Her heart rate doubled and her breath caught in her throat.

The man who entered the weak circle of light registered a barely discernible flicker of surprise, just as she suppressed one of her own. Mark. Instant recognition promised instant death if he blew her cover. Her fingers slipped around the grip of her pistol.

She raised a brow and offered him the ghost of a smile. He returned it, just a small quirk of his lips. Nice lips they were, too. She remembered them well. Their texture, their taste, their hunger that had fuelled hers.

But one kiss, mind-blowing as it had been, did not provide a basis for putting her life in the man’s hands now.

That killer body of his could be just that – the body of a killer.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lyn Stone is a former artist who developed an early and avid interest in criminology while helping her husband study for his degree. His subsequent career in counter-intelligence and contacts in the field provided a built-in source for research in writing suspense. Their long and happy marriage provided first-hand knowledge of happily-ever-afters.

Dear Reader,

What a great time I’ve had working on the MISSION: IMPASSIONED series! I do hope you’ve had the opportunity to read the four books preceding mine and will be as eager as I am to read Kathleen Creighton’s finale next month. It has been a real privilege to participate in this project with such wonderfully talented writers who are terrific characters in their own right!

The plotting was a blast from the first day! One of my Special Ops operatives jumped the big pond to join the fun in Paris. Though Compass agent Renee’s agenda proved different from Mark Alexander’s, our Lazlo agent, she definitely plays well with others in every sense of the word.

Everyone should have at least one wild adventure in Paris and I hope you enjoy this one!

Happy reading!

Lyn Stone

Kiss or Kill

LYN STONE

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This one is for my Hotlanta buddy,

Deb Martin.

Prologue

London, 1991

“Son, put down the book. Get up quietly and do exactly as I say.”

The unusual, low-voiced command grabbed Mark’s attention and he glanced up. The television blared Cagney’s snarling voice in an old American gangster movie his father had been watching. Totally disinterested, Mark had been devouring the last chapter of a current mystery novel. “What?”

His father snatched the book from his hand and threw it on the floor. “Crawl into the cupboard there. Hurry.”

Mark laughed, watching as his dad opened the cabinet and raked out the pillow and blanket kept there for anyone bunking on the couch. “I’m thirteen now, not three! I won’t fit.” His lanky, all-knees-and-elbows build caused enough laughs as it was without the old man making jokes about it.

His dad grasped his arm. “Get in there. Now! Fold yourself up, close the door and don’t move a hair no matter what! Do not come out, do you hear, Mark? Can you follow orders or not?”

Mark started to argue, but noted the alertness in his father’s expression, felt the incredible tension in the strong fingers locked around his arm. This was no joke. “Dad, what’s wrong?” he whispered.

“A break-in, I think,” his father answered, barely audible above the shoot-’em-up on television. He pushed Mark into the enclosure, roughly tucking in one big socked foot that stuck out oddly. “Stay there. I can’t be worried for your safety, too. Do I have your word?”

“Yes! Call the police, Dad!” Mark gasped. His neck was bent at an unnatural angle and he felt like a freaking contortionist.

“I will. Do not move until I come back for you and tell you it’s safe.” His eyes met Mark’s before he shut the door. In them Mark saw fear, something he had never in any way associated with his dad. The man was courage itself, everyone knew that.

Mark waited for what seemed forever, wincing at the jarring volume of the noisy telly just above him. It eclipsed all other sounds. He couldn’t stand not knowing what was happening. It couldn’t hurt to ease the door open a mere crack. Half an inch only, and he wouldn’t even have to move his head to see out.

Immediately he saw a silhouette moving into the lounge from the kitchen. He held his breath. The figure came closer, gun in hand, and into the circle of lamplight. Not his dad. Surely he was hiding, too. Or looking for something to use as a weapon.

Mark wanted to ease the door shut, but knew that even the slightest movement might be seen. He froze, watching as the man approached and reached out to turn off the TV set. Silence dropped like a bomb. Mark’s lungs were nearly bursting. Silently, slowly, he released the breath he was holding and drew in another. Through the narrow crack, he clearly saw the face of the intruder.

This could be helpful, he thought. If the man escaped, Mark could identify him later. He took careful note of the features as the man examined something on the shelves above the television, probably his dad’s trophies or grandad’s gold pocket watch mounted under a little glass dome. The man’s back turned as he headed for the desk on the other side of the room. Then he whirled around quickly, alerted by car doors slamming outside. There were voices. The cavalry had arrived! Good for Dad!

The man cursed and disappeared from view. Mark remained where he was. The police were here and everything would be fine now. A bit of excitement, having a burglar. His mates had never had anything like this happen in their houses. He smiled with anticipation. Tom and Hugh would turn absolutely green when he told them about it.

He almost came out of the cabinet then so as not to miss a minute of the arrest, but remembered his father’s orders. Mark had been working hard on his impulses since he’d turned thirteen last month. Self-control was imperative now that he was no longer a kid. His dad would be proud that he’d followed instructions to the letter. A good soldier, my lad, he would say. And one day Mark would be.

Doors slammed again and shouting commenced. Shots were fired! Crikey, he wished he could be out there to see the arrest. Maybe he would be asked to appear in court later to identify the chap who broke in.

His leg cramped horribly and his neck began to hurt, but he held steady. Dad would come soon.

“Where is the son?” a deep voice demanded. Mark peeked out of the crack in the door. Mr. Lazlo, who worked with his dad.

“No sign of anyone else here, sir,” A uniformed policeman said. “Only the body in the kitchen.”

Body? Mark burst out of the cabinet and scrambled to his feet. He dashed, arms flailing, legs half numbed, right past Lazlo and the copper. His socks slid on the tiles when he hit the kitchen and he tumbled forward to his knees. “Daddy!” he screamed, voice breaking, heart breaking.

Strong arms clasped him from behind, lifted him forcefully and pulled him away. “Come with me now, Mark. He’s gone. You don’t need to see—”

Mark stopped struggling and stood stock-still. He was no match for a grown man’s strength. Not yet anyway, even though every vestige of boyhood drained out of him then and there. He took a deep breath, inhaling the metallic scent of his beloved father’s lifeblood now puddled uselessly on the kitchen floor.

“I do need to see,” he said, staring down at the body. “I’m going to kill the man who did this, Mr. Lazlo. On my honor, I swear before God, I will kill him,” he muttered through his teeth.

Lazlo rested his hands on Mark’s shoulders as they stood together. His voice was deathly quiet as he promised, “Come with me, Mark. I’ll help you.”

Chapter 1

Paris—Present Day

Mark felt pretty naked without his favorite sidearm, especially when everyone else he’d met was sporting fully automatics. He was seriously underdressed for the occasion.

“Sonny is making a few calls,” the woman at his side told him. “If you check out, we can use you, Alexander. If not…well, let us say you need not worry about future employment,” she added with a catlike smile.

His cover was solid thanks to Corbett Lazlo, Mark’s mentor and employer. He understood why the woman didn’t trust him. Hell, she had excellent reasons, better ones than she knew.

He had wormed his way into this nest of snakes with a few phone calls and by dropping the names of a couple of very recently deceased criminals who were probably well known to her and thought to still be alive. Identity theft in its highest form worked wonders, or so he hoped.

“Come along, darling. You might as well meet the rest of the merry band while we wait,” the woman said, ushering him up the steps ahead of her. She wore unrelieved black. Probably matched the loaded accessory she carried in her pocket with her finger on its trigger.

