13

He pursed his lips, considering her question. “I know enough to get by, but I’m no expert. Depends on the actual system. I do, however, know some real experts who can tell me anything I need to know.” He paused. “Are you talking about doing something illegal?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, good. I’m feeling more cheerful by the minute.”

If he got any more cheerful, she thought, she’d have to shoot him to protect her own sanity.

He made another turn, looked around, then said thoughtfully, “Do you know where the hell we are?”

Lily turned sideways and swung her legs up in the seat, blocking any move he might make to grab her pistol, then dared a quick glance around. “Yes. At the next traffic signal turn right, then about a mile farther turn left. I’ll tell you when.”

“Where will we be then?”

“At the train station. That’s where you can let me out.”

“Aw, come on. We’ve been getting along so great. Don’t abandon me so soon. I had my hopes up we were going to be partners.”

“Without checking you out?” she asked incredulously.

“I guess that would be stupid.”

“No joke.” Ten minutes with an American and she found herself easily falling back into the vernacular, like putting on comfortable slippers. “Where are you staying? I’ll call you.”

“At the Bristol.” He took the right turn she’d indicated. “Room seven-twelve.”

She lifted her brows. “You rented a Jag, you stay at one of the most expensive hotels in Paris. Your day job must pay well.”

“All of my jobs have paid well, plus I had to have somewhere to park the Jag. Damn. Now I have to rent another car, and I can’t turn this one in yet or I’ll be busted when the damage is reported.”

She glanced back at the broken window, through which cold air was rushing. “Break it out the rest of the way and tell the rental company some punk broke it with a bat.”

“That’ll work, unless someone got the license number.”

“The way you were fishtailing?”

“There is that, but why take the chance? In France you’re assumed guilty unless you can prove otherwise. I’ll just try to stay out of the clutches of the gendarmes, thank you.”

“Your choice,” she said indifferently. “You’re the one who’ll be paying for two rental cars.”

“Don’t sound so sympathetic; I’ll start thinking you care.”

That quip pulled an unwilling smile from her. He didn’t take himself seriously; she didn’t know if that was an asset or a liability, but he was definitely amusing. He’d all but fallen into her lap just when she’d been trying to decide whom she should pull in to help her, so she’d have to be a fool to categorically turn him down. She would check him out, and if there was the slightest hint of Agency or untrustworthiness, then she would simply never contact him. He hadn’t acted as if he’d been hired to kill her; she was beginning to feel easy about that. As for whether or not he was any good, or reliable, that remained to be seen. She couldn’t call her normal source with the Agency and have him investigated, but she knew a couple of shady guys who could find out for her.

She used the short time left before they reached the train station to study him. He was a good-looking man, she noticed with faint surprise; when he’d been talking, that was what she’d paid attention to, not his face. He was tallish, around six-one or so, and lean. His hands were sinewy, long-fingered, ringless, with prominent veins and short, clean nails. His hair was short, brown with gray around his temples; his eyes were blue, much bluer than her own. Lips a bit thin, but well-shaped. Strong chin that stopped just short of being cleft. A noble nose, thin and high-bridged. Except for the gray in his hair, he looked younger than he probably was. She guessed his age to be close to her own, late thirties, possible early forties.

He was dressed the way millions of men on the Continent dressed, nothing that would make him stand out or shout “American,” no Levi’s or Nikes or a sweatshirt imprinted with his favorite professional football team. Instead he wore taupe slacks, a blue shirt, and a great black leather blazer. She envied him that blazer. And his Italian leather loafers were clean and shiny.

If he was newly arrived from South America, he’d adopted the style of the locals pretty fast.

“The next left,” she said as they neared the turn.

He’d also picked up the Parisian style of driving pretty fast, too; he drove with nerve, verve, and reckless abandon. As someone tried to cut him off, she saw that he’d also been fast to pick up some of the local gestures. He was smiling as he cut in front of the other car; a glint in his eyes that said he enjoyed the challenge of Parisian traffic. He was definitely a lunatic.

“How long have you been in Paris?” she asked.

“Three days. Why?”

“Pull over there.” She directed him to the curb in front of the train platform. “You already drive like a native.”

“When you swim with the sharks, you gotta show your teeth so they know you mean business.” He pulled to the curb. “It’s been a pleasure, Ms. . . . ?”

Lily didn’t leap into the opening. Instead she returned her pistol to its holster in her boot and continued the movement, opening the door and sliding out. She leaned in to look at him. “I’ll call you,” she said, then closed the door and strode away.

He wasn’t in a parking slot, so he couldn’t wait to see which train she got on; he had to pull away, and though he looked back, already her blond head was gone from view. He didn’t think she’d pulled a wig out of her pocket and clapped it on, so he assumed she had deliberately lost herself behind some taller passengers.

He could have pushed it, left the car where it was and followed her, but his gut told him that persistence right now wasn’t a smart idea. If he tried to follow her, she would bolt. Let her come to him.

She was going to check him out. Shit. He pulled out his cell phone and made an urgent call stateside so some computer geek could earn his salary and make sure no one could learn anything about Lucas Swain except for some highly edited, and mostly fabricated, details.

