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“Good God, you want me to whore for you?” she asked incredulously, dark eyes narrowing in dangerous warning.
“Of course not,” he snapped. No way in hell would he let Ronsard, or anyone else, have her. “I want you to get an invitation to his villa so you can put a bug in his office.”
“There are probably a thousand people in this city alone who could do that. You don’t need me.”
“I need you. Of those thousand people who could do the work, how many of them are women, because I can guarantee you no guy is going to catch Ronsard’s interest and get invited to his villa. How many? Twenty, maybe? Say a hundred. Ronsard is thirty-five; how many women out of that hundred are roughly his age? And out of that number, how many of them are as attractive as you?”
She jerked on her wrists. John merely tightened his hold, while taking care not to hurt her. She was so close he could see the velvety texture of her skin. “You speak French—”
“I’m rusty.”
“You’d pick it up again in no time. I need someone who’s young, pretty, speaks the language, and has the skill. You meet all the qualifications.”
“Get someone else!” she said furiously. “Don’t try to tell me you couldn’t find a contract agent who met all your criteria, someone who wouldn’t know your real name. You make it sound like I’m some Mata Hari, but I’ve never done any undercover work at all. I’d probably get us both killed—”
“No you wouldn’t. You’ve been on other ops—”
“Five years ago. And I just did technical stuff, not any role-playing.” She added coldly, “That’s your forte.”
He let the slam roll off his back. After all, she was right. “I need you,” he repeated. “Just this once.”
“This once until something else comes up and you decide you ’need’ me again.”
“Niema . . .” He rubbed his thumbs over the insides of her wrists in a subtle caress, then released her and stepped away to pick up his coffee cup. He had pushed her enough physically; now was the time to back off and give her back control of herself, so she wouldn’t feel as threatened. “I’ve seen you work. You’re fast, you’re good, and you can build a transmitter from pieces of junk. You’re perfect for the job.”
“I went to pieces on the last job.”
“You had just heard your husband die.” He didn’t mince words and saw her flinch. “You’re allowed to be a little shell-shocked. And you kept up anyway; we didn’t have to carry you.”
She turned away, absently rubbing her wrists.
“Please.”
Of all the words he could have used, that was the least expected. He saw her spine stiffen. “Don’t try to sweet-talk me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured.
“You’re so damn sneaky. I knew it the first time I saw you. You maneuver and manipulate and—” She stopped, and turned back to face him. Her throat worked, and her big dark eyes looked haunted. “Damn you,” she whispered.
He was silent, letting the lure entice her. Danger was as addictive as any drug. Firemen, cops, special forces personnel, field operatives, even the emergency department staff in hospitals—they all knew the
rush, the incredible thrill when your senses are heightened and your skin feels as if it won’t be able to contain all the energy pulsing through your muscles. SWAT teams, DEA agents—they were adrenaline junkies. So was he. And so was Niema.
He did what he did partly because he loved his country, and someone had to be in the sewers taking care of the shit, but also because he loved walking on the knife edge of danger, continually poised on the brink of disaster, with only his skill and his wits to keep him alive. Niema was no different. She wanted to be, but she wasn’t.
“Do you know how prevalent terrorism is?” he asked conversationally. “It isn’t something that happens in other countries; it happens here, all the time. Flight 183 is just the latest episode. In 1970, Orlando, Florida, was threatened with a nuclear device if it didn’t cough up a million bucks. In 1977, Hanafi Muslims took hostages in the D.C. City Council offices, and a couple of other places. In 1985, the FBI caught three Sikh Indians sent over here with a list of assassination targets. There was the World Trade Center bombing. Lockerbie, Scotland. Hell, I could give you a list three feet long.”
She bent her head, but he had her undivided attention.
“We catch most explosives because of the detonator, not the explosive itself. If the bastards have come up with an explosive that begins as a stable compound, then degrades and becomes unstable and detonates, we have a big problem. One bridge taken out can foul shipping over the entire eastern seaboard. A blown dam threatens our entire power grid. Airplanes are particularly vulnerable. So I need to find out where the stuff is being manufactured, and Ronsard is my best bet. I’ll find out some other way, eventually, but how many people will die in the meantime?”
She still didn’t respond. He said briskly, as if she had already agreed to work with him, “I’ll be there under a different cover, using an identity I’ve been building for quite a while. I would take you in with me as an assistant or a girlfriend, but Ronsard doesn’t issue ’invitee and guest’ invitations. You have to get invited in separately.”
“No. I won’t do it.”
“Once we’re in, I’ll have Ronsard introduce us. I’ll pretend to be smitten. That’ll give us an excuse to be together.”
She shook her head. “I’m not going to do it.”
