An Affair of Vengeance (12 page)

With a smile, the big man said, “Welcome to Avarice.”

McCrea stepped through the doorway into a dark abyss. As his eyes adjusted to the flashing blue light, he realized that the enormous factory had been hollowed and reshaped into something that could only be described as futuristic.

While he endeavored to create a mental map of the labyrinthine place, a young man approached and identified himself as club manager. His gaze followed McCrea’s up, where a maze of interconnecting staircases wound organically through the air to various observation levels, each with its own private bar. “Would you like to sit with a view of the dance floor?”

“Yes, but in the back, on a lower level, away from the crowd, facing the entrance and floor. By a side door, if possible.”

The manager didn’t flinch, undoubtedly familiar with demanding clients. He led the way to the back of the room and up a few steps to an empty booth in the exact position that McCrea had described. McCrea shook his hand, discreetly slipping him a high-value bill in the process.

“What will you be drinking?”

“Plate of bread with your best scotch, no rocks, no water.”

“Of course,” he repeated, and swiftly walked back into the depths of his club to deliver the order.

McCrea sat and observed. While the scene outside had been decidedly street, inside, the vibe was all about the money. Representatives of Europe’s party elite collected in every corner.

Rail-thin runway models perched like parrots on the laps of aristocratic sons of state. Famous football stars bought drinks for the underage daughters of known criminals. Their daddies were too busy entertaining silver-haired politicians to care, although bodyguards with ball-bearing eyes cataloged every move. The smell of alcohol and cigarettes combined with the perfume of smoking sandalwood to make an exotic, vaguely nauseating bouquet.

He leaned back into the dark leather booth to keep his face out of the light. Flirtatious beauties paraded past his seat. Some attempted to sit down, but he dismissed all with waves of his hand. He ate his bread, found it edible enough, and then drank his first, then second, then third tumbler of whiskey. Soon he lost count and switched to beer.

The DJ shifted the endless, pulsing music between British electronica, French rap, and Spanish salsa. It droned on like white noise to McCrea. The hours ticked by, but Ménellier was nowhere to be seen, so just before midnight, he shot the man a stern text and signaled to the waitress to bring his final tab. He cast his eyes across the dance floor one last time.

And saw Evangeline.

There was no doubt it was she, though she’d changed clothes, lined her eyes with heavy black pencil, and wound her hair into a mass of curls on top of her head. A few inky coils framed her face, which took on the translucent blue of fine porcelain under the flashing lights. Her red dress didn’t show much skin, but the silky fabric clung to her body, caressing her curves as she swiveled to a Latin rhythm.

What in the hell was she doing here?

He swallowed the last of his beer and tried to look away. He’d failed. Damn his weakness, but in motion, that girl was the most compelling creature he’d ever laid eyes on. It was in the way she moved. Sure, she had a pretty face and tight body, but she was also short, small breasted, and had that funny downturned
mouth. Scores of the models and actresses in the club would look better in a photograph than this dancing enigma. Yet every eye was on her. Why?

He sat back down to try to understand her power.

She moved smoothly, but with a sharpness and precision that differentiated her from the thrashing crowd. Though her motion appeared to be instinctive and unpremeditated, her gyrations had a definite pattern. She knew what she was doing, whether consciously or not, and probably had been dancing since she could walk. As she rotated her torso in what looked like a samba roll, her half-lidded eyes and blissful smile told him she wasn’t dancing for anyone’s approval. She danced to please herself, but McCrea imagined her moving in that seductive way just for him, and his heart pounded. He wished for another drink.

He guessed he wasn’t the only man to be thrilled by the experience of watching her dance. She was alone for the moment, granted a tiny circle of space by her fellow dancers. Some of them hardly danced themselves as they watched her move, but she existed in a world of her own, oblivious to their stares. As he watched, she closed her eyes. Was it bliss that she felt? Her delicate mouth fell open ever so slightly, and he felt the unmistakable urge to kiss her again.

“Monsieur?” A woman’s voice. Someone tapped McCrea’s shoulder.

“What?” he snapped, embarrassed to be seen in public so obviously enraptured. He must look like a fish out of water, with his mouth gaping and eyes bulging. It was stupid, even deadly, for him to lose track of his environment. Anyone could have sneaked up on him while he salivated over that bloody dancing girl.

“Your bill?” The cocktail girl’s bright green eyes were wide with trepidation.

He didn’t care if he’d scared her. “No. Another scotch. Quickly.”

She nodded and scurried away.

McCrea scowled at the dance floor and slapped the table with his palm at what he saw.

Serge Penard snaked his way through the throng, heading in Evangeline’s direction. The man’s pinched black eyes were trained on the swivel-hipped girl with the Cleopatra makeup. Judging from the hungry way he sucked at his thick bottom lip, only one sort of thought filled his simple mind.

Evangeline wouldn’t be alone for long, but her back was to Penard. She didn’t know that a wolf approached. She still danced for herself.

Then she looked up, caught his eye. And smiled.

McCrea’s blood boiled. Had she come here chasing him, or Penard? He couldn’t think how she’d known he’d be here tonight, unless she’d listened to his conversation with Ménellier. Impossible. But he equally couldn’t see her actually wanting to spend time with Penard.

Unless Penard was on the CIA’s payroll, or heading for it.

Shit, that might be it. She must be working Penard, too. Hedging her bets.

He dropped to his seat, stunned, and watched. He’d be able to tell from her interaction with Penard whether their relationship was business, personal, or entirely one-sided.

Without a greeting, Penard grabbed Evangeline from behind and pulled her close. He crushed his hips into the small of her back in a gyrating pattern that he surely intended to be erotic, but her expression froze on her face. Displeased? McCrea thought so. But then she smiled, showing her canines, and turned to face the animal. She wrapped her wrists around his wide neck, never dropping a beat, but keeping him at arm’s distance.

