in exactly the same way she had caught Salvatore Nervi.

She could feel the numbness now, spreading through her body. She tried to stand up, but she barely managed to sit before collapsing back against the chaise. What could she do, anyway? She couldn’t outrun what was already inside her.

Swain came back to squat beside the chaise. “Don’t fight it,” he said gently.

“Who are you?” she managed to ask, though she could still think clearly enough to figure it out. He wasn’t a Nervi employee, so there was only one other possibility. He was CIA; whether one of their black-ops personnel or a contract agent himself; the end result was the same. Whatever his reason was for helping her with the Nervis, after that was finished, he had completed his own mission. She had completely fallen for his act, but then she’d noticed before what a superb actor he was, and that should have been a warning. By then, however, she had already been in love with him.

“I think you know.”

“Yes.” Her eyelids were so heavy, and the numbness had spread to her lips. She fought for coherency. “What happens now?”

He stroked a strand of hair back from her face, his touch gentle. “You just go to sleep,” he whispered. She had never heard him sound so tender before.

No pain, then. That was good. She wasn’t going to die in agony. “Was it real? Any of it?” Or had every touch, every kiss, been a lie?

His eyes darkened, or she thought they did. It could be that her eyesight was fading. “It was real.”

“Then . . .” She lost her train of thought, fought to get it back. What was she—? Yes, she remembered now. “Will you . . .” She could barely speak, and she couldn’t see him at all. She swallowed, made an effort: “. . . kiss me while I sleep?”

She wasn’t certain, but she thought she heard him say, “Always.” She tried to reach out her hand to him, and in her mind she did. Her last thought was that she wanted to touch him.

Swain stroked her cheek, and watched a light breeze flirt with her hair. The pale strands stirred and lifted, fell back, lifted again as if they were alive. He bent down and kissed her warm lips, then sat holding her hand for a long time.

Tears burned his eyes. God damn Frank. He wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t budge from his original plan, and if Swain couldn’t do the job, he’d by God send someone who could.

Yeah, well. If it hadn’t been for the small matter of a mole that still had to be located, Swain would have told him what he could do with his fucking job. But he had the recording Blanc had gotten to him during that week of preparation for taking down the Nervi lab, and when he got back to Washington, he had that to take care of. He’d heard Lily stirring in the bedroom yesterday afternoon and hadn’t been able to tell Frank everything that was going on, just the gist of what Dr. Giordano had been doing and a brief argument about what Frank wanted him to do with Lily.

He had sent Chrisoula away this afternoon because he had wanted one more time with Lily, wanted to hold her close and look into those remarkable eyes as she came, wanted to feel her arms around him.

It was over now.

He kissed her one last time, then made the call.

Soon the unmistakable whump whump whump of a helicopter sounded over the mountain slope. It sat down on a flat spot just off the terrace, and three men and a woman got out. They worked silently, competently, wrapping Lily and preparing her for transport. Then one of the men said to the woman, “Get the feet,” and Swain whirled on him.

“Her feet,” he said savagely. “She’s a woman, not a thing. And she’s a fucking patriot. If you treat her with anything but respect, I’ll rip your guts out.”

The man eyed him with consternation. “Sure, man. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Swain clenched his fist. “I know. Just . . . go on.”

A few minutes later, the helicopter lifted off. Swain stood and watched it until it was a tiny black speck; then, his expression set and blank, he turned and went into the house.

Epilogue

Six months later

Lily walked down the hallway toward Dr. Shay’s office for what she hoped was the last time. Six months of intensive deprogramming, therapy, and counseling was enough. After her initial rage at waking and finding herself in custody, she had been grateful for this second chance and had been as cooperative as possible, but she was ready to leave.

The entire six months hadn’t been taken up with therapy, though. Two months in, she’d had surgery to repair that leaky, damaged valve in her heart, and recovery from that hadn’t happened overnight. She felt completely well now, but the first few weeks after the surgery had been rough, even though the cardiac surgeon had used the minimally invasive technique. Any surgery on the heart required that the heart not be beating, so she’d been placed on a heart-lung machine while the work was being done. She still felt uneasy about that, even though it was in the past.

Dr. Shay wasn’t Lily’s idea of a typical shrink, assuming there was such an animal. She was a short, chubby, jolly elf of a person, with the kindest eyes Lily could imagine. Lily would have killed for Dr. Shay, and that was part of the reason she was still at the private clinic.

She had herself worried about whether she would ever be able to fit into a normal life, but the therapies Dr. Shay had designed had shown Lily how far she’d been from that normality. Until she had gone through those exercises that tested her impulses, she hadn’t realized how ready she was to kill, how that was always—always—her initial reaction to confrontation. Over the years she had become very good at avoiding confrontation because of that, without ever realizing that was what she was doing. She had minimized the risk by not associating with many people.