This infiltration seemed the best method of discovering the whereabouts of the man who had murdered Mark’s father sixteen years ago, an assassin called Trip. Mark’s job, as well as his lifelong ambition, was to capture Trip and determine who had hired him. The killer’s trail—an exhaustive list of murders stretching over almost two decades using the same MO—had led Mark to this woman’s address.

Something about Deborah Martine seemed familiar to Mark. Not so much her looks as her mannerisms, the way she moved, a fleeting expression. Something. Martine was not her real name, he was sure. But none of that mattered at the moment. This fortyish, unnatural blonde with bedroom eyes, a commanding attitude and an evil sense of humor, was his ticket in. Sooner or later, she would lead him to Trip.

She could use more hands and another gun, she had told him when he introduced himself earlier that afternoon. Apparently she was also looking for someone adept at bypassing the newer security systems on the market. He couldn’t believe his luck there. He assured her he’d been sent by a trusted mutual acquaintance. The woman was no fool. She had verified his identity. No problem. Lazlo had expected he would be checked out and had prepared for it.

At the top of the stairs, she reached past him, opened a door and entered, standing aside for him to follow. Mark glanced around the dimly lit room. They were in an office in the upstairs of a run-down warehouse south of Paris near the Seine. He could smell the river, feel its dampness, even inside the building. Two men were seated on the dusty chairs and a woman stood against the wall in the shadows.

She looked up as he approached the table. The dim glow of the lamp illuminated her face. Mark’s heart nearly stopped. There was not merely something familiar about this woman. He knew her! Worse than that, she knew him. One word from her about their former connection and he’d be dead in the water. Literally. His body adding to the river’s pollution.

He saw the flicker of apprehension in her eyes. And a question. Should she take him out? She was asking herself. She was armed and it wasn’t apparent that he was. But for some reason, she didn’t act.

He suddenly realized she was as vulnerable as he was. If she killed him, she would have to explain why. And if she declared who he was, the others would suspect her, too. Takes one to know one, he thought with an inner grimace.

Had she turned? Her looks had changed radically. Maybe her allegiance had, too. Or had she been a subversive even when he had known her during their training op in the States? She could be working undercover, of course. God, but he wanted to believe that. He had a soft spot for her, but he couldn’t let that distort his reasoning or affect his decisions.

He could kill her, right now during her hesitation. He still had his knife, which he could bury in her throat before anyone blinked. But then he would have to deal with the fallout. If he used the hidden blade, he would be weaponless except for hands-on. That would be patently ineffective against bullets.

Even in the unlikely event that he managed to kill everyone in the room and survive, his ultimate goal would be impossible. Deborah Martine was his only lead to John Trip, the assassin he had spent over half his life tracking, the man he meant to destroy no matter the cost. He might never get this close again. No, he couldn’t compromise that goal as long as there was the slightest chance to see it met.

And he had to acknowledge that the woman feigning nonchalance in the shadows might possibly be here for a legitimate reason, just as he was, and didn’t really deserve to die.

He had a feeling that fate had another of those unfunny life-altering jokes in store for him, like the sudden gut-twisting attraction that had driven him crazy when he had known her before. She had damn near caused him to lose control and break his steadfast rule concerning personal involvement. Even so, he had little choice now but to let fate rule in this instance. He would have to allow Renee Leblanc to live and see what happened.

Renee leaned against the rat-infested wall, one booted foot propped on an old crate. In her right hand, she held an unlit French cigarette. Her left rested on the unsnapped holster of her nine millimeter.

The man who entered the weak circle of light thrown by the antique gas lantern registered a barely discernible flicker of surprise, just as she suppressed one of her own. My God. It was Mark! What the hell was he doing here? Her heart rate doubled and her breath caught in her throat. Instant recognition promised instant death if he blew her cover.

Her fingers slid around the grip of her H&K pistol, its coolness and texture her only comfort.

“This is Mark Alexander, everyone,” Deborah Martine announced as she took a seat at the head of the scarred table.

He was actually using the name she had known him by. Not a good sign that he was undercover. But then, she was using hers, too, though it was necessary in her case.

Deborah inclined her head at Renee. “Meet Renee, our explosives expert.”

Deborah’s lazy gaze swept on to the slender, shifty-eyed thug on her right. “Piers, provisions.” Then to the beefy Neanderthal at the far end of the table. “Etienne, muscle.” She offered a secret smile before turning her attention to the rest of the group. “Mark will handle the security systems for us.” Her left eyebrow rose as she addressed him. “That is, if your credentials are in order.”

Renee’s eyes again locked on the newcomer. Her first instinct had been to shoot him where he stood before he could say a word. Protect the mission was a mantra she lived by. Self-preservation was an even stronger motive. She figured he probably entertained similar thoughts of eliminating her as a threat, but had no weapon.

Either he had flipped at some time during the past two years, or he was working an op for SIS, the old MI-6. Problem was, she knew nothing about an ongoing operation in Paris involving the Brits. However, given the dearth of official information exchanged by intel agencies who worked for the same government, it was reasonable that she’d be in the dark about a foreign one. Why would the Brits inform the U.S. when infiltrating a terrorist cell in France?

Since Alexander hadn’t yet opened his mouth, she would give him the benefit of the doubt. If he revealed who she was, he would expose himself. Same with her. She raised a brow and offered him the ghost of a smile. He returned it, just a small quirk of his lips. Nice lips they were, too. She remembered them well. Their texture. Their taste. Their hunger that had fueled her own. A spike of warmth shot through her. Make that heat.

One kiss, mind-blowing as it had been, did not provide a basis for putting her life in the man’s hands. That killer body of his could be just that, the body of a killer. The memory of how her wayward mind had wandered directly to him the morning after that kiss, as she hovered between sleep and wakefulness, disturbed her even now. She had clearly visualized him, standing in the shower, soaping himself, his head thrown back, exposing his strong, corded neck as if he invited her to put her mouth there and feel his quickening pulse. Her own body had hummed.

Renee shook her head. The vision firmly engraved on her mind might have been buried, but hadn’t lost its clarity.

Renee straightened and pushed off the wall, taking a seat on one of the overturned boxes that served as extra chairs. “Where are the others?” she asked, ignoring Alexander as best she could.

“Checking the perimeter. Sonny and Beguin will be up in a few moments. Tonight’s the night we get down to business,” Deborah announced.

Finally. Renee kept her expression bland. She knew the job, in general anyway, and hoped to find out where the strike would occur so she could get people in place to prevent it. This was yet another planning session. Deborah seemed to get off on having rendezvous in secret locations, the seedier the better.

Sonny’s last job had been an attempt to abduct a

U.S. senator’s son. It had been foiled by the Secret Service and Renee’s team, COMPASS, one of the civilian special ops teams formed under Homeland Security. The giant, more commonly known as Sonnegut, had escaped capture and fled here to France, doing a bang-up job of covering his tracks. But Renee had located him.

Her stated mission was to identify Sonnegut’s affiliation, find out who was behind the kidnapping attempt and determine what they had been after. Indications were that the motive had been political. So far, she had tailed him until she could befriend one of his cohorts and work her way into this little gang.

It was a start. Deborah Martine was Sonnegut’s lover. Renee had begun to suspect she might also be the person in charge. The question was whether or not she reported to someone else, higher up. Unfortunately Renee thought she might have to abandon her primary mission in order to throw a monkey wrench into the strike the cell was planning. But first she needed to discover how the group was financed, and, most important, the target and timing of their strike.

Renee had struck up an association with Martine, gaining her trust in the guise of a French-Canadian expatriate whose father owned a demolitions business based in Calgary and who had taught his only child everything he knew about explosives, hoping she would carry on.

