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“Should have known you’d find a bottle of Knob Creek, even in Paris,” Killian said.
Cain poured them both a glass of his favorite liquor.
“She’s really okay?” Killian asked.
“Yeah. Took a few years off my life, then she turned up at the door, barefoot and soaked.” Cain knocked back some bourbon. “She jumped off a fucking bridge into the Seine.”
“Fuck.” Killian sipped his drink. “Sounds like Hex.”
“It’snothappening again,” Cain said.
Killian watched him for a beat, then nodded.
Cain swirled his drink, the amber fluid sticking to the crystal. “I want to know who the fuck is responsible for taking her.”
He saw that his dark tone made Killian pause. “You know the CIA brass frowns on revenge.”
Cain snorted. “They do not. We find these assholes, they’re mine.”
“I want to help.”
“Deal.” Cain held his glass out.
Killian clinked his against it.
“You boys ready?”
Devyn’s voice made them both turn.
Devyn was now dressed in a slinky column of black, her hair a wild cloud of red around her shoulders. Jet was beside her in a tiny slip of purple he thought she’d call a dress. It was short, with a flirty skirt, and tiny straps.
Fuck me. Cain fought back his erection. Her lips were bright kiss-me red. She smiled at him. No, bright let-me-suck-your-cock red.
“Let’s go,” he growled. The sooner they got this done, the sooner he got her back here.
* * *
L’Arc hadan upscale but edgy interior, with hints of luxury and elegance. Situated right near the Arc de Triomphe, it was the premier club in Paris. It not only had a dance floor, but an upscale bar, elegant dinner club, an outdoor terrace covered in lush plants, and a VIP area.
Cain had been here once before. Each area had its own décor and lighting. Tonight, the packed dance floor was awash in purple light and filled with generated smoke, as music throbbed loudly. The restaurant and VIP area were both quieter, with a grander elegance. They entered the main bar, which was lit up in blue and pink. Bartenders were busy making drinks at the long, glowing bar.
Killian ordered drinks and handed them out. They found an empty booth and sat.
“Who’s the contact?” Jet sipped her glass of champagne.
“An old friend,” Killian said from across the table. “Former DGSE. Laurent Allaire.”
Direction générale de la Sécurité extérieure. France’s foreign intelligence agency.
“I seem to recall he had the hots for Devyn,” Cain said.
He watched a muscle tick in Killian’s jaw.
Devyn shot Cain a look, then leaned over and whispered in Killian’s ear. The man relaxed, then kissed her lips.
It was no tame, sweet kiss, either.
Cain saw Jet watching them. Then she glanced at him.
