Heart of an Assassin (Circle of Spies)
Read Heart of an Assassin (Circle of Spies) Online
Authors: Laura Pauling
By
Laura Pauling
Redpoint Press
Heart of an Assassin: Circle of Spies, Book 2
Copyright 2012 Laura Pauling
First e-book edition, 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, except for brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, blog or broadcast.
This is a work of fiction, and is produced from the author’s imagination. People, places and things mentioned in this novel are used in a fictional manner.
Summary: Savvy finally reunites with Malcolm, the hot assassin she fell for in Pairs. But when an ancient enemy threatens their lives, Savvy and Malcolm must convince their families to work together, or their future could be erased. Permanently.
Edited by TS Tate
ebook ISBN:
978-0-9852327-2-6
Find out more at
laurapauling.com
Praise for A SPY LIKE ME (Circle of Spies: Book 1)
“Move over Gallagher Girls—there’s a new spy in town! A Spy Like Me is a fast-paced, high-energy ride through Paris that left me almost as breathless as Pauling’s hot hero. Super fun beginning, great story, and an ending that won’t disappoint.
Gemma Halliday, NYT best selling author of Spying in High Heels.
“Oh. My. Holy. Spy. Pants. A SPY LIKE ME is the most fun we’ve had in Paris since ANNA AND THE FRENCH KISS. The perfect mix of romance, mystery and danger, A SPY LIKE ME has more twists and turns than a Paris arrondissement.”
Lisa and Laura Roecker, authors of THE LIAR SOCIETY series.
The cold sensation started as an itch on the back of my neck, like a spider crawling. The imaginary legs tap, tap, tapping against my skin, the tiny hairs bristling and tickling.
I shivered then shrugged it off, blaming it on a cold draft. Thankful the hood of my sweatshirt kept my face in shadows. My hands were jammed in the front pocket, my fingers running over and over the smooth casing of a pocketknife.
Mom told me to infiltrate the market place of our seacoast village in Greece. She wanted me to study five people to determine their economic status, why they were shopping, if they were happy or not, their age, marital status, the color of their underwear, blah, blah, blah.
I’d been doing this every week for the last few months when I really wanted to jump from planes or attend fancy parties as a seductive spy and duel with swords in the dark shadows. Cool things. I was tired of observing people haggle over the price of a radish.
But ever since my adventures in Paris, where I solved the mystery of my best friend’s disappearance and rescued a monk from captivity all while outwitting a family of assassins—yeah, ever since all that, Mom had been a wee bit overprotective.
I drew closer to the crowded streets, totally incognito in my average teen girl clothing, and took in the increasing chatter of the crowds: the deep bellows of merchants trying for a sale, the whine of toddlers begging for some shiny toy or piece of candy, and the quiet hum of ongoing conversation. Beaded jewelry twinkled in the sun, glitter on T-shirts flashed, and friendship bracelets and handmade necklaces hung in a variety of brilliant colors. I searched for my first target and for something sweet to snack on while I observed.
I found the sweet dessert first. After I paid the man, I cradled the pastry in the palm of my hand. The wafer thin layers with walnuts were soaked in sweet honey syrup and tasted absolutely delicious.
The itch on the back of my neck grew to a prickle and the spider crawled down my back. This time I couldn’t ignore it or blame weather patterns, and my hoodie didn’t offer much protection or camouflage. I quickened my pace, the need to hide rising above my training mission. I ducked one way, then scooted between two old ladies, but the feeling remained. Someone’s eyes were on me.
No one knew Mom and I were hiding out in Greece, but I made constant sweeps of the thickening crowds and pushed through the old, the young and the in-between. A lady with her messy hair piled on her head hassled a seller for a lower price on lettuce. As the seller ran fingers through his bushy black hair and argued, I inched backwards under the shade of his tent. Hiding. Hoping that no one noticed me.
Heat flushed my body and instinct screamed at me to get home. Fast. Each person who looked in my direction caused my heart rate to triple. I took several meditative deep breaths and merged with the crowd, acting like I suspected nothing. I bought a head of lettuce, and held onto it like it could protect me in a fight. I moved to the next cart and bought onions, even though Mom can’t stand them. At the next cart, I used the last of the change and bought fresh flowers, then robotically turned and moved toward home, past the fresh produce and back into the touristy carts. As I moved from the thicker crowds and turned onto a side street, my body tensed. Footsteps fell in line behind me.
I stopped and slowly turned, ready to take them out with whatever method I could even if I had to bombard the guy with onions or offer up my dessert in exchange for my freedom. That would totally work on me.
I certainly didn’t expect the Rastafarian teen who looked like he didn’t belong here anymore than I did. Long brown dreadlocks hid his face. He banged his head and swayed to the beat pounding in his ears through his ear buds. No guns. No black clothing or hulking men out to get me.
He made beat box noises and drummed his legs with his hands. I froze, feeling stupid staring at his matted hair for no good reason. When he moved into my personal space, I freaked out and couldn’t convince my legs to run home. So much for a glorious confrontation. I tightened my grip on my pastry, ready to smash-in-the-face and run.
