Midnight Alias: A Killer Instincts Novel (45 page)

According to Noelle, he’d been doing just that.

“Ditching Callaghan like that was a coldhearted move, honey,” the blond assassin said with a chuckle. “Giving men the slip is more my style than yours.”

Coldhearted
. Was that was she was? No. No, she couldn’t be. The way she’d ended things with Trevor had been callous, but she’d been motivated by the need for self-preservation, not cruelty. He’d gotten too close. Made her believe that happiness could play a role in her future, that she could actually be a normal woman who had normal relationships and a normal life—but Isabel knew better.

She wasn’t destined for normalcy. The most she could ask for was professional fulfillment, and her undercover work provided that. She was good at pretending to be other people. Maybe it wasn’t the most honorable profession out there, but she excelled at it. And Trevor, with his perceptive brown eyes and understated charm, with that quiet strength he exuded and his rare but gorgeous smiles . . . he was too big a distraction. Each time she was around him, she lost her head and dropped her guard—and for a woman who’d spent her entire life perfecting a composed, easygoing front, neither of those responses was welcome.

“You never told me why you bailed on him,” Noelle prompted.

Isabel shrugged and took another sip of whiskey.

“It’s all right. I already know the answer.”

Although the entire exchange was making her uncomfortable as hell, she couldn’t fight that spark of wary curiosity. “Oh, do you?”

Lithe as a cat, Noelle slid off the arm of the recliner she’d been perched on and strode across the white Burberry carpet. Her tight black leggings and even tighter black tank top contrasted with the all-white color scheme of the penthouse. Isabel wondered if Noelle’s interior designer had been making some sort of ironic statement. White leather couch, white armchairs, white carpeting, white walls. The place was very . . . sterile. Cold. Unwelcoming.

The penthouse suited Noelle to a T.

“You left because that man scares you shitless.”

Noelle’s assessment made her frown. “Trevor doesn’t scare me.”

Liar
.

“Liar.” Noelle reached for an empty glass and poured a healthy amount of bourbon into it. She curled her fingers around the tumbler, red fingernails tapping on the glass. “Callaghan was starting to get to know the real Isabel, but we couldn’t have that, could we, honey? Because the real Isabel is so very damaged, isn’t she?”

Her shoulders stiffened.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,
so
offended and incensed. I’m not saying anything you haven’t thought a million times before.” The amber liquid in Noelle’s glass swished as she headed back to the sofa. With the grace of a ballerina, the blonde sank onto the cushions and demurely crossed her legs, balancing the tumbler on one delicate knee.

Isabel couldn’t control the rush of indignation that coursed through her. Noelle was a bitch on a good day, but it was rare for one of her “chameleons” to be on the receiving end of that sharp, antagonistic tongue. Isabel had been working for the woman for seven years now, and this was the first time the deadly blonde had unleashed a personal attack on her.

Damaged?
Christ, the woman ought to take a good long look in the mirror. Noelle was the freaking definition of the word.

“You think if he sees the real you, he’ll realize how flawed you are and run in the opposite direction.”

She resisted the urge to slap that amused look right off Noelle’s gorgeous face.

“I left because I’m not looking for a relationship,” Isabel said stiffly. “That’s what he wanted from me, and I couldn’t give it to him.”

“Mmm-hmmm. What’s the next bullshit excuse?”

Her jaw tensed. “These aren’t excuses. It’s the truth. Look, he clouds my judgment, okay?” Even she could hear the defensive note in her voice. “Back in Manhattan, I was supposed to help one of the girls I met when I was undercover at the strip club. I was taking her to a rehab facility, but I was late because of Trevor. I was late, and that poor girl killed herself.”

Noelle offered a long, throaty laugh. “That junkie would’ve killed herself regardless. You think even if you did manage to get her to rehab, the program would have stuck? How naive are you, Isabel?”

Rather than answer, she raised her glass and downed the rest of her whiskey. This time, the burning sensation only made her feel nauseous. This entire conversation was beginning to piss her off.

“Enough,” she snapped. “We’re done talking about this.”

“Meow.”

“I’m serious, Noelle.” Isabel took a calming breath, tried to control her rising anger. “Tell me about the fallout from the Ekala job.”

Noelle sipped her bourbon. “It’s playing out exactly the way we wanted it to. The media is reporting that one of Ekala’s lieutenants orchestrated a coup. You did a good job.”