Her cover contained a great deal of truth, but there were no records available to prove or disprove it. She had told Deborah at the outset that her father had disowned her and she had intentionally “erased” herself. Martine had professed to admire her precautions and apparently accepted her story.

Demolition was a handy skill in the underworld, much in demand. Credentials weren’t required. The proof was in the execution, so to speak.

Renee glanced again at Mark and saw that he was assessing her, no doubt wondering if she had switched loyalties. Neither of them had any option but to play this out, at least until they could talk in private. And even then, would either dare admit why they were really here? As far as he knew, she could be exactly what she appeared to be. And so could he.

Every tenet of her training demanded that she erase any threat to her mission. So would his. They had trained together in the life-or-death black ops field, after all.

Two years ago, the FBI had hosted an international working seminar on nontraditional methods of dealing with terrorists. Fifty elite agents from as many organizations had attended. No operative had been identified other than by name, no countries or organizations revealed.

At the time, Renee had figured Mark represented the U.K. because of his accent and surname. And that polite reserve of his had seemed distinctly British to her. Maybe her assumption had been wrong. Ordinarily she knew better than to assume anything, but it hadn’t really mattered back then.

Even at first glance, just as it did now, her heart had raced with both fear and fascination. Aside from the wide shoulders set on a body that wouldn’t quit and a face that boasted intriguing features, her attraction to him surpassed the physical. There was something dark about Alexander that went deeper than the fathomless eyes that seemed to peer right into the very soul of her. He made her feel exposed…vulnerable…hot. What’s more, he made her like it. Dangerous, indeed.

When she’d known him then, just as now, she had needed her entire focus to remain on the job. Renee had staunchly kept her distance. But she’d sensed a definite reciprocal interest, proved beyond doubt when he had impulsively acted on it. And kissed her. Afterward, they had avoided each other and only spoken in passing when paired off in a shooting match.

Even so, she’d hardly been able to concentrate whenever he was in the vicinity. And the vision of him naked that she hadn’t consciously sought, yet couldn’t seem to dismiss hadn’t helped. Renee had vowed early on that until her career was well established and she had proved her worth, a personal life would be out of the question. Apparently Mark’s goal hadn’t been any different.

Avoidance had become a game until their schooling was over and they parted company with merely a couple of satisfied nods, wordlessly acknowledging their shared battle and mutual success.

In retrospect, maybe she shouldn’t have been so hell-bent to deny any interaction. At least then she might be able to guess something about his mindset now.

Sonnegut slammed into the room, his great height and boisterous energy almost comical considering the secretive nature of the meeting. He was a good-looking fellow of German extraction, cocky as hell, larger than life, auburn-haired, blue-eyed, built like a monster truck. There was simply too much of him to be believed.

Beguin followed him, a pale shadow in Sonnegut’s wake. Thin, dirty blond hair hung like fringe over his craggy features. Darting close-set eyes peered from behind the sparse strands. He moved like a wraith and always gave Renee the creeps. She prided herself on her uncanny recognition of accents, but she hadn’t figured yet where Beguin had hatched. He never had a word to say.

Deborah Martine’s eyes lit up and a smile curved her generous lips whenever Sonnegut appeared. “Everything as it should be, Sonny?” she asked, her voice rife with authority. Her attitude had become increasingly bossy lately, Renee had noticed.

The big man nodded and shot her a merry grin. “I had to get rid of a vagrant. He was getting too curious.”

Martine’s smile slipped at that. She probably worried about the eventual discovery of an errant body mucking up this new meeting place, but she said nothing more about it. “I meant the phone calls you were to make regarding Alexander. Results?”

Sonnegut brushed his hands together and nodded vigorously. “He’s solid. Brugel said he does good work, so did Hamish. Best they know of for providing surreptitious entry. Both vouched.”

Martine reached inside her pocket and retrieved a cell phone that must have been set on vibrate. She clicked it on, listened, nodded and answered briefly and affirmatively in Italian. It was the third language Renee had heard her speak fluently.

They all conversed in French, of course, except when Martine encouraged her to use English. That was Martine’s native tongue, though she was as proficient in French as anyone born to it. Apparently she was pretty good in Italian as well. She was speaking with the man called Brugel, whom Sonnegut had just mentioned.

After she put the phone away, Martine promptly handed over a nine-millimeter pistol to Mark. “Here’s your toy back, darling. You’re hired. Same rate as Brugel gave you, agreed?”

He nodded, pulled a wry face as if disappointed that he wasn’t offered more and stuck the weapon beneath his black leather jacket. His intense gaze captured Renee’s again. His dark eyes told her nothing regarding his true affiliation. But they did reveal his continued interest in her as a woman. Not helpful at all.

Then Deborah turned to Renee. “Tonight we firm up some of the details. Also, if you have any doubt about your ability to do what we need done, you must tell me now. Failure is not an option.”

Renee shrugged one shoulder and tried to look nonchalant. “I can handle anything but boredom,” she declared lazily, leaning backward as Mark pulled a lighter from his pocket and offered to light the cigarette she held.

She lowered her lashes, then raised them in shameless flirtation. Had to keep up the act. “Thank you for the thought, but I don’t smoke anymore. This,” she said, wiggling the cigarette between her fingers playfully, “reassures me of my ability to resist temptation.”

He raised one dark brow, his expression deadpan as he drawled. “All temptation?”

Renee smiled, trying for coy. She caressed his well-honed body with a slumberous appraisal, fully aware of everyone’s eyes now riveted on them. “Well, only what I have sworn off of as not being good for me.”

Deborah cleared her throat. “Not to interfere with your charming little tête-à-tête, my dears, but I believe I have the floor. And we are on a tight schedule with this lovely conference room.”

The men, except for Mark, laughed at Martine’s sarcasm, nudging one another playfully like naughty little boys. Their deadlier forms of naughtiness, especially Sonnegut’s, made her sick. The memory of the bullet-riddled bodies of two Secret Service agents reared its ugly head.

She could wind up exactly like them if she put a foot wrong. That was another reason she never allowed personal relationships to develop. The more people you worried about leaving behind, the less effective you were when faced with a deadly situation. And loved ones could be at constant risk just by association.

Renee carefully concealed her thoughts and smiled along with the thugs. “Please, continue,” she said to Deborah with another casual lift of her shoulder.

Martine looked from one to the other of the group, then concentrated her full attention on Renee. “You have examined the blueprints I gave you?”

“I have.”

“Good. I will identify the target now.”

She pulled a wrinkled map from her coat pocket. “Here. It is marked and the address is written along the margin. It is to be totally demolished, as if clearing the area for future construction. Spare all surrounding structures. The destruction must be isolated.”

“Implosion.” Renee took the folded map and tucked it inside her jacket. “So you want the adjacent buildings undamaged. Why?”

“It is to be very clear what our target was when it is finished.” Her smile grew hard. “That’s enough information. Yours is not to question why.”

“Ah, mine is but to do or die,” Renee said lightly. “I got it.” She squinted at Deborah. “How critical is it that the target collapse directly into its own footprint? It could take months and a very large crew to give you any sort of guarantee on that. And even then…”

The woman huffed and rolled her eyes. “Just do the best you can with the time you have, girl. You said you were the expert. And if you need a crew—” she gestured around the table “—here they are.”

“The hour’s late,” Sonnegut said with an impatient gesture. “I have other things to do. Could we get on with this?” He shot Deborah a heated look that indicated these things had little to do with the business at hand.

“Of course, darling. You’re right as usual.” Deborah gifted Sonnegut with a salacious look.