He rocked out, and just inches from me, turned his back. “Don’t act like you know me or that I’m talking to you.”
Feelings that I’d kept pressed down bubbled up and spilled over, washing me with memories. Paris. Kissing. Rushing through the streets of the Extravaganza. Malcolm. For some reason my vocal chords wouldn’t cooperate and I said nothing.
He kept his back to me, pretending to listen to music. He said nothing while a mother strode by with her three children. My breaths came faster and faster. There was only one reason he would be in disguise and talking to me so secretly. Someone was following him or following me. Probably his family. As in his older brother, Will, the one who put a bullet in my leg in Paris. I had known it was a possibility, but this made it real. This was not how I imagined our reunion. And all my thoughts about wanting excitement felt like a complete lie.
“We need to talk,” he said. “Tomorrow night, near the docks you’ll find a bunch of sailboats. Find the one almost at the end. Both sails will be down and Mozart will be playing. I’ll be waiting.”
Then as if he was a one-man band he drummed his hands against his legs and moved on down the street until he rounded the corner. I sank my teeth into the pastry, letting the caramelized sweetness distract me from the many thoughts running through my brain. But one in particular managed to break through and repeat.
Malcolm had found me.
The next day, Mom cooked dinner while I schemed on how to slip out unnoticed. Perfume lingered around her as she served up the chicken stir-fry and her every move sent a scent of apple blossoms my way. Her hair was up in an elegant twist, no strands framing her face; too sharp and clean cut for a dinner with her daughter. The fresh flowers I’d bought the day before wilted in a glass vase at our small table. She hadn’t understood why I came home with onions and flowers.
“So what’s with the fancy hairdo?” I asked.
Mom patted her twist to make sure it was secure and then placed the serving dish on the table and retrieved the plates from the cupboard. “Can’t I make dinner for my daughter without being questioned?”
“Sure.” I served up the stir-fry and stabbed my fork into my mushy veggies, wishing they were a giant brownie.
We didn’t say much during dinner. There were too many unanswered questions and fears piling up in my mind. Mom cleaned up her plate down to the last zucchini. She glanced at her watch and brought her plate over to the sink. “I’ll be heading out for a bit.”
No surprise there. “Want company?”
“Not tonight.” She hummed and rinsed off her plate. “What are you going to do?”
Mom was good at that. Answering an awkward question and then redirecting the attention back on me. So I’d forget. But I never did.
I stretched my arms out to the side and let out a totally fake yawn. “I think I’ll shower and head to bed with a book. I’m kinda tired.”
“Okay. Have a good night. If you could clean up that would be great.” Mom kissed the top of my head, grabbed a shawl and was out the door.
Three minutes after I scrubbed the dishes, I was too. It wasn’t easy making my way through the village in the dark of night. Every unknown sound creeped me out: the scurry of tiny animals in the brush, the creak of tree limbs in the breeze, and the slight echo of traffic from the main roads. I rushed down to the docks feeling only one step ahead of my invisible enemies, darting from streetlight to streetlight until I realized it was probably better to stick with the shadows. Every sound was the footstep of an evil monk with the gleam of murder twinkling in his eye or the pitter-patter of Malcolm’s brother with a sniper aimed and ready. My entire back turned into knots.
The briny smell of the Mediterranean tickled my nose, and I slowed down. When the tips of sailboats reflecting the moon caught my eye, I crept along until I was on the dock. My feet created a dull thudding noise on the wooden slats. The sway of the structure made me feel off kilter and slightly sick. Dark water lapped against the sides of the boats. I felt exposed, a sitting duck waiting to be picked off.
“Psst. Hey, Savvy!”
I jumped and whirled around, my heart rate spiking. Then I heard the strain of violin music and calmed down. If someone was going to put me six feet under they wouldn’t call my name, they’d just do it. I peered through the darkness. “Malcolm?”
“Yeah. Come on in.”
He stood on deck, light spilling out the door to his cabin. His familiar shape, the outline of his face and the hard lines of his body caused a twang in my chest, and parts of me I hadn’t known were hollow for six months filled with warmth and anticipation. His words whispered to me by the River Seine returned. He cared about me. Or he had. I flashed him a nervous smile and stepped aboard.
Down in the cabin, we stood too close for comfort, looking everywhere but at each other. A tiny table was built into the side, a convenient kitchen tucked into the corner, and a door at the end led into what looked like it might be a bedroom.
“Do you live here?” I asked, running my fingers along the manly curtains with no frill, thinking how my mom would disapprove of the layer of dust on the sill.
“Yeah, I’m taking a little break from the family. You know.”
“Totally.” I couldn’t control my head as it bobbed up and down. I didn’t know much at all about his family and he probably knew everything about mine. I wanted to look at him, study his face and find the tiny dimple on his right cheek, see if he had changed like I had, but I could only make it to his feet and his frayed flip-flops. And his feet pretty much looked the same from what I could remember.
