Page 96 of Locked and Loaded

"At everyone. But yes, especially at me." He didn't elaborate. Armand didn't need the details, and Dragan wasn't sure he could explain them even if he tried. The fight was still too close, too raw. The look on her face when she'd said what happened last night had been a mistake. As if he could unmake it. As if he would want to.

"Give her time," Fontaine said. "She's been through more than most people could handle."

"Time isn't what she wants. She wants information. She wants to be in the loop." He paused. "She wants to be a partner."

"Ah, it is like that. And what do you want? Armand asked.

The question caught him off guard. He looked at Fontaine on the screen and didn't answer, because the answer was too complicated and too simple at the same time. He wanted her safe. He wanted her beside him. He wanted her to stop looking at him like he was one more person who had let her down.

He wanted to be the one person who was there for her, no matter what. And that thought terrified him more than anything else.

Dragan changed the topic of conversation. “We need eyes on some of the people we know will attend the auction.”

“Oui,” Armand agreed, without comment on the topic change. “We will also have our eyes on Leopold Dunleavy, Pierre LaPointe, Dominick Falcone, and, of course, Georgiou. They will all be at the auction. Following their movements will help us find a way in for you.”

Dragan nodded. “I’m still waiting to hear from Enzo Valardi. He may have managed to get me in the door.”

“If not, Eli Fisher is here. He is not wealthy enough to be here to donate, and I’m not sure he can afford the cost of the plate. He was, however, close with Austin Davis, and I believe his tastes run in this direction. I’m quite confident that he will be attending the auction. I also believe he will be able to help us find out who is behind this.”

Dragan frowned. “Then he will know about Lennox and probably me. How will that help me get in?”

“Fisher is a coward. I believe with a bit of applied pressure, he will cave.” Armand’s eyes had gone hard. It was, in fact, the first time Dragan had seen any glimpse of the man that had been the top arms dealer in the world. A moment later the look was gone, and Dragan had wondered if he’d imagined it.

“Okay, so I’ll come to the hotel around seven and get Drake.”

“I will have Alex bring Lennox when they come.” The sound of another phone ringing came across the call. “I must run,” Armand said. “À bientôt.” And he was gone.

Dragan sat back in the chair. The pieces of the puzzle were starting to fall into place. By the end of the night, they should have a clear picture of who is behind this and if Chloe is still alive. With any luck, there would also be a few bodies dropped. Dragan just hoped they didn’t include Lennox.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Lennox ate because she was hungry and because not eating would have been stupid, and she was done being stupid about Dragan Maric.

An hour ago, a soft knock on her door sounded. A woman wearing a maid’s uniform came in carrying a silver tray with a plate of olives and cheeses, crusty bread still warm to the touch, sliced figs drizzled with honey, and a small carafe of cold water beaded with condensation. The woman had set it down on the table by the sofa and then asked if Lennox required anything else. When Lennox declined, she quickly retreated.

After the door closed, Lennox stared at it for a long moment, hating how thoughtful it was, hating that he'd remembered she hadn't eaten since before they left the desert, hating that even in the middle of whatever this was between them, he was still making sure she was fed.

She ate standing up, leaning against the windowsill, watching the Mediterranean glitter in the afternoon sun. The food was good. The water was cold. The villa was beautiful. And she was trapped in it, waiting for a man to decide what information she was allowed to have, what risks she was allowed to take, what version of the truth she was ready to hear.

She wanted to run, to find Georgiou on her own, but the chances of that working were slim. She had no way of knowing where he’d be. The best choice was to go tonight and then do whatever she needed to, Dragan be damned.

Anger had settled into something denser than it had been in the tent. Hotter. More focused. Back in the desert, it had been reactive, a flash fire sparked by the shock of finding out he'd been keeping secrets while she'd been in his bed. Now it was slower, deeper, the kind of burn that had time to build. She'd had the whole helicopter flight to feed it. The silent drive through Maltese streets. The hour alone in this room with nothing but the sea and her own thoughts and the memory of his face when he'd walked out instead of answering her.

He wasn't going to let her go to the event.

She knew it the way she knew the sun was going to set. He'd keep her here, in this beautiful villa with its stone walls and its olive trees, while he went to the gala and did whatever dangerous thing he was planning to do. He'd tell her it was for her safety.

Not this time.

She set the empty plate on the tray and crossed the room to the closet. Not because she expected to find anything useful. Because she needed to move. Restlessness was alive under her skin, the anger pressing against the inside of her ribs like it was trying to get out. She paced the length of the room, barefoot on the cool stone, and rehearsed what she was going to say.

You don't get to bench me.

I'm not your asset. I’m your partner. It’s that or nothing.

If you walk out of this villa without me, I won’t be here when you get back.

The knock came just as she was building up a good head of steam.