She had gone through the exercises again and again until she retrained herself, and through many sessions with Dr. Shay until her anger and pain were more manageable. Grief was a terrible thing, but so was isolation, and she had made things worse on herself by being so isolated. She needed her family, and with Dr. Shay’s encouragement she had worked up the nerve to call her mother a few weeks before. They had both cried, but Lily had felt a sense of incredible relief at once more connecting with that part of her life.

Swain was the only part of her life that she hadn’t discussed with Dr. Shay.

She hadn’t been allowed visitors or any contact with the outside world until she’d called her mother, so it wasn’t surprising that she hadn’t seen him or heard from him since that day on Evvoia when she’d thought he’d killed her. She wondered if he even realized that had been what she’d thought.

She didn’t know if he would get in trouble for the way he’d conducted his mission, how much the Agency even knew about it, so she simply hadn’t mentioned him and neither had Dr. Shay.

She knocked on Dr. Shay’s door, and a voice she didn’t recognize said, “Come in.”

She opened the door and stared at the man who sat behind the desk. “Come in,” he repeated, smiling.

Lily entered the office and closed the door behind her. Silently she sat down in the seat she usually took.

“I’m Frank Vinay,” the man said. He looked to be in his early seventies, maybe, and he had a kind face but the sharpest gaze she’d ever encountered. She recognized the name with a sense of shock. This was the Agency’s director of operations himself.

A few dots connected, and she said, “Swain’s Frank?”

He nodded. “I’ll admit to that.”

“You were really in a car accident?”

“I really was. I don’t remember anything about it, of course, but I’ve read all the reports. It put Swain in a bind, because he found out there was a mole who was reporting to Rodrigo Nervi, but he didn’t know who it was and I was the only person he could say for sure wasn’t the mole, so he had no one to call. He was totally on his own with that operation—except for you, of course. Please accept your country’s thanks for what you did.”

Whatever she had expected to hear, that wasn’t it. She said, “I thought you would have me killed.”

The kind face turned somber. “After all your years of service to the country? I don’t operate that way. I read the reports, you know; I saw the signs that you were stretched thin, but I didn’t pull you in the way I should have. After you killed Salvatore Nervi, I was afraid you were going to disrupt the complete network, but I still never contemplated having you terminated unless you gave me no choice. This was my first option,” he said, indicating Dr. Shay’s office. “But I knew there was no way you would believe it if the plan was presented to you. You would either run, or kill, or both. You had to be taken, so I sent my best hunter after you. It was a fortuitous selection, because another field officer might not have worked the situation as capably as he did when circumstances changed.”

“When he found out about the mole, and I found out what was really going on at that laboratory.”

“Exactly. It was a complicated situation. When Damone Nervi discovered what his father and brother were planning, he took steps to prevent the virus from being released by hiring Averill Joubran and his wife to destroy the work, and that set the whole ball of wax into motion.”

A man as handsome as a movie star, was how Mme. Bonnet had described her friends’ visitor. That was Damone Nervi, all right.

“So he knew all along who I was, that day at the laboratory,” she murmured. “And he knew I killed his father.”

“Yes. He’s an amazing man. He wouldn’t have minded if you’d been killed in the explosion, mind you, or if one of the guards had shot you as you and Swain were leaving, but he did nothing to compromise your mission.”

He was a bigger person than she was, Lily silently admitted. She had almost lost control and attacked Dr. Giordano—but she hadn’t, she realized. That was how Damone Nervi must have felt. Hah. He wasn’t a bigger person, after all.

“The thing is, we may not have done any good at all,” she said. “The avian flu virus may mutate on its own, at any time.”

“That’s true, and there’s nothing we can do to stop it. But the CDC and the WHO are working hard to develop a reliable method of producing the vaccine, and if the virus mutates before that happens—” He spread his hands. “At least no one is releasing it deliberately, and making a fortune from the deaths of millions. Which brings me to another health issue,” he said, smoothly switching subjects. “How are you doing?”

“I feel well, finally. The surgery wasn’t a picnic, but it worked.”

“I’m glad. Swain was there, you know.”

She felt as if he’d thrown a body block at her. “What?” The word came out as a weak gasp.

“For your surgery. He wanted to be there. When you were placed on the heart-lung machine, he almost fainted.”

“How . . . how do you know that?” She almost couldn’t speak, so profound was her shock.

“I was there, too, of course. I was . . . concerned. It wasn’t a minor surgery. He saw you in recovery, but had to leave before you were awake.”

Or he’d wanted to leave before she was awake. She didn’t know how to take all this in, or what to think.

“You can leave here anytime you want,” Mr. Vinay continued. “Do you know what you want to do?”

“See my mother and sister, first of all. After that . . . I don’t know. I need a new line of work,” she said wryly.

“If there’s any field in which you’d like to be trained. . . . We can always use someone who’s dedicated and resourceful, and loyal.”

“Thank you for the offer, but I’ll have to think about it. I honestly have no idea what I want to do.”

“Maybe I can help out a little,” he said, getting to his feet with some difficulty. He used a cane now, she saw, leaning his weight heavily on it. “He’s waiting. Do you want to see him?”