Renee listened as Martine instructed the others in their respective tasks, each of which was to assist Renee in her assignment in a particular way. Apparently Mark was to circumvent any security systems and get them inside the building to wire it.

“You will be notified of the next meeting,” Deborah said, indicating the meeting was over. She glanced at the newcomer. “Take Mark in hand, will you, Renee?”

Renee bit back a protest. “I suppose he will provide good cover during our planning foray. We can be lovers discovering Paris in the cold November rain. What do you think of that, Mark?” she asked, drawing out his name suggestively.

“I’ll try to be of more use than the cigarette,” he replied with a sardonic smile before getting up to follow the others out of the room.

Renee was the last to leave and Deborah stopped her at the door. “A word before you go.” She leaned out onto the landing. “Sonny, give Mark his instructions, won’t you? Tell him what to watch for? I’ll be along in a moment.” Apparently satisfied by the answering nod, she closed the door on the men.

“Now then, Renee, you have everything you need?”

“For now. I’ll give you a list of the matériel I require once I have it?” Renee said. “Do you think you’ll have any problems acquiring it? Dynamite’s easy enough, but RDX might prove difficult.”

Deborah patted her shoulder, an almost motherly gesture. “Send me a complete list. The supplies will be available when we are ready to put things in place. Anything you require. I’ll have the elevations delivered to you as soon as I have them so that you and Mark can study the exterior.”

She held up a finger, shaking it like a school-teacher admonishing a pupil. “Keep a close eye on Alexander,” she ordered, then added with a leer, “I’m sure you know exactly how to insure his loyalty. He is well vetted, but we both know how tenuous a man’s fealty can be, don’t we?”

Renee laughed, injecting a scoff. “I’ve had more experience learning that than I have time to tell you. Any man can be bought, but you and I know the currency they favor most, eh?”

“I sensed you were savvy in that regard. You remind me of me,” Deborah said with a satisfied bob of her head. “Let me know immediately if you have any problem with him and I’ll find you a replacement.”

Renee promised and said good-night, knowing full well what Sonnegut had been instructing Mark to do while Deborah gave her orders. He would be set to watch her even as she watched him. That was probably another of the reasons he had been hired.

The irony of their keeping tabs on each other struck her as funny, especially if Mark was still an operative for his government.

However, if he had turned she might just die laughing.

Chapter 2

Once they had left the building, Renee turned to Mark. “Do you know anything about demolition?”

“Do you?” he countered, one dark eyebrow raised.

“Do you have a place to stay?” she asked, ignoring his question.

“No, I only arrived this afternoon.” He walked beside her, hands tucked in his pockets against the bitter cold, obviously willing to follow wherever she led.

“I have rooms in the Latin Quarter. You’ll stay with me.”

Better to keep him close, as Deborah had ordered, and find out what he was all about than to wonder where the hell he was and what he was up to. She didn’t expect to get much sleep, if any, in either case.

“Are you giving me a choice?”

“Sure.” Renee headed for her rental car, a puke-green Peugeot with a balky transmission. “You could go back and bunk with Deborah and Sonny. How do you feel about threesomes?”

He laughed, a brief, bitter sound. “I don’t see that happening.”

“Who are you working for?” She hoped to catch him off guard with the question, but he replied immediately.

“You, of course.”

Right. Very smooth answer and quick on the trigger. He wasn’t going to tell her a damn thing. And she wasn’t about to volunteer anything until she knew which side he was on.

If he was working undercover, as she was, his suspicions would mirror hers. If he had flipped since she knew him in the States, he might try to kill her. Alert to that possibility, she kept enough distance between them to respond to any attack he made. She was pretty sure he wouldn’t do anything until he knew for sure what she was really doing here.

They got in the car and she drove like a maniac on the streets of Paris. Like everyone else did. When she came to a screeching halt on the curb in front of her apartment building, she noted his knuckles were white as he loosened his grip on the dash. He exhaled as if he’d been holding his breath.

“Here we are. I’ll go up first. Give me a quarter hour alone, then come up to 304. Knock twice, then once.”

“Got it,” he said agreeably. “What’s with the code?”

“Old habits die hard,” she replied.

“So do old operatives in case you plan to wait behind the door to do me in.”

“If I planned to kill you, I would have done it already.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “I thought the drive here was an admirable first attempt. Nearly caused my heart to fail.”

“You have a heart? You’re in the wrong line of work.” Renee got out, slammed her door and left him sitting in the car, hoping someone would steal the wreck tonight so she could legitimately request another.

She could picture Mark on his phone the second she disappeared inside, either checking with his control on her current work status or calling Deborah Martine to reveal who she was and asking how he should dispose of the body. By the time he did either, she planned to know more about him than his own mother did and act accordingly.

The instant the door closed to her room, she was hitting her speed dial. “Get me whatever you have on British operative Mark Alexander. All sources. Instantly. It’s crucial. If you can’t find him in SIS, check other agencies, home and abroad. Then go to private. Also run him as a skel. He could be dirty.” She clicked off.

Renee felt extremely isolated on this op. Minimal phone contact, documents left at a specified drop and no face-to-face with the other agents in place. Three of her fellow COMPASS agents were here in Paris, waiting to help her wrap this up when the time came. Until then, she wasn’t supposed to reach out.

And the role she had assumed for the op—cocky, expatriated Goth chick and experienced killer with no conscience or morals—was wearing thin. There was no break from the act. She wished she could talk to someone as herself, just for a minute or two. She missed speaking English, though her French was fluent. She had acquired it as a child right here in Paris and fine-tuned it under her mother’s tutelage. Her knowledge of demolition had begun then, too, as she and her mom followed her dad from job to job. No one knew more about the business of leveling a landscape than Ed Leblanc. And she was trading on his name and reputation. Though retired in Miami for several years now, a bogus Web site, created specifically for this assignment, had him listed as still running a world class business out of Calgary, Canada.

She missed her mom and dad, her friends and her apartment. Renee let her thoughts drift to her home in McLean, Virginia, where Christmas decorations would be going up in stores even though it wasn’t quite Thanksgiving. Holly would be feeding her fish, tending her plants and collecting her mail. Unless Holly had been called away on assignment. If so, someone else would hold down the fort, one of her fellow agents. They provided good support on the homefront. But this was her first international assignment. It required a great deal of improvisation and all the acting skill she possessed. And she wasn’t used to going it alone.

Now she had a partner, of sorts. That just went to show, one should be careful what one wished for. Company could be deadly. As a fellow operative, Mark would judge her without mercy. And if he turned out to be a traitorous sonofabitch, he’d probably wind up trying to kill her, again without mercy.

Suddenly isolation seemed the lesser of two evils, but one she couldn’t afford.

Anxiously she waited for the report on him. “C’mon, c’mon, I don’t have all night,” she grumbled, frowning down at her cell phone.

Mark cursed as he put his phone away. Not a thing on her. Nothing! Lazlo had pulled every string available within the short amount of time he had with no results. None of the agencies, government or private, in the States or Canada, had a listing for Renee. He had captured a photo of her profile with his phone as she drove through the city at breakneck speed. She wasn’t in any database Lazlo could access which left damn few.

Corbett Lazlo could accomplish virtually anything, connected as he was. He had survived a conviction of treason, escaped prison and proved himself innocent. After that, he had refused to return to MI-6 where he had worked with Mark’s father and had begun his own company. Lazlo operated without the confines of bureaucracy that hobbled the government organizations. And ignored most of the rules. He was a law unto himself. Mark admired him more than anyone he knew. If Lazlo couldn’t get a background on this woman, then it couldn’t be had.