“When I couldn’t follow through with my mission in Paris, they didn’t make it easy for me.” He stretched and totally failed in acting nonchalant about the whole thing.
I gasped and met his eyes, fighting off the fluttery feeling in my stomach. His words were laden with hidden hurts, secrets about his family I’d probably never learn. “They kicked you out?”
“Not exactly. I could’ve stayed but the looks from my dad and Will’s obnoxious remarks were getting to me. I had to get out of there.”
This time I nodded with complete understanding. I knew something about living with tension, but I didn’t have a family boat to escape too. Must be nice.
“Want something to drink?” he asked and ran his fingers across the top of a cooler.
“No thanks.”
The conversation stalled and seconds ticked by that felt like hours. I couldn’t stand the silence so I searched for a story, any story.
“You should’ve seen my first day in the market place.” I waved my hand and fake laughed. “I turned down a zillion streets like I was in some sort of mythical labyrinth and never found what I was looking for even though I stumbled upon a few touristy stands and wanted to buy some twinkly jewelry until finally I had to ask this old guy, who I think was a bit drunk, how to get back home and you should’ve seen this guy’s hair, streaked with white, a total bed head.”
My flow of words slowed to a trickle when I ran out of breath while the burn of embarrassment crept up the back of my neck. Tension separated us like a brick wall. What happened to the easy conversation we’d had in Paris? I’d spent months thinking, dreaming, and wondering about him. And here he was, right in front of me, and we were like strangers. I went through my inventory of lame jokes. Something. Anything to fill the widening gap between us. But mostly I just bit my lip to stop another stupid story from leaking out.
Malcolm sprawled across a padded bench, his long legs taking up most of it, and he studied me, his charcoal eyes pulling at me, questioning. Deep inside me, embedded in the walls of my heart, I felt a flicker, a tiny spark of what I used to feel.
“So,” I said, crumpling on the inside and wishing this moment would end.
“So,” he repeated, then straightened up, a slight glint in his eyes. “How’ve you been?”
I skipped any more stories and reverted back to what we knew. Paris. The glib reply came easily. “You mean after you left me in an, um, rather uncomfortable position under the Eiffel Tower?”
“Payback’s a bitch.” He grinned.
Feeling sparked again, and I couldn’t help but smile back. “I’ve been just fine and dandy. Mom scooped me up and we moved here to recover. Been living here ever since.”
“No, I mean in general,” he said.
“Oh. I’m fine.” I threw the remark out there, leaning against the sidewall and crossing my legs, hoping, praying I looked cool, like meeting up with him was part of any other day.
“You seem different,” he said and tapped his fingers together as if they itched to hold some kind of weapon.
I patted the palm of my hands against my legs and shrugged, rolling off the past five months like they were nothing. “Life happens.”
“I understand.”
His eyes caught mine and I knew he truly did understand. If anyone could understand about not fitting in with family, the longing to be accepted, and the need to be told the truth once in a while, it was Malcolm.
He stood and stepped closer, not saying anything. I stared at his chin and the tiny hairs that needed to be shaved. I couldn’t get myself to look into his eyes again or at his mouth. My insides quivered. His hand traced my arm through my sweatshirt and he tugged on the sleeve, pulling me closer. I stumbled a bit. All I wanted was to lift my head and feel his lips on mine, a chance I thought I’d never have again, but how would this ever work? A spy and an assassin? Impossible.
“Look at me,” he said gently.
I kept my eyes to his chest. The feelings battled within me, part of me wanting to reach out and touch him, the other part urging me to run before I could get hurt, before Mom found out.
His breath whispered against my skin, pulling my head up. I found his eyes, the charcoal flecks welcoming me home. I found compassion and understanding. I found a lost friend. The temperature in the room skyrocketed and a rush of emotion flooded my heart, drowning out any logic in keeping back the old feelings I had for this boy. Suddenly it didn’t matter that six months had passed. Time warped and I felt it was just yesterday we were whispering and laughing together. Forgotten memories and feelings welled, pushing to the surface, and I struggled to hide them.
He kissed my forehead and I pulled away, joking. “You’d better watch it. My Greek bodyguard could board your small sailboat at any time.”
A devilish grin creeping across his face told me he wasn’t giving up. “Sure.” He said it like he didn’t believe me.
“Seriously. I really shouldn’t be here,” I whispered.
He knew what I meant. We were fine until he brought me home to meet the family considering they were trying to wipe out my family line. Permanently. They’d already tried to once. In Paris. The only reason I’d survived was because Malcolm was captured by my cute looks and couldn’t pull the trigger. Either that or he just chickened out. I liked to think it was my cute looks and infectious smile.
“Shh. Let’s not talk about that,” he coaxed, and his words worked their magic. I didn’t want to think about it either.
He reached across and wrapped his fingers in mine, his touch warm and soft. He leaned over, his breath brushing my lips, waiting. I swayed forward when a loud clunk echoed outside. A very unnatural clunk considering we were on a boat and waves don’t make loud thump-like noises.