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All I want to do is drink in her contradictions.

Now.

Later.

For fucking ever.

I kiss her again, digging my fingers into her soft skin, holding her close, tasting every sweet drop of her.

She sighs as she pulls back.

"What do you think of her?" I shift into a more professional mode, so I’m ready to talk to someone who doesn’t want to get me naked.

"I don’t want to bias your read," she says, matter-of-factly.

She’s not sure how to play this.

But then neither am I.

Can I trust this supposed DGSE agent or is she working for the enemy? It’s best if I figure that out. On my own.

So I nod in agreement, I step into the room, and I take my turn.

At a glance, everything is normal. Camille is in the same place, in that chair. The kitchen is untouched. The room glows from the light of the sun. The air smells of salt.

But something is off. Something I can’t explain.

I push it aside as I greet my former ally. “What did she tell you?”

“What you’d expect.” Camille shrugs, despite the restraints on her wrists and ankles. "I’d say I’m here for her, not you. But somehow I doubt that’ll win me any points.”

I reply the way she expects. “I’m not all that interested in your thoughts on my personal life.”

She tilts her head, trying to figure me out. "I suppose you’re not going to believe I’m really French intelligence?"

"I’m sure you are," I say as I move into the kitchen. Her ultimate loyalty is besides the point, really “But I’m sure you have others allegiances too.”

She has the posture of a criminal. A freedom where others are caged. Because she knows the normal rules don’t apply to her.

"How much of what I said to her did you hear?” she asks.

“Enough.” I move to the table. Drop to my knees next to her. “What do you want with the laptop?”

“DGSE wants it. What they do with it isn’t a concern.”

“I can’t let you go. Jamie will notice.”

She smiles as she pulls her arms apart. No cuffs. “Maybe not.”

A set up. I raise a brow.

She nods. “But under strict instructions not to end your life. Your paramour made that abundantly clear, though she didn’t say if it was for business or pleaure.”

“What’s the difference?” I ask, as if I don’t care either. As if I’m not turned on by the fact she’s here to kill me.

“You don’t sell nonchalant as well as she does,” Camille says. “Your devotion to her is obvious. Especially for someone in your role.”

“Maybe that’s what I want you to believe.”