I’m going to kiss you now, Sonya, he had said, his voice rumbling through her chest like fireworks on the Fourth of July.
And then…oh, and then he—
Sonya shoved the memory away with a groan, palming her forehead as the pleasure of that long ago night was replaced by the pain of her loss.
“Who are you crying for?” A deep, raspy voice slid from the darkness.
She spun, her eyes darting around the unlit kitchen.
There. Over by the pantry door. He was a darker shadow in a pool of dark shadows.
“Come out where I can see you,” she commanded, knowing she was spotlighted by the glow of the moonlight through the window above the sink and not liking the disadvantage it put her at. She hastily scrubbed the wetness from her cheeks.
Angel flowed into view as quietly as a ghost.
“Who are you crying for?” he asked again. “Your jewel thief?”
“No,” she answered before she had time to consider whether or not the truth was the right thing to give him.
Why does he have that effect on me? Why do I look into his eyes and want to tell him everything? All my deepest, darkest secrets?
It was uncanny. And more than a little scary.
“I mean, not really,” she quickly added. Ugh. Talk about unconvincing, Sonya!
“Is there more to the story?” he asked. The man was full of questions today. “Some other reason why you work for Grafton?”
“No,” she blurted and saw his left eyebrow twitch.
Her training kicked in—thank heavens!—and she turned the tables on him. “Is there some reason besides his threat to hand you over to the Iranians that has you working for him?”
“No.”
For long seconds, their eyes waged a war. Wait. It wasn’t a war. It was a scouting mission. They were each searching for something in the other’s gaze.
She got the impression neither of them found what they were looking for.
“Why does Grafton want the enriched uranium?” he asked.
The change in subject happened so fast that her thoughts suffered whiplash. Again, her mouth answered before her mind had time to consider her response. “How should I know?”
“I assumed he shared most things with you.”
She snorted. “Hardly.”
“Then why does he keep you so close to his side?”
That was the $64,000 question, wasn’t it? The question that, over the last six months, she thought she had finally figured out the answer to.
“Four reasons,” she told him. “Number one”—she lifted a finger on the hand not wrapped around the water glass—“he picks my brain and uses my knowledge of international police procedures to help him make sure his more nefarious businesses have a better chance of flying under the radar. Number two”—up went a second finger—“I can speak six languages, so he likes having me around to act as an interpreter.”
Was it her imagination, or did the muscle beneath Angel’s right eye twitch as if something she said had surprised him?
A third finger joined the first two until she formed a W in the air. “Number three, he’s a sadistic figlio di puttana who loves to punish me on a daily basis by forcing me into situations that make my skin crawl.”
“Figlio di puttana?”
“It’s Italian for ‘son of a bitch,’” she clarified, and now she held up four fingers. “And last but not least, I think he gets a kick out of having a younger woman on his arm. He likes to show me off to his fat, old friends in the House of Lords and pretend there’s more going on between us than a sick and twisted business arrangement.”
