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Then everything shifts, and she’s after something else. "I just need to know one thing.”

I match her tone. "Anything.”

"Do we actually have time for this?" she asks.

“How could we ever have enough?”

She releases me and brings her hand to my neck. “Matteo.” Her fingertips dig into my skin. Then it’s the sharp pierce of her nails. “Are you really going to make me ask?” She digs harder.

The pain feels so fucking good.

I cup her ass, pulling her body into mine.

All her soft parts are against my hard ones.

She looks up at me, with that strange mix of craving and control, and she asks, “did you call the police?"

"You didn’t have to ask, Jamie. You know the answer to that."

"Fuck, Mattie. You couldn’t leave me an hour to have my way with you?"

Her eyelids flutter closed and she pulls me into a slow, deep kiss.

Her tongue swirls around mine.

Mine swirls right back.

She still tastes so good. Like oranges and danger and Jamie.

For that one perfect moment, we’re some old version of ourselves.

Then she releases me and we’re back to rivals.

And whatever else we are.

She shrugs off her robe and moves into the bedroom with her usual no-nonsense focus and intensity. The side of her I only saw when she wrote. A woman who’s all self-mastery, even as she plays.

My head tries to stay in that vision, but my eyes stay on her soft curves.

I need to get more information from her. What is it she wants from me?

Do her boss’s aims end in heartbreak or body bags?

But she stays quiet as she slides into an emerald sundress and steps into white block sandals. No underwear. I see the outline of her folds as she bends to grab her go-bag.

She stands and turns to me. "I need your help. And you need mine.”

No. There’s nothing she needs from me. I hold her stare.

"With a job. I need access to a party. I’ll make it worth your while,” she says.

“You want me to help you kill someone?”

“You work for Mi6, Matteo. What do you think your organization does all day, plant daisies?”

The argument we have in my head. Maybe I do know her. Or maybe she knows me.

I don’t concede the point. I stare back.