But all in all, he was enjoying himself. He was staying in a great hotel, driving a spitfire of a car, and eating French food. After some of the shit holes he’d stayed in during the past ten years, he needed some fun.
Lily was quite a challenge. She was wary and clever, with a streak of recklessness in her, and he never forgot that she was one of the best assassins working in Europe. Never mind that she’d had some pie-in-the-sky ideal about only making sanctioned hits until she’d gone after Salvatore Nervi; he was aware that he couldn’t afford a single misstep around her.
She was also sad, grieving for her friends and the young girl she’d thought of as her own. Swain thought of his own kids, and how he’d feel if one of them was murdered. No way would the murderer escape, or even make it to trial-no matter who it was. He was totally in sympathy with her on that score, not that it changed the final outcome.
He lay in bed that night and thought of her drinking the wine she knew was poisoned, just so Salvatore Nervi would continue drinking it. Damn, she’d skated close to the edge. From what she’d told him about the poison, how potent it was, he knew she’d had a very rough time and was probably still weak. There was no way she could get into that lab on her own, not in her shape, so that was probably why she’d called him. He didn’t care what her reason was; he was just glad she’d done it.
She was beginning to trust him. She’d cried in his arms, and he got the feeling she didn’t often let anyone get that close to her. She gave off a strong DO NOT TOUCH signal, but from what he could tell, that was more out of self-defense than coldness. She wasn’t a cold person at all, just wary.
Maybe he was crazy for being so attracted to her, but, hell, some male spiders willingly let their mates chew their heads off while they are going at it, so he figured he was ahead of the game in that respect: Lily hadn’t killed him yet.
He wanted to know what made her tick, what made her laugh. Yeah, he definitely wanted her to laugh. She looked as if she hadn’t had much fun lately, and a person should always have something to enjoy. He wanted her to relax and drop her guard around him, laugh and tease, make jokes, make love. He’d seen flashes of a dry sense of humor, and he wanted more.
He was well on his way to being obsessed, no doubt about it He might lose his head yet, and die happy.
A gentleman wouldn’t plan the seduction of a woman he’d been sent to take down, but he’d never been a gentleman. He’d grown up a rowdy west Texas shit-kicker, refused to listen to adults who knew better and married Amy when they were both eighteen and fresh out of high school, was a father at nineteen, but he’d never quite got the hang of settling down. He’d never cheated on Amy, because she was a great girl, but he hadn’t exactly been there for her, either. Now that he was older, he was more responsible and felt ashamed of how he’d basically left her to raise their two kids by herself. The best he could say for himself was that he’d supported his family, even after the divorce.
Over the years he’d traveled a lot, become more sophisticated, but good manners and knowing how to order off a menu in three different languages didn’t make a gentleman. He was still rowdy, he still didn’t like rules, and he did like Lily Mansfield. He hadn’t often met women who could hold their own with him, but Lily could; her personality was as forceful as his. She decided what she was going to do and did it, come hell or high water. She had a steel backbone, but at the same time she had a real feminine warmth and tenderness. Finding out everything about her would take a man a lifetime. He didn’t have a lifetime, but he’d take what he could get. He was beginning to think that a few days with Lily would pack more of a punch than ten years with any other woman.
The big question was: What would he do afterward?
Blanc tensed when his phone rang early the next morning. “Who could that be?” his wife asked, annoyed that their breakfast was interrupted.
“It will be the office,” he said, and got up to take the phone outside. He punched the talk button and said, “This is Blanc.”
“Monsieur Blanc.” The voice was smooth and calm, one he had never heard before. “I am Damone Nervi. Do you have the number my brother requested?”
“No names,” Blanc said.
“Of course. This one time it seemed necessary, as we haven’t spoken before. Do you have the number?”
“Not yet. Evidently there is some difficulty-”
“Get it. Today.”
“There is a six-hour time difference. It will be afternoon at the earliest.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Blanc hung up and for a moment stood with his fists clenched. Damn the Nervis! This one spoke better French than the other one, he sounded smoother, but underneath they were all the same: barbarians.
He would have to give them the number, but he would try to impress upon Rodrigo that it would be ill-advised to call the CIA’s man, that it could easily result in both him and his contact being prosecuted. Perhaps not, perhaps the man the CIA had sent didn’t care about who hired him, but that wasn’t something Blanc felt confident about.
He went back inside and looked at his wife, her dark hair still tousled from bed, a robe cinched around her trim waist. She slept in flimsy, low-cut nighties because she knew he liked it, though in the winter she put an extra blanket on her side of the bed because she felt the cold. What if something happened to her? What if Rodrigo Nervi followed through on the threats that had been made years ago? He couldn’t bear it.
He would have to give them the number. He would stall as long as he could, but in the end he had no choice.