Smoke and Mirrors (35 page)

A sparkle glowed in the man’s dusky eyes. “I’m sorry, luv, I don’t drink gin.” He tilted his head at the trio. “Mind if I join you boys?”

They forwent an answer.

I stifled the urge to laugh. “Whisky then?”

“Yes.” His dark eyes met mine, and the smile lines around those heavenly orbs never faded. Not when Door Jammer leapt at him, another knife drawn. Not when Baggy Jeans tried in vain for a go after Door Jammer lay crippled on the ground, his left leg bent at an angle my colleague would have to repair later that night.

I poured the stranger his whisky as he eyed the three incapacitated intruders with mild interest. Then he drank the golden measure in one, long, throat-rippling sip.

“You’re late.” The heat of his gaze weakened my bones.

He crooked a finger in my direction. “I was misinformed. Now kiss me.”

The counter wasn’t obstacle enough. The searing warmth of his tongue parted my lips, and only his strong hands on my jacket kept me from sliding to the floor.

The sound of a latch preceded Sebastian’s head. “Let me guess,” he sighed, “You want me to call the police so they can ‘round up the usual suspects’.”

“Exactly,” Brad growled, his fingers warm on my face. “Tell them the Germans wore gray.”

•   •   •

Australian SIS officer Mick Dunkirk watched from an outdoor café as the local police and EMTs entered the bar. They exited bearing two stretchers. The sheet-draped one was placed into an ambulance that departed in the direction of the mortuary. The second held a man whose coloring matched the snow-covered Remarkables looming behind him.

Fritz Schwartz, Michael Schulhaus and Kurt Malberg. The blip of their passports through Sydney’s airport had been one of the reasons the Canberra Headquarters had sent a team of four to the South Island of New Zealand.

Eyeing the sashaying backside of one of Queenstown’s many tourists, Mick suppressed a sigh. When the hell was he going to be somewhere beautiful without business getting in the way?

His dismal thoughts were interrupted by the sound of his partner’s voice crackling through his Bluetooth. “Mick, the bloke who entered just after Michael is an Englishman named Brad Milton. Not a lot on him unless you know where to look. Right now he’s running a jet boat operation up on Dart River. He lives with his girlfriend, an English doctor, on a sailboat moored at Lake Hayes.”

“And if you know where to look?” Mick had seen the professional angle of Kurt’s leg.

“You get your chain yanked by British SIS. I hit a roadblock the size of Ayers Rock. My guess is he’s a retired agent with a lot of pull.”

“Right place, right time?” Mick swirled his coffee.

“It would seem.”

“Or we’ve run two cases together, and he’s still working for the Queen. Emma’s English too.” He stilled the cup and feigned a sip. “Here we go.”

The Ice House entrance, yellow taped to ward off potential patrons, was suddenly crowded with two more police officers escorting a handcuffed third man. “Herr Michael Schulhaus.” Mick recognized the weasel-like face from its photo in their file.

“Yeah. We’ll be wantin’ to talk to him. Seems to be the squeaky wheel. Doesn’t have the same stomach as the other two.”

“Who’s that?” A striking woman exited, her arm around Emma Barnaby.

“I’m working on it. She must have been in the bar before Emma entered. Barmaid? Owner?”

Mick adjusted his sunglasses. There was an unusual assurance to her posture. She comforted Emma with a final hug before the police officer escorted the shaky girl into a waiting patrol car. And then the mystery woman turned her brilliant green eyes on Mick, and the corner of her mouth lifted into sensuous smirk that left him breathless.

She knew he’d been watching her; it made the hair on the nape of his neck stand on end. She held his gaze for a moment longer and then winked, just before taking the lethal hand offered her by Brad Milton.

Ayers Rock had just gotten a little bigger.

T
he constable on duty at the Queenstown Police Station was used to arresting drunk and disorderly bar patrons, collisions involving tourists suffering from right drive amnesia, and writing out citations for traffic violations.

Constable Theodore Stanley was not, however, used to being ushered out of his own debriefing room by Aussies who flashed ASIS badges. Sitting at the front desk fuming, he stared into his afternoon tea wishing the leaves would swirl into a readable pattern. He didn’t think the ASIS were involved with his government’s most recent attempt at gang resistance. If they had been, the covert CIB unit that had come into the Queenstown/Wanaka area directly after the Cromwell bank robbery would have been involved. And a few phone calls underscored the fact they knew nothing about the meeting being held behind closed doors not fifteen feet from him.

