Outside, a black Mercedes idles.The driver holds the door open.
“Shall we?”Adrien asks.
Nausea coils low, but I climb in.The sensation low in my belly isn’t just dread.And that’s a problem.There’s no outrunning what I left behind in Monaco.And this time, I’m not the same woman who slipped away before dawn.
ChapterFour
Adrien
I wait until the divider clicks up, enclosing us in silence, before speaking.Alicia said KOAN employs former Special Forces and intelligence officers.My guess was correct—Sophie, or rather Brie Anderson, is former intelligence.That’s why I didn’t make a scene in the meeting.And why, after spending tens of thousands searching for her, I’ll have my answers in private.
She sits composed, hands folded in her lap.No rings, nails cut short and square—the same as Monaco, when she told me it was for the piano.She played beautifully, and at least that detail wasn’t a lie.Her blue eyes flicker, uncertain, and for the first time I see not the woman who vanished, but the operative trained to disappear.
I force myself to look away, but the damage is done.I’ve cataloged her—a habit from years of studying what people want versus what they’ll admit.The way her pulse jumps at her throat.The slight catch in her breathing when I moved closer to close the divider.The tension in her thighs beneath that pristine skirt, muscles coiled as if prepared for fight or flight.
Or something else entirely.
She wants me too.The awareness sears, unwelcome heat in professional cold.I’ve spent years learning to read desire—it’s currency in my world, the foundation of everything people crave.But this isn’t performance.This is the same pull I felt in Monaco, that visceral recognition of mutual hunger.Authentic.Rare.Elusive.
“I owe you an explanation.”
“We are in agreement.”
She lowers her gaze and speaks quietly.“When I met you, I worked for the CIA.”
As I suspected.“Was I your target?”
“No.”Her eyes spear mine, steady and unflinching.“I can’t share details.But when we met, I was compromised.Someone was onto me.You were a man at a bar, nothing more.By engaging with you, I diverted their attention.”
“Ah.So I was cover.The Bond woman to your story?A convenient weekend at the edge of a mission.”
“I’m not sure that’s the Bond girl’s function.”
Sharp, clever.She always was.
“Your name?”I press.“It’s not Sophie.”
“No.That was an alias.”
“And Brie Anderson?”
“My name.”
“No longer using aliases?”
“If the job requires it, I’ll use one.”
“But not this one?”
“It might before it’s over.We don’t know, right?”She cocks her head, those astute eyes studying me, her mind undoubtedly forming questions.“You bought a sex club?”
“It’s an elite social club,” I correct, clipped.“I acquired the New York location three years ago.Expanded to four cities since.Restaurants, luxury travel, private events.”
“That’s a unique spin on a sex club.”
“Social club,” I repeat with pointed emphasis.“We offer private suites that cater to a variety of proclivities.On occasion we host special events that are tasteful,” I tilt my head.“And erotic.We plan exclusive, members-only weekend getaways for members.Let me clear up any confusion—we’re like another Harvard Club.Not all participate in all of our offerings.Many members have never attended a special event or weekend getaway—they use the club for business connections.For some, privacy is a priceless benefit.”
“Did you and your father come to blows?”