They had a professional relationship, McCrea guessed, at least from her point of view. Penard was her informant, or she hoped he soon would be.

Penard’s hands slithered up and down her torso, finally resting on the firm rise of her butt. She let him. Just as she’d let McCrea touch her just a few hours before.

McCrea didn’t want to watch anymore. He tossed back the rest of his scotch, the alcohol no longer detectable by his halfnumb tongue. He tortured himself with one last glance at the pair on the dance floor, just in time to see Penard lean in to kiss Evangeline’s neck. She tossed back her head, and his lips found her jugular. He suckled, looking more like a vampire than a lover. Her too-wide smile vanished. She submitted to the treatment, her eyes open and vacant as she stared at the ceiling. McCrea thought that she looked upset, but wouldn’t allow himself to care. She was a professional doing her job, and he wouldn’t get in her way, as long as she stayed out of his.

He stood, telling himself he wouldn’t look back.

But sharp, unmusical movement on the dance floor drew his attention.

Penard held Evangeline’s tiny wrists firmly behind her back with one hand. His face was an inch from hers as he spoke—no,
yelled
at her, his face growing redder by the second. She grimaced as she struggled to free herself, but the wolf held fast, his heavily muscled arms barely even flexing as she thrashed against him.

It was more than McCrea could bear. What sort of man was he if he let a woman—any woman, let alone one of his acquaintance—be manhandled in such a manner?

But before he could act, her mouth twisted into a bitter smile.

With professional effectiveness, she stomped on the meat of Penard’s foot with her stiletto. He released her with a howl, and she used the chance to punch him hard in his solar plexus, exactly where he’d be most vulnerable, followed by a sharp elbow to his chin. It was a quick one-two-three, the sort of thing the average woman wouldn’t be able to do in a real-life situation without a bit of practice.

Evangeline had just proved that she wasn’t an average woman.

Penard’s head snapped back and his eyes popped. Air was expelled from his lungs in a visible gasp. He buckled over, clutching his midsection. Raven-haired Evangeline stood over him, her fists clenched and her body tensed in a ready stance that looked both instinctive and intentional.

McCrea grinned. She could handle herself, and it was beautiful to see. He knew the attack must have hurt like hell, and he didn’t mind watching Penard get a dose of his own vicious medicine. But that aggressive combo wasn’t what a woman would be likely to learn at a weekend self-defense course.

Nope. Whoever this girl was, she was well trained and pissed off.

Satisfied that she’d gotten the situation back under control, McCrea thought of leaving, but then Penard, wheezing, reached under his jacket to where McCrea guessed he kept his gun.

T
HE THREAT OF
gun violence in a packed club changed everything. Evangeline could handle herself, but McCrea couldn’t count on her disarming Penard before he hurt a civilian.

McCrea leaped over the short railing and hit the dance floor in a loping sprint. The loose crowd cleared a path. His long stride covered the distance to the scene in two seconds. Penard looked up, his face red and sweaty, his eyes sharp and mean. McCrea shook his head once, trying to signal to the man that he wasn’t there for a fight. As much as he wanted to smash his fist into Penard’s meaty face, the situation would cool more quickly if it didn’t come to blows—or drawn weapons.

Penard threw his empty hands in the air in a gesture halfway between greeting and defense. “You?” he panted.

Best to get the man away from the woman, and leave as quickly as possible. “You’re dancing with my girl.”

“Who? This one? You know her?”

“We met last night.”

“Oh, yes. She was there, wasn’t she?” Penard glanced at the curly-haired spitfire, who looked ready to bite off his nose. “Well, she is all yours, my friend.
Elle est une putain américaine menteuse.”

She growled.

“Watch your tongue, or I suspect she’ll remove it,” McCrea said.

Penard laughed, a harsh, coughing sound. “I never would have guessed you for a hero. But this is fine, fine with me. As I said, she’s all yours.”

“I was never yours to give!” she declared, her pupils wide, her nostrils flaring.

Equally furious, Penard let loose a string of half-intelligible French curses in her direction and lifted his hand as though he would slap her.

McCrea stepped between them. “I wouldn’t.”

Penard’s nose twitched, and then he smiled. “Fine. I will go. I will leave you to your tramp. See that you make her pay, eh? Or maybe you will be the one to pay her!”

Obviously pleased to have the last word, Penard strutted away through the parted congregation. Onlookers dissipated as the DJ wisely mixed in a new song, a quick salsa that seemed to be a crowd favorite. Evangeline turned to leave, but McCrea caught her right hand in his left and swept her into a dance hold.

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, but she didn’t struggle away. “You can go now.”

“I don’t want to go.” He began rocking her in time with the music.

“I don’t need saving. I have things under control.”

“I’m sure you do. You owe me nothing. Dance if you wish.”

She cocked her head curiously, but began to move with him.

He pressed his other palm firmly on her back, leaving space between their bodies so she could freely twist her hips. He knew she had rhythm and style but didn’t know how much formal training she had under her belt. To test her, he led her into a quick change of direction followed by a double turn.

Ah, yes! She knew exactly what she was doing. When her head whipped back into position, she wrinkled her nose in teasing disapproval. “Is that all you’ve got?”

In response, he propelled her through a breathless sequence of pivots and steps. Ebony curls fell one by one to her pale shoulders as she whipped through the air. She was a silken ribbon in his hands, twisting and flowing with his lightest suggestion. Her crisp, impeccably placed footsteps gave him space to move with agility he didn’t know he had. With her in his arms, he’d never felt so nimble, so light. For the second time that night, his head emptied of everything but the physicality of the present. There was no mission, no McCrea. There was no self at all. Just a man and a woman moving in perfect unison, and with flawless understanding.