So who the hell was she? He knew she had been cleared to take that course at Langley. If she had been dropped by one of the agencies since then, there would be a record of it somewhere. That meant she must be working at a job important and secretive enough to have her background totally erased in case someone went looking. This was a good sign actually, he realized. If she were a traitor, even a suspected one, the word would be out on her.

He didn’t have to wonder what she would manage to uncover about his past. It wouldn’t look good. His real background had been replaced with one so unsavory it scared even him. She’d be horrified that she’d ever gotten close enough for that kiss they had shared.

Odd, the compulsion he was feeling to spill everything to her, to assure her he wasn’t the lowlife his official records stated. Maybe he had a death wish hidden somewhere in his psyche. More likely his libido was fogging his brain. God only knew how he had resisted involvement with her two years ago. The feelings she engendered then were suddenly active again.

That lovely smile of hers combined with all that barely suppressed energy had gripped him fiercely the minute he’d set eyes on her at the initial training session. Instant accord between them, and she had felt it, too. He had nearly lost his grip on reality and offered her more than he could afford to give. Thank God, he had come to his senses in time. Still, he wouldn’t take anything in exchange for that one long, soul-deep kiss.

The girl was a chameleon, but looked great in both guises. Before when he had known her, she’d seemed the wholesome, suntanned, athletic type, maybe a girl who had a couple of brothers to toughen her up a little and make her competitive. The way she looked now, she could be belting out hard rock on stage or hanging out on street corners peddling S&M. Scary as hell, but wretchedly enticing for all that. It made him wonder which was the real Renee Leblanc.

It wasn’t entirely her looks that fascinated him, but more the way she carried herself, handled herself and met every challenge. She woke something in him that had lain dormant all his adult life. Not that he wasn’t interested in women, just that he had never before craved anything more than a very temporary hookup.

He wanted her. There was also this odd, almost compelling urge to befriend her. He couldn’t thank her for that. Hell, he didn’t make friends. He didn’t need them. But there was something about her that he knew he couldn’t leave alone. Not this time.

She had this bit of vulnerability that he figured no one saw but him, hidden as it was in those whiskey-colored eyes that would make a man as drunk as the real stuff if he drank too deeply.

Her hair had been longer and silky two years ago. Now it was chopped in a chin-length spiky hairdo he found rather silly. What man would want to run his hands through gelled spikes? Still, even that anomaly flattered her features.

Yes, she was a beauty, especially with the added fire of her attitude. Alert, interested and therefore wildly interesting. He couldn’t ignore that heavenly body, toned to slender perfection. He remembered her in the gym, slick with sweat and wearing only a sports bra and shorts. The memory threatened to activate his own sweat glands.

He had to exercise strict discipline and keep this under control. He was older now, more committed than ever to the mission he had sworn to complete and no woman was going to get in his way. Not even this one who affected him more than any other ever had. The fact that she had that effect made him slightly angry with her. Or perhaps with himself.

Mark climbed the stairs and gave the knock as she’d instructed, fully aware that she might try to kill him the instant he entered the room. It would be interesting to see which of them had benefited most by their Langley training. He was fairly sure he could take her, but not absolutely certain of it. That only added to the mystique.

She opened the door and stepped aside, gesturing him to come in. “You’re a real piece of work, Alexander. Have been for a very long time. Must have made a distinct impression on Sonny when he made those calls. Sit down,” she said, indicating the two chairs placed near the room’s one window. She remained standing. “Why was your name deleted from the course records? There is no mention of your training, training I know you had.”

“What training would that be?” He glanced meaningfully at the window, reminding her that anyone with a parabolic microphone could be listening to every word.

“Don’t worry, this place has been screened to hell and back, as well as those buildings across the street. No ears. No cameras. I’m very thorough.”

“And quite mysterious,” he commented. “Apparently you don’t even exist other than in my feverish imagination.”

Her full lips quirked at his sarcasm. “Feverish? Why, Mark, I’m so flattered.”

He smiled back. “No birth, no schooling, no employment, not even a driving license.” He recalled the ride here. “But that last bit I can well understand.”

“You might have found something under my maiden name had you bothered to ask what it is.”

Mark was already shaking his head. “You weren’t married, either. Not officially anyway.”

She strolled to the window and raked back the sheer curtain to look down at the street below. “What’s your real agenda here?”

He stood and headed for the door. “Food, bath, sleep, in that order.”

She dropped the curtain and headed his way. “There’s a café several doors down that’s open late. Food’s cheap but edible.”

He was a bit surprised at how easily she acquiesced but held the door for her to exit first. “So long as we won’t need to drive there.”

They took the stairs at a fast clip, Mark preceding her as she insisted.

He found himself actually looking forward to spending time with Renee, an unusual turn for him to take when he knew very well he ought to be working this alone. He always worked alone. He didn’t like having to worry about anyone else’s safety. Or their potential for making mistakes.

She would only get in his way, distract him, maybe even get one or both of them killed if Trip was around and in his usual form.

He thought about how ironic it was that the very lack of available information about their previous occupations in intel had virtually verified their loyalties.

What a strange world it had become. At any rate, Mark felt like celebrating the fact that he didn’t have to kill her.

They exited the building and she turned left. Mark walked beside her, confident they had a sort of truce going on.

“If the wine proves drinkable, perhaps we could have a little toast,” he suggested. “Something along the lines of good health and long life.”

“Or world peace,” she said with an inelegant snort that made him laugh.

“Ah, but then we’d both be out of work, love.”

She stopped, halting him with a hand on his arm. “Did you cross over, Alexander?”

“Did you, Leblanc?”

For a long moment, she stared into his eyes, then threw her trust at him like a fast ball. “No, I didn’t. I’m working.”

He almost groaned. Was she mad? She must be to grant him that much information without even knowing him. “So I suppose this is where I declare undying love for my country and promise to fight evil to the death?”

She inclined her head and pursed her lips. “Yeah, Mark, this is the place where you do that. Only you had better make me believe you.”

“Or you’ll do what?”

She smiled and managed to look downright evil. “Or I will kill you. Right where you stand.”

It was only then that Mark felt the gun barrel prod his belly.

Chapter 3

“Deborah, you try to make me jealous? Is this why you hired Alexander? I do not trust him in spite of the glowing recommendations.”

“Do not try my patience, Sonny,” she warned. She watched him study her face and knew he wondered who she really was. If he knew, he would be more afraid than he already was. Cassandra DuMont held more power in her small, soft hands than this man could ever imagine. She toyed with the idea of telling him, but decided against it.

Sonnegut was a tool. The double entendre of a thought made her smile as she stroked his sweaty brow. She raked a beautifully manicured nail along his cheek, scraping the roughness of stubble that had caused a delicious burn moments earlier. In bed, he was unequaled, even by John Trip. Trip’s value lay in his inventiveness. Sonny’s size and boundless energy provided an interesting contrast.

He kissed her gently. “You are such a soft, cultured creature, Deborah. Not at all like the women I am used to.”

“Soft?” She laughed at that. “Only on the surface, darling.”

He sighed and lay back, one hand behind his head, the other toying with her breast. “Ah, yes, there are times when I glimpse the steel beneath your charms.”

At the moment, lying with him on silk sheets in her fancy rococo bed, she was soft and wearing nothing but a contented feline smile.

He exhausted her, helped her to sleep soundly, a feat for which she had amply rewarded him. This walk on the wild side had worked in that respect. She loved the edginess of it, operating in disguise, meeting in dark places, the risks of leaving behind the protection of who and what she was.

