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She hadn’t come down from her first powerful climax when the second hit her body. She held on to him, head thrown back, eyes closed, holding on to him as wave after wave of pleasure ripped through her body, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer, but the sight of her, the feel of her caught up in her climax was almost better than his own.
He pulled her legs up higher around his hips, pushing in deeper still, and she made a quiet noise, one of both pain and pleasure, and he knew she was finally ready, he was finally ready, as her fingers curled onto his shoulders…
And then she started to pull her hands away, and he knew she was thinking about the scratch marks on his back, and he could feel her begin to retreat.
He caught her hands, curled them and pulled them onto his back, raking down his skin.
And she was lost. He could feel her shattering in his arms, and then he was with her, torn in a thousand pieces, holding on to her as he spilled deep inside her, an endless release that took everything, everything from him.
He was too heavy for her, but he knew he had no strength left to support himself, so with his last bit of power he pulled free, rolling to his side and taking her with him, keeping her tight within the circle of his arms as he held her.
They were both shaking. It was small solace, he thought as his mind slowly returned from that bright, treacherous place. He already knew he was lost. He’d hoped to keep some part of himself safe, but the moment he’d kissed her, the moment he’d come for her, the first moment he’d seen her standing in Harry’s salon with a stick up her ass, he knew it was going to be like this.
He’d be better off dead.
He wasn’t the kind of man who could love a woman, live with one, not one he cared about. He was made to be alone, with no connections and no strings. It was the only safe way to be, even if in the end it killed you.
Bastien was the only one he knew who’d been able to escape. But he was the rare exception—people who’d been chosen by the Committee were made for a different kind of life. No home and hearth and babies. Just cold solitude and deadly efficiency.
And while he was lying there angsting, she’d fallen asleep, her body totally relaxed for the first time he’d known her. There were no stray signs of worry in her peaceful face, no unconscious clenching of her fists. She lay sprawled in glorious, naked sleep in the circle of his arms, as if she belonged there.
Maybe she did, but he doubted it. It could kill her. But that wasn’t anything he could think about, not now. Right now he was going to spend exactly one hour thinking about absolutely nothing at all except the utter peace that had spread through his body, the kind of peace he might never have again.
And he closed his eyes, pressed his lips against her unlined forehead and fell asleep.
Isobel Lambert leaned back in her chair, staring at the tiny screen in her communications device. She could still imagine Harry Van Dorn’s smug, smirking image, and if she had the choice she would have smashed it. She had no choice.
The ultimatum was clear. Genevieve Spenser was to be handed over thirty six hours from now, on April 19th, put into Harry Van Dorn’s hands. He hadn’t bothered to spell out the alternative—he didn’t need to. Van Dorn was too powerful to circumvent in such a short period of time, and he didn’t bluff. They had no choice but to be prepared to make some kind of exchange. Unfortunately it was too late for Takashi.
Van Dorn had found the Committee when their very existence was under such deep cover that no one had broken it in years. If he could get a message directly to Isobel, he could do almost anything, and they needed to be prepared. It was the best chance to stop him for good.
Madame Lambert set the communications device back in its holder. Her hand was shaking, and she could only be glad no one was around to see it. She worked very hard on her image of unruffled strength, and she didn’t want anyone to have an inkling that beneath her perfect exterior she was human after all.
The answer from Peter Madsen hadn’t come in yet, perhaps he hadn’t even gotten the message yet, but she knew what that answer would be. Brief, to the point. One word, yes, to the awful, necessary thing she was asking. Not that she expected any other answer. They both knew there was no alternative, or she wouldn’t be asking. They both knew it had to be done.
She kept a pack of cigarettes in the top drawer of her desk as a reminder of her iron will. She’d given up smoking seven years ago, but each month she replaced that untouched pack of cigarettes with a fresh one, to remind herself that she could go back at any time.
She opened the drawer, pulled out the cigarettes and lit one, drawing the tobacco deep into her lungs with remembered pleasure. It never did leave you, she thought, that need for a cigarette. And it was always waiting for a moment of vulnerability, and then you were hooked again.
Too damn bad.
She moved back to the computer screen, punched in a few buttons and brought up Genevieve Spenser’s file. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d sent someone to their death, but it had always been someone who’d signed on for it, who knew the dangers and risks and chosen to accept them.
She’d never forced it on an unwilling participant.
She had no doubt that the woman would agree. She had no chance of ever being safe, being free, if she didn’t. And besides, she would do anything Peter asked of her, she knew it with the instincts that had brought her to the very pinnacle of her dangerous profession. Genevieve Spenser was madly, hopelessly in love with Peter Madsen, and if he asked her to walk unarmed into a pitched battle, she’d do it. And if she balked, he’d talk her into it.
She wasn’t as sure about Peter. She’d known him for many years, and never seen him connect to anyone outside the Committee. He kept himself on ice, away from entanglements—even his short marriage had been cold and sterile, acc
ording to the operative they’d sent in as a marriage counselor. Peter didn’t know about that, and if he did he probably wouldn’t care. He knew how things were done. Which is why he would let Genevieve Spenser go straight into danger. Because it had to be done.
Isobel Lambert refused to consider what might happen if the woman didn’t survive. She’d already lost one of her best operatives—at least Bastien had somehow managed to carve himself a good life. If this latest venture fell apart, Peter Madsen wouldn’t be so lucky.
The plan had to work. There was no other choice. Genevieve Spenser had to put herself in Harry Van Dorn’s sadistic hands.
If Isobel Lambert believed in God, she would have offered up a little prayer. As it was, she simply lit another cigarette and stared out the window.
And then she picked up the phone once more.
