Page 77 of Bared

Instead of dessert, he promised his synapses something better, perhaps to the tune of a double whisky, when they were done with this party. Wasn’t the same as one of his friendly little pills, but he’d only brought one with him at the beginning of the day and burned through it before connecting with Oz and Fox. The rest of the happy little fuckers were having a party of their own back in his room at the Ritz, where he didn’t dare take Jayd tonight. If he were Trystan Carris and doing a kick-ass job of underestimating Jayd, as the guy probably was, the city’s elegant icon would top the list of his stalking locations.

But for the next hour—maybe less, if he was lucky—it was his job to stay watchful, diligent, dauntless, calm. For now, panic couldn’t be an operative word in his vocabulary.

Especially when his first priority was keeping up with a hyperkinetic sprite.

“JD.” He’d deemed the initials necessary for addressing her in public, just in case someone recognized her. Thankfully, no one had even sniffed her direction yet. “This isn’t a timed treasure hunt, okay?”

“Says who?” It was only half a joke, as her searching gaze and chilled handclasp told him. Nervously, she tugged him one way and then the next in front of the concrete riser at the plaza’s center, until he brought her to a firm stop by gently twisting her fingers.

“Says me.” He scooped an arm around her waist and secured her back to his front. He pulled her in even closer before sneaking an affectionate kiss to her nape. For one wonderful second, he closed his eyes and pretended they were just another pair of lovers out in the City of Light. He mentally changed his name to Pierre, and hers to Giselle.

A blast of Halsey from the open disco doors crashed him back to reality. Though he scowled and straightened, he thanked fate for the wake-up. This was no time for quixotic fantasy.

This was time for being watchful. Diligent. Dauntless.

Calm.

So far, so good. He practically preened, acknowledging the controlled thrum of his heart rate and the steady steel of his gaze. He hadn’t felt more present or alert for a mission since the early days, before the spec ops fun had turned into the black ops gore. But he wasn’t delusional. This wasn’t a happy patrol through Baghdad or Kabul. He wasn’t here to play guardian angel for the recon guys. This was a much different gig, in which he was already two strikes down for advantages. One, he was only packing a boot knife and a borrowed meat tenderizer from the safe house’s kitchen. Two, he wasn’t keeping the sweep for a couple of trained soldiers who’d know what to do if they were ambushed. The princess, with her default of instant trust and her obsession with LaBarre, remained a prime candidate for predatory dickbags.

Not on his watch.

Contingent, of course, on him keeping pace with the woman.

How the hell was such a diminutive thing capable of going Mach 5 in those stilt boots? Every step she took was a new attack on Brick’s soldier Zen. If they got through this without her taking a faceplant on the pavement, he might start believing in miracles again.

The great cyberspace gods must have read his mind, because Jayd halted the second her back pocket buzzed. She had to tug a little to get the device out, which gave Brick the ideal excuse to ogle her ass a little longer. He wasn’t a shred sorry. This woman’s pert backside belonged in the Louvre. Better yet, in his greedy hands.

Another explosion of music from the disco. Another reality blast for his brain. He took advantage of the mental reboot, ignoring flirty flashes from one of the Moulin dancers, before stepping up next to Jayd.

“Papa LaBarre?”

The question was practically rhetorical. Jayd nodded without lifting her sights from the screen.

“He says he is here,” she rushed out, breathy with excitement. “He is at the pub on the corner of Clichy and Avenue Rachel.”

“Down there?” He stabbed a finger down the street, past the Moulin’s big red planters and famous windmill. His scowl earned him a similarly stubborn stare from the princess.

“It is but another block, Brickham,” she stated softly. “But we did walk several of them to get here, after all the chaos of today.” She turned and placed a tender hand over his chest. “I do understand if you are tired and need to take a—”

“I’m not tired,” he growled, pushing aside what her compassion did to him. He almost wished she’d have gone straight to pity mode. That shit would’ve rankled him to the point of macho-stupid bravado, and he’d be already leading the way down the boulevard to the pub. “I’m fucking jumpy. You told him to meet you here.”

“So you think that a block’s difference adds up to a conspiracy?” Jayd snapped. “Or could it be as simple as him knowing the place and wanting to have a comfortable environment to welcome me in?”

Before she was done, Brick was snorting through his ire. Even after what had happened in the Particulier’s alley, the woman was openly campaigning for the lost lamb of the year award. She wanted this meeting to happen so badly, she’d follow any shepherd who promised it. Yep, even over a damn cliff.

Which meant, even if a bunch of her beloved saints flew in to back him up, he wasn’t going to win this little skirmish.

“Let’s go,” he grumbled, grabbing her hand with a brisk swoop. His gait was defined by the same raging resignation, but Jayd kept up without argument. It took gritted effort to stay focused on their path up the street, including all the nooks and crannies in which Carris could be hiding, instead of the woman’s resilience in matching his steps. He’d bet his left testicle that she looked damn fine doing it too. Those impossibly high heels, carrying those incredibly curvy legs…

Focus, asshole.

Nooks. Crannies. Alleys. Doorways.

Focus!

He kept them to the wide sidewalk in the center of Clichy’s median, where he could at least cross alleys and doorways off his checklist. He also didn’t have to worry about the tacky tourist gift stores that lined the street, either—though a couple of kinky toy boutiques certainly caught the corner of his eye. He was in paranoid recon mode, not masquerading as a monk. Thank God for that tiny favor from fate. But under any other circumstances…

But this wasn’t any other circumstances.