Becoming Deborah Martine allowed her a certain freedom and keen excitement that she lacked as Cassandra DuMont, doting mother to her son and the chief executive of her family business. Also, this little vacation afforded a perfect opportunity for another, even deadlier strike against Corbett Lazlo. She would give him his own mini version of nine-eleven and bury his people beneath tons of steel and stone.

Sonnegut stroked her tousled hair and inhaled the rich, heady scent of her perfume. He brushed the smooth curve of her lips with his, tickling them with his tongue. “Tell me that you are not attracted to this man, Alexander. You cannot trust him, you know.”

She tweaked his chin. “Ah, darling, I trust no one.”

“Not even me?” he demanded with a pretense of anger.

Cass rolled her eyes playfully. “Don’t be tiresome, please!”

He rolled away from her and sat up on the edge of the bed. “First you enlist that…girl. She is dangerous, that one. And much too young to be of any use.” Cass knew Sonny mistrusted youth. He probably recalled how he had misspent his own doing stupid things that had earned him time behind bars.

Cass sat up and trailed her nails down the center of his back. “We shall soon see what she can do. Alexander will keep an eye on her. As long as she does what’s required of her, that’s all that matters. Once we’ve accomplished our little task here in Paris, we’ll no longer need either of them.”

“Then I can kill them?” he asked, cracking his knuckles, obviously anticipating how he would do it.

Again she laughed, leaned her head against his shoulder and snaked her arm around his waist. “You are such a bloodthirsty savage.”

“You like me the way I am,” he said, reeking with confidence and manly sweat.

“At times like this, I admit I do,” she assured him. Actually there were only two reasons a woman like her, with her upper-class education and manners, would have use for a man of Sonnegut’s talents. He had just fulfilled one—messy, uninhibited sex. The other, he so far had failed. She would give him one chance to redeem himself. If not, then Trip would take care of him along with the others.

He got up and found the bottle of expensive Scotch they had abandoned earlier. Taking a slug directly from it and exhaling noisily, he looked down at her. “This plan of yours is too complex. Why not let me go directly to this man you want destroyed? Simple is better.”

“You will do as I tell you.”

“I will kill him for you. That will be the end of it.” He took another drink and handed her the bottle.

“But I don’t want it ended. Not just yet,” she insisted. She raised the bottle to her lips, daintily sipped the Scotch, then rested the bottle on the bed beside her, cradling its neck. “I’ve only just begun to punish him. He deserves to suffer, to lose everything he has built for himself and everyone who is faithful to him. And he will suffer.”

“I could bring him to you, let you inflict what you wish.”

“As you brought the senator’s son here?” she said angrily, taunting him with his failure. “That was supposed to draw Lazlo out and make him available for a strike!”

Then she relented, placating her lover. “I know, I know. That was not your fault, darling. How could we have known of the boy’s interest in the president’s daughter and that the Secret Service had him under surveillance? That was a fluke. If they had not already been in place and mucked it up, you would have been successful and the senator would have called in his old friend, Lazlo, to find his son. At least you got away and left no trail.”

She sighed heavily and leaned back against the pillows, stretching out her arms to welcome him back into bed. “Come, let me show you how happy I am about that.”

“Again?” he asked with a proud smirk. He lowered himself onto her body and she allowed him the momentary feeling of domination.

Yes, she would sleep well tonight. And she would dream of Corbett Lazlo’s absolute destruction.

“Turn around slowly,” Renee ordered. She slid her finger to the outer curve of the trigger guard, afraid to touch the hair trigger on her borrowed weapon. Mark couldn’t see her do it since his back was now to her. It wouldn’t do to kill him accidentally.

She walked him for several blocks, ordered him down a deserted side street and backed him to the edge of an alleyway. “Turn around so I can see your face.” She needed to be sure. The streetlights were marginally dimmed by the fog and there were no lighted storefronts, but she could see.

As she looked into his eyes, she saw his gaze fly to one side and his features freeze. What?

Before she knew it, he had her pistol in his hand and turned on her. “Now walk calmly forward until we reach your little café,” he ordered. “Then we’ll have our conversation.”

Furious that he had disarmed her so casually, Renee stamped on his foot. He didn’t flinch.

“Temper, temper,” he warned, grasping her upper arm in his free hand and duck marching her along the narrow sidewalk. “Is there a café at all or did you intend to leave me lying in the gutter, a poor homeless corpse?”

“Go left up ahead there,” she gasped, belatedly wondering how she had lucked out and not gotten shot. What a stupid thing to do, reacting to the oldest trick in the book. Look behind you. She felt like an idiot.

When they entered the café, she realized he was no longer holding her at gunpoint. In fact, with his arm around her and her hand clutching the back of his, they must give the appearance of a couple unable to keep their hands off each other. He released her when they reached a table near the window and sat down across from her.

“What do you recommend?” he asked politely.

Renee took a few seconds to calm her breathing and gather her thoughts. “Coq au vin’s good here.”

“Too late for that, I expect. What of the cheese omelette?” She nodded, noting the waiter already approaching the table. She remained silent while Mark ordered for them. She had noticed earlier that his French was perfect, not a trace of an English accent.

When they were alone again, he touched her knee under the table. “Here’s your weapon. Safety’s on.”

“Thank you,” she huffed, taking it from him while trying not to touch his hand. “That was so rude.”

For the first time, he grinned at her and his face transformed. “Please, accept my apology. And I’ll accept yours while I’m at it.”

“Dream on.”

The boyish expression and twinkle in his eyes fascinated her as did the lock of dark hair falling across his brow. She would never have guessed he had a devil-may-care side to him. It only enhanced the attraction she felt in spite of herself. And made her madder than hell.

“Disarming you was necessary to establish my sincerity,” he told her. “A confession under duress is difficult to credit.”

She acknowledged the truth of that with a brief incline of her head. Now, at least, she could believe what he told her. If he told her anything at all.

His expression grew serious and he seemed to arrive at some decision, even as she watched. “You could have killed me and you didn’t, so I suppose I must trust you.”

“I suppose you must,” she said, holding a wide-eyed nonexpression. “So? What are you doing here?”

The pause lasted a full two minutes. “I’m trying to locate a man called John Trip. Have you heard that name since you became involved with this lot?”

Renee shook her head. “Nope, never heard of him. Why are you after him?”

“Why are you here?”

Renee sighed. “Sonnegut tried to abduct a senator’s son in Virginia. We prevented that, but he got away. My job is to find out who ordered the abduction and why, then take them down.”

“On whose behalf?”

“My government’s.”

“American, not Canadian.”

“Yes. And you?”

When he neglected to answer, she prodded him. “Come on. Information is power here. Are you working for SIS?”

He shook his head. “A private organization that deals with threats, mainly against dignitaries, celebrities, politicians and the like.”

She gave a single nod. “Must be Lazlo.”

From his fleeting expression of surprise, she knew she had scored a direct hit with the first round, but he didn’t admit it. He simply pursed his lips and narrowed those sexy eyes at her. Lord, there was that fluttery feeling in her stomach again. She tried to ignore it.

“The Lazlo group’s not exactly low profile any longer,” she informed him. “At least not within the intel community. They’ve lost a number of operatives lately. It’s no secret someone’s out to wreck the organization. We’ve been aware of it for some time.”

“We?”

She simply smiled. She had the feeling he didn’t engage in much conversation, even for his line of work. He struck her as a loner. A shadow.

The food arrived, so by tacit agreement they postponed the discussion. After they’d been served and the waiter had disappeared, eating became the priority as each retreated into private thoughts.

Renee’s were bouncing around like crazy, her personal interest all tangled up with professional. Not good, she quickly realized and went about separating her intense curiosity from her critical need to know.

