Page 3 of Dagger’s Shield

He was also my partner in an investigation that began the same day.

What else he was to me was hard to categorize. An admirer? Yes. A suitor? He would be if I allowed it—which I never would. Finally, and this was the worst of it, he was the man who haunted my dreams.

Dagger was the epitome of everything I didn’t want in my life. Not romantically. Saying he was a womanizer was being polite. Manwhore was more accurate.

Even on the morning of the bombing, I’d come out of my room on the second floor of the estate where we’d both been staying to see him exit another operative’s bedroom, freshly showered, and based on their flushed faces, recently post-sexcapades.

I didn’t blame the woman. Dagger made it nearly impossible to resist once he set his sights on a “target.” It worked on everyone I’d seen him charm into bed—except me.

Of course I was attracted to him, but I knew better than to ever let him know it. I’d had a front-row seat to how a man like him could destroy the person who loved him. It happened little by little until there was nothing left. Until the fight was gone and complacency sat in its place. My father had done it to my mother, but they weren’t alone. According to some polls, more than half of married Frenchmen had been unfaithful at least once. Some, like my dad, had probably been unfaithful for most of their married years.

There was little doubt in my mind that Dagger would be the same. He wanted the conquest. After he got it, he lost interest. Other women might be able to continue working with him, seeing him every day, witnessing him move on to his next catch, but I wasn’t built that way.

Since he hadn’t noticed me yet, it gave me a moment to look at him.

He sat with his forearms braced on his thighs and his hands loose between his knees. His long dark hair fell past his shoulders, and a thick beard covered the lower half of his face. Above it, his eyes were a cool pale blue that caught the light off the water. He was handsome, had a phenomenal body, and he didn’t only know it; he used it.

When he turned his head and his gaze found mine, I wished I hadn’t lingered so long.

“Everything okay?” he asked as he scrambled down the huge rock formation.

“Fine. Just taking a walk.”

He stalked toward me with such purpose that I retreated a step. It was instinct, not because I was afraid of him. The man was massive. I was five feet seven, and he towered over me. He had to be twice my weight, and all of it was muscle.

“What are you doing down here on your own?”

I bristled and folded my arms. “Am I on a leash? Are there certain areas of the compound where I am not permitted to tread?”

“What’s going on, Maëlle?” he pressed.

“I wanted to take a walk, so that’s what I did. I do not answer to you, Dagger, and before you even think about lecturing me, I will tell you that I know my own body better than anyone⁠—”

“Not for lack of trying on my part,” he said, taking another step closer.

“Argh. Tu es un sacré connard.”

It wasn’t the first time I’d called him an asshole, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

The bastard chuckled, and when I spun around to leave, pain shot up my leg. Not that I’d let him see it. It would only add fuel to his already overly protective bearing.

“Let me help you.” When he put his hand on my elbow, I jerked my arm away.

“Laisse-moi tranquille—go away. Return to your rock. Better yet, crawl under it.”

Dagger laughed again, and before I realized what was happening, I was in his arms and he was carrying me up the path I’d recently walked down.

“Put me down, putain d’enculé.”

“Now, there’s a phrase I’ve heard before. If I had a franc for every time you called me a fucking motherfucker, I’d own most of your country.”

“You’d own nothing since francs have been worthless for over twenty years.” I could have tried to wriggle free, but it would have been pointless.

When we arrived at the boathouse that served as our command center, he set me on my feet.

“Ready to return to work?” he asked.

I yanked the door open and went in without answering.