“Very well,” he said. “I guess we’ll do this the hard way. How clichéd.” His top lip curled with distaste, but Sonya knew he loved every minute of this dangerous dance. Bringing people of quality, people of caliber, to their knees played to his ego and his continual search for power. Ever more power.
Sliding his tablet across his desk, Grafton turned the device around so Angel could see the single line of numbers glowing at the top of the screen.
“Am I supposed to know what that means?” Angel asked in his wrecked voice. If she wasn’t mistaken, he’d had his vocal cords scoured. And the way he spoke was odd. Precise. If he was Iranian, it was impossible to tell. His syntax gave nothing away. And his accent? Some words sounded very American. Others had the harsh consonants common in Arabic. And a few had the soft, round vowels of the Romance languages.
“That’s the number to the head of the Revolutionary Guard.” Grafton once again donned his sardonic smile. “I’m told they have ways of making men talk. Maybe they can get you to confess your true identity.”
Angel’s impenetrable mask slipped ever so slightly. A muscle in his jaw twitched as hatred blazed to life in his eyes.
“Who are you?” His tone was so low, so menacing, it sounded like a warning of swift and painful death.
No. Not a warning. A promise.
She rethought his earlier title and renamed him Mr. Tall, Dark, and Deadly.
“You know who I am. I’m Lord Asad Grafton, vice chairman of the Conservative Party and controlling owner of Land Stakes Corporation.”
“No. Who are you really?”
Sonya was tempted to yell, Spider! He’s the infamous Spider! Run! Run away before he catches you in his sticky web!
Grafton’s smile turned positively poisonous. “I’m the man who holds your life in his hands.”
For a few ticks of the clock, the stranger who insisted on being called Angel refused to speak. When he finally did, his gruff voice had gone guttural. “What do you want from me?”
“Ah.” Grafton sat back, looking altogether pleased with himself. “That’s easy. I want you to help me procure the fissile materials needed to build a nuclear weapon.”
Sonya’s jaw unhinged so quickly she was surprised it didn’t hit the floor at her feet.
Chapter 1
Present day…
“You were born with a dagger in your mouth and a warrior’s heart beating in your chest.”
Those were the words the ramsad—the head of Mossad—had said to Angel the night he asked Angel to fake his own death and take over the identity of an Iranian university student. The night the ramsad had asked Angel to choose between the woman he loved and the stability of the world at large. The night the ramsad had explained to Angel that the mission to Iran would likely end with Angel dead, or if Angel did somehow survive, chances were good he would never see his homeland’s glistening, sun-drenched shores again.
Looking out over the expansive back lawn of Grafton’s home, ignoring the array of hulking guards Grafton had tasked with making sure he hadn’t left the premises since that initial fateful meeting, Angel settled more snugly into the lush cushions of the deck chair. He took comfort in knowing friendly eyes were on him.
To show those friendly eyes he was A-okay, he lifted his face toward the weak English sun and studiously turned his thoughts away from the present, letting them drift back to a happier time. To a time when he wasn’t Jamin “Angel” Agassi or Majid Abass, the Prince of Shadows. To a time when he was simply Mark Risa, a wet-behind-the-ears Mossad agent out to make his mark on the world and the spy community by hunting down a Palestinian terrorist responsible for bombing a synagogue in Jerusalem. To a time when an equally wet-behind-the-ears Interpol agent was assigned to help him…
“Excuse me. Are you Mark Risa?”
The voice that met his ears spoke delightfully accented Hebrew and was as smooth and as cultured as the chocolates they sold at Max Brenner back home. He turned his attention from the middle-aged woman walking her dog past the Café Constant on Rue Saint-Dominique and the man with the pencil-thin mustache who watched her from beneath hooded eyes, and looked up at the young woman standing beside his outdoor table. The sun was behind her, haloing her head. Even before he noticed her wide blue eyes, her strawberries-and-cream complexion, and her mischievous half smile, two words flitted through his brain.
Fairy princess.
She moved out of the sun, taking the seat across from him after a polite “May I?” It was then he realized she was anything but ethereal and sprightly. She was a flesh-and-blood woman. One good look at her had his libido sitting up and panting like a dog in the summer heat.
Down boy, he silently admonished as she extended her hand to shake. “I’m Sonya Butler.”
Glancing at their clasped fingers, he noted two things. One, compared to his oversized man paw, her hand looked ridiculously delicate. And two, she wore hot-pink fingernail polish.
Hot-pink fingernail polish? What kind of Interpol agent does that?
Sonya Butler, apparently.