And to think, she had been ready to plead for this assignment if it hadn’t been given to her. Her dearth of experience had been against her. Her youth, too, since she had just turned twenty-five. Only the facts that she could recognize Sonnegut and that she was the one who had determined his present location had put her at the head of the line. She was not about to let an inconvenient attraction interfere with her mission or cloud her judgment.

When they finished eating, Mark watched Renee plunk down enough Euros to cover the meal and the tip. He didn’t object. To be honest, he wasn’t certain of the proper etiquette. He expected to pay when he was out with a woman and always insisted, but this was no date. “The next meal’s on me,” he said.

He got up in time to pull back her chair and help her into the jacket she had slung over the back of it. She gave him a long-suffering look that poked fun at his manners and reaffirmed this definitely was no date.

She walked ahead and opened the door for him when they left the café, daring him with those whiskey-colored eyes to object. He didn’t. He walked right past her with a nod of thanks.

They strolled side by side down the deserted street, hands in their pockets. Neither spoke until they had both made sure they weren’t followed or watched. On some level, Mark enjoyed the shared duty. On another, he felt wary of it. She must be green as new grass or she’d be a lot more careful. Now he’d have to be responsible for her and that infuriated him. Precisely why he preferred solitary assignments.

“All right, let’s have an understanding,” she said in that take-charge voice of hers. “I have a job to do. You have a job to do. I don’t like sharing any better than you do, but it’s need to know time. If we don’t lay all our cards on the table, we could each jeopardize what the other is doing.”

“So deal.”

“I did,” she declared. “I admitted I’m undercover, you know why I’m here and that I’m not really working for these people.”

“And I’ve told you that I’m after John Trip.” He sighed and cocked his head to one side, waiting for her to continue.

“As I said, I’m following up on a political kidnapping attempt that resulted in the death of U.S. Secret Service agents. Sonnegut was there. I traced him here, discovered who he was working with and arranged to meet Deborah Martine.”

“Why not Sonnegut directly?”

“Because I want to know as much about the man as I can and he isn’t likely to admit things about himself that his lover might.”

That made perfect sense to Mark. “Have you learned anything helpful?”

“Sonnegut’s gang of four is apparently for hire, the men you met tonight. Now Deborah either hired them for this particular job, or Sonnegut hooked up with her and she’s appointed herself captain.”

“For what it’s worth, I think she’s the one running him,” Mark told her honestly. It felt strange, collaborating. He worked alone. Lazlo usually just provided him with information or specific orders.

He watched Renee process the opinion he had offered. “Probably, but Sonnegut steps up and takes over just often enough to make me question that. If Martine is the boss, she’s letting him think he has more power than he actually does for some reason. She is the one who offered me work.”

“Setting explosives.”

Renee nodded. “That was my ticket in. We met over a bomb, so to speak, and I think that incident inspired the idea of using explosives. I don’t yet know why she wants to blow that building, but I’m working on it. Now who is this Trip guy you’re after and how does he figure into this?” she asked, reverting to his mission.

“He killed someone, years ago. A man who meant a great deal to me. And to Corbett Lazlo,” he added reluctantly, granting her more trust than he was comfortable with.

Mark had had to relinquish his former investigation into the threats against Lazlo and the recent assassinations of a number of Lazlo’s agents. Others would continue that probe in earnest, of course. Lazlo knew finding Trip was Mark’s primary goal in life.

“So it’s personal?” She leaned toward him a little, revealing her eagerness. That she would let him see that gave Mark a bit of reassurance.

“A vendetta, you mean? No, it’s business. He’s already murdered at least two Lazlo operatives in addition to the man I mentioned. He might be responsible for others that we don’t yet know about if he employed other methods. But we’re certain of these three. He left proof. Trip’s a paid assassin.”

“Which means that someone hired him to do the killing. You need that name,” she guessed correctly.

“Obviously. How close are you to finding out what you need to know?”

“Not close enough. Sonnegut runs the boys and Deborah runs him. But who they report to, if there is a higher authority, is anyone’s guess at this point. So far none of them has provided any hint of motive. But even given Sonnegut’s attempted kidnapping of a senator’s son, I sense this current operation is not political and certainly not ideological. It has to do with either greed or revenge.”

Mark wondered how good her instincts were and whether he could rely on them. As a hard and fast rule, he relied on no one but himself. And Lazlo, when necessary.

The last time he had actually known anyone well enough to trust them, other than Lazlo, was when he was thirteen. He had relied on and trusted his dad, above all. And there had been Tom and Hugh, his best friends, his trusty mates since early childhood. He still kept up with their lives because he cared about them, though for their safety, he’d had no actual contact with them since his disappearance the night of his father’s death.

Trust and reliance he granted only to true friends, not chance acquaintances like this woman. And at present, he realized, he had no real friendships. None whatsoever.

She went on, oblivious to his thoughts that excluded her. “Sonnegut doesn’t seem enthusiastic about any of it. It’s almost as if he’s along for the ride. But Deborah gets this crafty look. Did you notice?”

“She can’t wait to see it happen,” he agreed, nodding. “Seems a bit psychotic if you want my opinion.” He wasn’t used to giving out his thoughts, but she was damned easy to talk to. She smiled in response.

“I wish I had more time to find out what’s behind this, but I can’t very well plan the implosion of a building while I’m filling in the gaps. If this is to go down soon, my people will have to take whoever I’ve been able to identify and just hope somebody will sing.” She grinned at him then and bumped him playfully with her elbow. “You Brits say that, too? Or do your perps peach on each other?”

“Sing, squeal, rat out. Yes, we have that in common.” And very little else, he reminded himself. Renee defined the term extrovert and he might as well wear a recluse sign around his neck. Colloquialisms would probably prove the least of their differences.

He had mastered what he could of American slang, but his time in the States had been brief, he had always disliked American films and television, and he’d never had the opportunity to make any Yankee friends.

Again he thought, no friends at all. Corbett Lazlo was the closest thing to it, but even their interaction was based on a mutual goal. And technically, Corbett was his boss.

He admitted there were disadvantages to working completely alone, but he reminded himself sternly that he still preferred it. Even during his required military service he had remained a loner. It was difficult for him, sharing information, but necessary in this instance. Renee was right about that. He would have to make the effort.

Mark ran a hand through his hair and rested it on the back of his neck for a minute. “Martine is my only lead to Trip. Depending on how quickly this job goes, there might not be enough time.”

“Deborah’s not likely to tell you anything about John Trip,” Renee said, “and he’s obviously not one of the gang. Maybe I could help. What if I told her that I’m looking for someone to do a little wet work to cover my tracks on another job?”

Mark was already shaking his head. “Not feasible unless you’re wallowing in wealth, in which case you wouldn’t need to be doing what you’re doing.”

“Ah, so this Trip is outstanding in his field, huh?”

“One of the best. A legend in his own time. Charges a fortune.”

“What’s his connection to Deborah? I wonder…”

Mark held the door for her as they reached the apartment building. “If I knew that, I wouldn’t need to be doing what I’m doing.” He paused in the doorway, frowning down at her. The dim lighting threw shadows across her features and he could see nothing soft in them. “I have to locate this man, Renee. You’ll have to find a way to stall the demolition until then.”

“How close are you?” she asked, starting up the stairs ahead of him.

He tried not to notice the sway of her hips right in front of him. She wasn’t trying to be provocative, but his eyes were not cooperating with his brain. He wrenched his thoughts back to the subject at hand.