The door to Camp Street opened and he looked up hoping someone in the know was there to fill him in. He was mistaken.

“Hello, Ted.” It was Dr. Brothers. He stood hastily and the stool behind his knees flew back into the computer credenza.
Shit luck as usual
.

“Evening, Dr. Brothers. How can I help you?”

She pointed at the conference room where she’d gone once before when a bar patron had needed treatment after a brawl. “Is that where they’re meeting?”

He pursed his lips, and was about to comment on the fact that no one was allowed in, when the front and conference room doors opened simultaneously. Out of the corner of his left eye, Constable Stanley noted Dr. Brothers’s companion, Brad Milton. Stanley’s right eye caught ASIS agent Mick Somethingorother’s hand beckoning the newcomers.

“We meet again.” Mick’s Aussie accent grated Ted’s nerves further.

Mystified, he waved the pair through. Why the hell did ASIS want a speedboat driver and his doctor girlfriend in on a top-secret meeting? He watched – a false smile plastered on his face – as the two navigated the swinging half-door beside him. They shook hands with Mick. Then the door closed with cold-shouldered indifference.

And not even the welcome ring of the 111 emergency line broke the most tedious two hours of Constable Stanley’s young life.

•   •   •

I declined the soda Mick offered and parked myself next to Emma Barnaby. She was less pale, but her hands trembled. “Have you eaten anything?” I wondered if she was suffering from low blood sugar. Her frame was petite, like Francesca Sanchez’s might be like in another decade. I missed Alberto’s daughter every now and again, and the mother hen she had elicited in me was rearing its beak.

“No.” Emma’s eyes dragged guiltily over the sandwiches and crisps laid out on the table. “But it isn’t because they haven’t offered me any. I’m just not hungry.”

I shot a beseeching glance at Brad, whose Roman face mirrored my empathy.

“That’s because they got you something they wanted.” I winked at the ASIS officers as Brad continued, leaning in. “My guess is a smoothie won’t go amiss. Raspberry and banana?”

A spark of pink returned to her cheeks. “That’d be lovely. Thank you.”

Brad’s eyes met mine, and my heart flapped like a wind-whipped sail. We’d been working opposite hours for the last few days. Tonight was the break in that set of shifts, and we’d planned on celebrating with a drink and dinner before dessert.

My sigh coincided with Brad’s. Mick looked at us strangely and I mumbled, “Sorry, I was thinking about fruit.”

“Forbidden fruit…” said Brad, vanishing along with the rest of his sentence.

•   •   •

A few hours later, I threw a leg over the back of Brad’s bike. It was dark by then, and the lights of the town dotted the lake’s surface. It reminded me of the first night we’d spent in Queenstown.

We’d flown into Auckland from Moscow with no itinerary or luggage. From there we had hopped a shuttle down to the South Island and stopped in at the tiny airport’s concierge counter. Brad inquired about renting a motorcycle.

Kieran Ahern, the owner of a local adventure outfit, overheard him and figured he knew his bikes. After five minutes of chitchat, we went via Kieran’s battered old Land Rover to FATZ CAT, where we feasted on green mussels, good conversation and Guinness. It turned out Kieran needed a driver for one of his jet boats, and he was willing to swap his BMW TR 1200 for Brad’s driving expertise.

Under moonlight, we rode out along the 45 km road connecting Queenstown to Glenorchy. The feel of Brad between my thighs and the bike purring beneath us was damn near perfection. He pulled off onto a dirt road that led to Blanket Bay, easily the most beautifully placed luxury hotel in the world. Set along the shores of the lake I’ve come to think of as a friend, it squats in contentment, eyeing its own peaceful visage.

The owner, a friend of Kieran’s, led us across a bluestone path to the post and beam suite and its swimming pool. It was midweek, and there were only two other rooms in use. Both faced the lake, and neither was within earshot of our sanctuary. Which was a good thing, because I think I scared the hell out of the local fauna when Brad finally gave up his urge for bikes and rode me.

Tonight was the same. I felt loose as honey and wanted my neck sucked.