That taken care of, Swain put his mind to solving another less pressing problem: the Jag. That window needed to be replaced before he turned it in to the rental company, because he’d been serious about not wanting the French cops to know about him. It wasn’t good politics, and he also had to figure an organization like the Nervis’ would have informants everywhere it mattered, which certainly included the cops.

He loved the Jag, but it would have to go. It was just too damn noticeable. Maybe a Mercedes—no, still too noticeable. A French-made car, then, a Renault or something like that; though, come to think of it, he’d love to drive an Italian sports car. He had to think of the job first, damn it, and Lily might balk at running around with him if he was driving something flashy.

God, he’d almost choked on his coffee when he saw her walking casually into the park as if she weren’t being hunted all over Europe. He’d always been a lucky son of a bitch, and that luck was holding. Forget any fancy computer work, deductive reasoning, shit like that—all he’d had to do was sit down on a bench in a dinky park and she walked up before he’d been there fifteen minutes. Okay, so deductive reasoning had helped him pick out the laboratory complex as the place where she was most likely to show; he was still lucky.

He hadn’t been shot, either, which was damn lucky. Too bad about the Jag. Vinay would say he’d been hotdogging again, and the charge would be true. He liked a little excitement in his life. Vinay would also ask him what the hell he was thinking, playing games like this instead of doing the job he’d been sent to do, but he’d always been curious as well as lucky. He wanted to know what Lily was planning to do, what there was at that laboratory that was so interesting. Besides, she’d got the drop on him.

Strange, but he hadn’t been worried. Lily Mansfield was a hired assassin, and just because she hired out to the good guys didn’t make her any less dangerous. But she hadn’t wanted that old guy in the park to get hurt, and she hadn’t recklessly fired where innocent bystanders could have been hurt—unlike the soccer guys, who had done exactly that. Just because of that, he’d have been inclined to help her even if she hadn’t been his quarry.

He guessed he wouldn’t tell Vinay anything just yet, because Vinay might not understand his letting Lily go without getting any idea of how to get in touch with her again.

In betting that she’d call him in a day or so, he was trusting in human nature. He’d helped her, he’d made her laugh, and he hadn’t done anything threatening. He’d offered to help her further. He’d given her information about himself. The reason she hadn’t put down that damn pistol of hers was that she’d been expecting him to use his weapon on her, and by not even trying to, he’d muddied the waters of suspicion.

She was just good enough, just dangerous enough, that if he made a move too soon, he might end up with some extra ventilation holes, which would spoil his reputation for being lucky. And if he was wrong about her calling him, then he’d have to go back to the boring way of finding people: computers and deductive reasoning.

He spent the rest of the day locating someone who would replace the Jaguar’s side window, then renting another car. He started to get one of the ordinary little Renaults, but at the last moment decided on the Mégane Renault Sport, a hot little turbocharged number with a six-speed transmission. It wasn’t exactly a nondescript car, but he figured there might be another occasion when he needed speed and handling and he didn’t want to get caught a few horses short. The rental office had had a red one that really caught his eye, but he went with the silver. There was no sense in waving a red flag and shouting, “Here I am, look at me!”

He ended up back at the Bristol just as daylight faded completely. He was hungry, but he wasn’t in the mood for company, so he went up to his room and called room service. While he waited for his food to be delivered, he took off his shoes and jacket and flopped on the bed, where he lay staring at the ceiling—he’d done some good thinking while looking at that ceiling—and thinking about Lily Mansfield.

He’d recognized her immediately from the color photo in her file. No photograph, however, could have conveyed the energy and intensity that permeated every move she made. He liked her face, almost thin but strongly structured, with very high cheekbones, that proud nose, and Lord God Almighty, that mouth. Just looking at that mouth gave him a woody. Her eyes were like pieces of blue ice, but her mouth was tender and vulnerable and sexy and a lot of other things he could feel but couldn’t put into words.

He hadn’t been kidding when he told her he hoped she’d jump his bones. If she’d said the word, he’d have had her back here at the Bristol in record time.

He could remember exactly how she’d looked, what she was wearing: dark gray pants with black boots, a blue oxford-cloth shirt, and a dark blue pea jacket. He should probably also commit to memory that when she was wearing those boots, she was armed. Her hair was simply cut, just to her shoulders, and framed her face with long wisps. Even though the pea jacket had hidden most of her figure, from the length and build of her legs, he figured she was on the lean side. She had also looked a little frail, with bluish circles under her eyes, as if she’d been sick or wasn’t getting enough rest.

Having the hots for her wouldn’t make his job any easier; in fact, he felt a little sick at what he had to do. He’d finesse the rules, but he wouldn’t break them. Well, not much. He’d accomplish the job on his own timetable, and if there were a couple of detours along the way, so be it. It wouldn’t hurt to find out what was behind the Joubrans’ murders, who had hired them and why. The Nervis were scum, and if he could get some really nasty goods on them, so much the better.

That would buy him time with Lily. Too bad in the end he’d have to betray her.