She arched a brow, both surprised and insulted by the praise. “You thought I wouldn’t?”

“I worried. You excel at short-term gigs. Deep cover was always more suited to Bailey or Abby.”

“Well, I managed just fine.”

“That you did. You rid the world of another sadistic fucker. Give yourself a pat on the back.”

Sometimes it was incredibly hard to decipher whether Noelle was being sarcastic or not. Isabel decided to treat that last remark as sincere.

Truth was, she was damn proud of herself for the way she’d handled the Nigeria job. Her boss was right—Isabel’s strength was the in-and-out gig. Transform herself into whomever she needed to be, go undercover and get the information she was asked to procure, then disappear without a trace.

These last five months, however, she’d been deeply rooted in the Nigeria mission. Posing as an American journalist, she’d infiltrated Tengo Ekala’s camp and cozied up to the man who’d been terrorizing the country ever since he’d come into power. She’d even succeeded in gaining the Nigerian warlord’s respect and admiration, under the guise that she wanted to tell the world about his cause.

And when the time had come to put a bullet in the bastard’s head, she hadn’t stepped aside to let one of the other women take over.

For the first time in her career, Isabel had been the one to pull the trigger.

“Am I officially part of the club now?” she asked dryly. “Is there a special assassin membership card I get to keep in my wallet?”

“Sorry, honey. I’m pulling you out.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like.” Noelle set down her glass and got to her feet. “I indulged you with the Ekala job, but you’re done now. You’re a master of disguise, and that’s the only service I require from you. You won’t be assigned any more contracts.”

The cool declaration brought a spark of anger and a pang of relief. Rather than dwell on the latter, she focused on the former. “I just eliminated one of the world’s nastiest warlords without causing so much as a ripple of tension in the international political pool, and you think I’m only suitable for undercover work?”

“You’re not a killer, Isabel. Never have been, never will be.” Noelle headed for the arched doorway across the room. “Leave the killing to those of us who enjoy it.”

She couldn’t control her surprise. “You’re saying you actually
enjoy
taking a life?”

“When it’s the life of a sick fuck who deserves it? Yes.” The boss’s voice was oddly gentle. “You’re not like me, Isabel. We’ve both suffered. We both came from shitty backgrounds, but, see, your crap gave you a bleeding heart. You want to
help
people. My crap crushed my conscience, plain and simple.”

This was the most candid Noelle had ever been with her, and Isabel found herself speechless as she stared at the other woman. At five-two, with her long golden hair, ethereal features and pale blue eyes, Noelle looked like a damn Disney princess, yet she was the coldest, most lethal person Isabel had ever met. She’d always wondered how Noelle had gotten to be this way and now she finally had an inkling. Noelle’s “crap” had crushed her conscience.

Christ.

“So we can waste some more time and keep arguing about this,” Noelle said flippantly, “or you can just accept that I’m right. You’re not a killer. Ergo, you’re not taking on any more contracts. Now, when can I expect you back?”

Isabel blinked. “What?”

“From Jim Morgan’s compound. I already alerted my pilot that you’ll be using the jet tonight—he’s waiting for your call. So when do you think you’ll be done there? I need you on recon for Bailey in Istanbul, so don’t take too long with Callaghan.”

“I’m not—”

“Going to see Callaghan?” Noelle finished. Those blue eyes gleamed. “Bullshit. That’s exactly what you’re going to do, and you want to know why? Because not only are you not a killer, you’re also not a coldhearted bitch. That’s my job, remember?”

With that, the blonde slunk out of the living room, leaving Isabel alone with her thoughts.

Once again, Noelle was right. The second Isabel had stepped off that plane this morning, her first instinct had been to pick up the phone and apologize to Trevor for the way she’d left things. The way she’d left
him
.

But he deserved more than a half-ass phone call. He deserved a real apology, and no matter how badly she wanted to put distance between them, she wasn’t the kind of woman who cowered in the face of conflict. She’d always intended to see him again. To explain why they couldn’t be together. Running away from him in Manhattan had really just been about giving herself some time to regroup before they had that inevitable conversation.

“You think if he sees the real you, he’ll realize how flawed you are and run in the opposite direction.”

Was she actually that transparent, or was Noelle too freaking insightful for her own good?

Swallowing her mounting apprehension, Isabel placed her glass on the table, dug her cell phone from her purse and called Noelle’s pilot.