•   •   •

Brad felt her stomach growl through the thin fabric separating them. Smiling, he thought of the hamper he’d managed to drop off just before he’d headed to The Ice House. He’d been planning it for sometime, glad her frenetic schedule had kept her normally flawless calendar skills off kilter. If she remembered today was the anniversary of the first day they’d met, he’d be shocked. He tipped the bike to the right, leaning left as they took the sharp corner away from their side of Lake Hayes.

“Where we goin’, cowboy?”

Her hands trailed from his hips to his ribcage, where her thumb found its way in between his shirt buttons. “Cowboy, eh?”

A column of soft dust lifted behind them as he steered the BMW down the delivery driveway of The Vineyard Haven Retreat. They passed grape-pressing rooms and an open-air pergola designed for wine tasting parties. They went further still. Soon one of Lake Hayes’s inlets could be seen sparkling in the half-moon’s light. Beside it there was a cottage, windows spilling forth the soft offering of hurricane lamps.

“When did you scout out this place?”

Slowing the bike, Brad set out his foot and squeezed her thigh. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

They removed their helmets, and he grabbed her hand. It was dark and, save for the low gurgle of water lapping not three yards from them, silent. She looked up at him: freckles dark against her moon-paled skin, vulnerability uncovered now that they were away from the others. A fierce rush of fear shot through him. It had been less than a year and almost a lifetime since they’d faced dangers like today.

Back then, in his other life, he’d tried to keep a distance between them. He was Giovanni. She was Alexandra.

Then, he’d assumed it would end. She would go back to working as a doctor in London. He would go wherever C sent him.

C. His father. That had changed everything. And nothing.

She smirked up at him, mischief brimming in her green eyes. “A penny for your thoughts.”

A growl of laughter dissipated his unease. “The last time you asked me that we…”

“Exactly.”

He didn’t need another reminder. His tongue tasted hers. She made a soft sound and he hardened. Pulling the elastic from her low ponytail, he ran his hands through her hair, curling a long tendril around his forefinger. She leaned into him, and he planted his foot, pulling her up onto his waist. Sandals long since shed, she wrapped her legs around his torso and slid a tongue across his unshaven cheek. “I assume you’ve got the keys. The ground’s a bit uneven here.”

He swiveled, grinding his hips against hers, and strode toward the unlocked door. With one hand, he jerked the knob. With the other, he yanked her shirt over her head.

The stairs were managed with less grace, and they tumbled, landing heavily upon a mattress he’d pulled onto the floor earlier. Her bra shifted in their fall, and he clamped the exposed nipple between his teeth. She arched back, curving her long neck, and suddenly he didn’t have enough time, hands or tongues.

Spanning her collarbone with a widespread palm, he stroked the creamy skin. A shudder of lust blasted through him.
Fuck.
He wasn’t even going to last as long as the log which lay crumbling on the hearth.

Then her hands were on his jeans, unzipping them. Her carotid pulse shot through his thick calloused palm. He came free of his boxers and felt her fingers slide along his cock.

He ripped free the elbow that was propping him above her. His actions knocked the breath from her lungs, but his mouth was too busy to form an apology. He hooked one thumb under her waistband and snapped the button free. There was a ping and a rolling clatter somewhere. And then he was shoving the jeans down.

“You’re not wearing…”

His eyes snapped open and she stared down at him from over her high cheekbones. “Anything else.”

The words were a purr and his balls tightened. He managed to wrangle the denim over the firm curve of her ass, and that was enough. Shifting, he shoved his thumb in her mouth and his cock between her partially parted thighs. The heat of her tongue…the heat of her core.

His hips bucked.

He snaked his arms beneath her waist and delved into her sweet mouth with his tongue. An errant lock of hair got in their way and she shook her head, trying to get free of the distraction. Her green eyes, thick lashes framing them in the darkness, flashed wildly. He arced back, found her hands and jammed them above her head.

Her breasts surged upward, lace and satin complimenting firm sleekness. He stared down at her, shocked she was his. The tip of her tongue darted to the corner of her mouth where her full lips met. She said something in Italian and rocked upward, her rhythm demanding and fast. His hips echoed that challenge, and the spark of lust he’d kept in check for the last few days blazed.

“Bite me.”

He fell forward and sunk his teeth into the tendons of her neck. She cried out and he was lost, falling away like the edge of a cliff beneath a tsunami.