“Until a week ago, Trip was in Liverpool. He disappeared before I could get him, but I found a discarded cell phone with his prints on it. It was crushed, but I managed to retrieve phone records. Five calls were to Deborah Martine here in Paris. There were two incoming from her.”

“Aha, sounds like a real relationship,” Renee quipped. “So you’re pretty sure he’s here in Paris?”

“Possibly. If not, I mean to find out where he’s gone.”

“I’ll help you,” Renee offered, “if you’ll help me. Try to find out who Sonny answers to.” She smiled up at him. “And if I can manage to get chummy enough, I’ll ask ol’ Debbie if she’s got a squeeze ol’ Sonny’s not wise to.”

A squeeze. He liked the term. Rather crass and usually reserved for females, but probably descriptive of the power-mad Martine’s lovers.

He thought about squeezing Renee and couldn’t seem to dismiss the idea. Main squeeze stuck in his brain like a song fragment that played over and over.

Why was she so open with him, so trusting? What sort of agent took chances such as that? He admired her courage but wondered about her sanity.

But then, who was he to judge? He was well aware that he had not had the usual experiences of someone who’d led a regular life. Since the age of thirteen, and probably even before that, he had been trained not to trust.

But he had trusted Renee tonight more than he had anyone else in a very long time. She had that effect. Alarm bells were ringing in his head. This woman was dangerous on so many levels.

Renee watched as Mark opened the door to her apartment and entered first, his weapon in his hand.

She resented that. It was her place to clear her own quarters. He would bully her if she allowed it, but she decided to choose her battles. If she didn’t, they’d be at each other’s throats the entire time.

He rejoined her in the small sitting room. “Looks okay.”

“Thanks. Excuse me for a minute.” Renee immediately went into the bathroom, turned on the water and made a phone call to see if there were any further results to her earlier inquiry. Nothing had changed, but she hadn’t really expected it to and was glad it hadn’t.

She believed Mark. He’d never have gotten into the course they had attended together without a bona fide and rather remarkable association with one of the elite forces battling terrorism. Lazlo had an excellent rep. They hired the best and got results.

“Where do I sleep?” he asked when she returned.

She pointed to the antique recamier, a one-armed lounge that wasn’t even comfortable for sitting, much less sleeping. “I’ll get you a pillow and a blanket.”

He sat on it, bounced once and frowned. “And perhaps a back brace for the morning?”

Renee turned away from him as she suppressed a laugh at his expense.

He had a dry sense of humor, but his having one at all surprised her. He almost never smiled without qualifying it with a lift of that left eyebrow. “For a homeless person, you’re not very appreciative.”

“I was hoping you might want to keep me under closer surveillance for the night, in the event I’m not really who I say I am.”

“Share my bed?” She chuckled. “And here I thought Brits had no sense of humor. You’re a riot.”

He grinned. “And I was under the impression Americans were…unreserved.”

“Profiling at its worst, I guess. I’ll get you that pillow.”

Renee left the room in a hurry, hoping he hadn’t noticed that split second of consideration she’d given his suggestion.

They were unwilling partners now and would be pretending an intimate relationship during the coming days. The idea of establishing a real closeness with him to insure his help and full cooperation was so unprofessional it was laughable. And tempting, she had to admit.

Really, really tempting.

Chapter 4

Sleep had proved elusive at first with her guest in the next room stirring restlessly as he tried to get comfortable. But eventually Renee slept for exactly four hours and woke refreshed. Her internal clock operated without fail, always had.

Her skill at remote viewing had been amazingly productive this morning, too, she thought with satisfaction. Good to know that wasn’t going to suffer because of the distraction sleeping on her sofa. She had worried it might, since Mark had virtually waylaid her subconscious that morning long ago when she visualized him taking a shower. Her particular and unusual ability had secured her the job with the team of agents who had talents similar to hers and she would hate for anything—or anyone—to interfere with it.

She loved what she did. Usually. In any case, the remote viewing she did was not exactly hardship duty. She liked putting it to good use and it didn’t sap her energy, give her headaches or other bad effects. Unless she counted the uncomfortable feelings of arousal the vision of Mark had caused her back in the training course. No more of those, she promised herself.

Immediately on waking, she always focused her mind on Deborah Martine. This morning the woman appeared to be in her apartment. Or town house. The exact location or layout was never clear, but it was definitely Deborah’s abode.

Renee had “been there” before, a number of times, in different rooms. Three images presented this morning, an unusual occurrence: Deborah, Sonnegut and another man, one Renee had never viewed before. This was the only person outside the current group that Deborah had met with, at least in the early morning.

Renee sat up and grabbed her sketchbook, quickly recording the details she had gleaned before they escaped her. The visions came easily most of the time and played out like disjointed videos without sound. Some were clear as day. Some were hazy, nearly indistinct and colorless, a bit like half-remembered dreams. This morning’s had proved exceptionally good. She wielded her pencil with confidence.

Architectural details of the building’s exterior came first. She needed to locate the building and these new image fragments would surely help. Double arches, done in stone. Old and in need of sandblasting. Hmm. Not that unique in the older section of the city, but that in itself was a clue. At least it narrowed the search area. When she exhausted those particular clues, she turned to the new face on the block, the interesting stranger.

Tall, almost as tall as Sonnegut. Dark, handsome, deadly. She wondered if this man could be the one Mark was seeking. Pencil flying, Renee laid down the gesture drawing that would serve as a guide for a more detailed delineation of features.

Trying hard to recapture every nuance of the vision, she closed her eyes again, seeking clearer memory of her impressions.

“So you lied.”

Renee jumped, her pencil and pad flying out of her hands as she dived for her weapon.

A large hand clamped around her arm. She checked her response, which would have broken at least his thumb, maybe his wrist. “What are you doing in here?” she demanded.

“Better question. Why did you lie about having seen Trip?”

“I didn’t see him until just now!” she exclaimed, realizing too late what an explanation of that would entail. And how unlikely it would be that he’d believe it. Still, there was no way around it unless she lied again.

He released her, crossed his arms over his chest and glared at her through narrowed eyes. “Just now,” he repeated, glancing around her messy bedroom. “Hiding in your wardrobe, I suppose?”

Renee shook her head and grimaced, seeking a way to begin that wouldn’t make her sound certifiably nuts. She inhaled deeply and began to explain. “Do you remember the studies undertaken in the seventies? The ones that explored the…inexplicable? Project STAR?”

“Psychic phenomena,” he said, tongue in cheek. “Discontinued after your military intel community computed how little bang they were getting for the enormous number of bucks they were shoving down a rat hole?”

Renee took another deep breath and tried again. “No, it’s ongoing. They turned it over to…another agency that had fewer constraints and better funding.” She added a smile. “I was…am one of their subjects.”

He brushed a hand over his lower face and shook his head. “You’re telling me that you’re psychic.”

“Not precisely. I’m an RV.”

“Ah. A recreational vehicle. This gets better and better. Makes me want to kick your bloody tires.”

Renee laughed. “No, a remote viewer. I…see things. Places. People.”

He waved a hand at the sketchbook lying on the floor. “John Trip.”

“That’s really him? I thought it might be. He’s at Deborah’s apartment this morning.”

“Really. You’ve been wafting through the ether. What a convenient trick that must be.”

She closed her eyes for a second. “Look, I know this must be hard for you to believe, but…”

“I want an address,” he stated. “A real address where I can find him, Leblanc. And cut the bull.”

Renee bit her lip and got up off the edge of the bed. She was getting a crick in her neck from looking up at him. Also, she didn’t want to feel as open to attack when she answered. “Look, I’m sorry, I can’t give you the address. Not yet anyway. I don’t know where she lives.”

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