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It warms my chest either way.
We stay in our banter for a moment, then he shifts back to the agent who needs something from a colleague. “Tell me something about your organization. Something I can use. That’s how you can earn my trust.”
“What about my trust?” I ask, bringing the drink to my nose. No bitter almond scent. GHB’s more likely anyway.
“I’m not going to drug you,” he says.
“Not after the sex tape thing made you look like a predator?” I ask, arching an eyebrow.
He shrugs yes, of course. “I did it because I know it turns you on. To know I’m watching you.”
“Of course. Why do you think I always wear a skirt when I’m in Zurich?”
“You don’t.” He frowns, as he realizes he’s stepped into the trap. Shakes his head, scolding himself for admitting he spies on my Swiss bank activity.
Pride rises in my chest. He can’t get me out of his head either. Ha.
His eyes go to mine. “Why do you still use this alias, if you know I’m watching?”
“It’s all I have of you. I can’t give it up.” Okay, that’s a little heavy-handed, for a mercenary, but I go with it anyway. I can be here for work and miss him. That’s plausible.
I hold his gaze as I take a sip. Lime. Juniper. Quinine. Sugar. The mix of flavors brings me right back to our time together. The nights in the West End. The afternoons on the beach in Barcelona. The taste of mint on his lips.
The next sip is better. The sugar hits my tongue just right. “I can’t go back to your hotel room. Not after last time.”
“Too bad,” he replies. “I was looking forward to finishing the video.” Something in his tone shifts. Gets low and needy.
He looks me up and down.
He undresses me with his eyes.
But not like Tommy did. This is different. He sees deeper. He wants all of me.
My thighs flush.
My cheeks too.
“There’s a church across the street,” I say. “The priest is here gambling. It’ll be empty for the next hour or two.”
“You want to fuck me in a church?”
“You don’t?”
Chapter
Eight
JAMIE
The church is as grand as any in Rome. High ceilings, stained glass windows, thick wooden pews, an empty confessional, and Christ on the cross, dead for my sins.
A waste, in my case. But maybe he brings Matteo some comfort.
My ex-boyfriend meets me at the pulpit. No words. Just action and the soft orange glow of sunset warming the candy-colored stained glass.
He pats me down, starting with my shoulders, moving to my back, waist, hips, ass, thighs, calves.
He rolls up my jeans and finds the switchblade strapped to my ankle. Without any tenderness, he removes it. Places it gently on the wooden floor, just within reach.
