He decided to like her in that instant. She wasn’t trying to prove how tough she was or how serious she was. Those hot-pink fingernails said, I can be young and vibrant and still catch the bad guys. Screw you if you don’t believe me.
“Should we go somewhere to talk?” When she glanced around the busy café and the bustling Parisian sidewalk, he studied her graceful profile and the cascade of her honey-blond hair. She was, in a word, stunning. Not beautiful, per se. Her cheeks were a little too full, her nose a little too thin. But the twin sparks of intelligence and humor in her eyes, not to mention her lush mouth, were enough to stop a man in his tracks.
Turning back to him, she frowned and asked, still in Hebrew, “You are Mark Risa, yes?”
He realized he hadn’t spoken a word since she’d arrived.
“Sorry.” He popped his jaw, trying to relieve the tension in his face while simultaneously gathering his wayward thoughts into order. “Yes. I’m Mark Risa. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sonya.”
Her half smile returned, and he felt it like a punch in the gut.
How unfortunate.
This was his chance to make the ramsad proud, to prove the man hadn’t been wrong to recruit him straight out of the army and train him to be one of the world’s most elite spies. He needed to focus on the mission, not the delicate line of Sonya’s neck or the too-fast pulse beating next to the collar of her creamy blouse.
“We have a few things to talk about.” She tapped the file folder under her arm, her blue eyes crinkling at the corners as if she could read his thoughts.
God, please don’t let her read my thoughts.
“Right.” He stood and motioned for her to follow him to an alley arrowing around the side of the building. A set of exterior stairs showed the way to a second-floor flat—one of the many safe houses the Mossad kept around the world. He took the lead on the steps, not trusting himself with a view of her ass in those tight-fitting black trousers.
“You have a lovely accent.” He fumbled with the lock. Her presence behind him on the narrow landing—not to the mention the smell of her, all fresh and sweet like freesia and apricot blossoms—made his heart pound. “Where did you learn Hebrew?”
“My father was a diplomat in Jerusalem for two years, and languages have always come easily to me. Which made the jump from diplomat’s kid to Interpol agent a no-brainer.”
“How many languages do you speak?” When he glanced over his shoulder, he dragged in a startled breath to find her close behind him. Close enough to touch if he wanted to.
Oh, I want to!
He didn’t believe in love at first sight. But she’d proven lust at first sight was a scientific certainty. Or at least a biological one.
“Five,” she said.
“Pardon?”
“Five languages.” Again, the corners of her blue eyes crinkled. No. Not blue. Up close, he could see they were actually some color between blue and gray. A soft, gentle hue that contrasted starkly with those hot-pink fingernails.
“Five, huh?” He shook his head, silently laughing at himself for being such a cliché, for being the guy who couldn’t hold a thought in his head for more than a second when an attractive woman waltzed into his sphere. If my ramsad could see me now, he’d blister my ears with curses… “That’s one more than me.”
“You speak four languages?” She canted her head. “Parlez-vous français?”
“No French. Only Hebrew, Arabic, English, and a little Yiddish.”
“Three in common ain’t bad.” She’d switched to English, and the slang made him grin. “No chance we’ll suffer a failure to communicate.”
He spoke in English as well. “Don’t tell me you speak Yiddish.”
She laughed. It was a low, husky sound that had goose bumps rippling over his skin. “No Yiddish, unfortunately. But I do speak Arabic. I lived in Jordan for three years while my father did a stint at the embassy in Amman.”
Pushing past him when he finally managed to unlock the door, she didn’t hesitate to make herself at home. He liked that about her too. She pulled out a chair at the tiny bistro table fitted into the corner of the kitchen. The window was open, and the smell of the fresh herbs growing in a window box next door drifted around them.
When she set her purse and the file folder on the table, he caught a glimpse of the corner of a hardcover book peeking from the top flap of her handbag. What would a woman like her be reading? he wondered. Then she distracted him when she opened the folder and slid the top sheet of paper toward him. “Do you prefer English, Hebrew, or Arabic?” She was still speaking English.
“Dealer’s choice.”
“English it is.” She beamed, looking right into his eyes. “Your accent is lovely too.”
Before that sentence could sink in, she sobered and added, “This is all the information the Préfecture de police de Paris could find on your target. I’ll continue to work with them to facilitate whatever you need from here on out, but for now, this is what you have to go on.”
