Unholy Promises (5 page)

Then he was close and I felt his body heat even before his hand closed over my shoulder and he turned me ever so slightly, whispering, “Take off your clothes, Eva.”

I quaked from head to toe then.

In the few months I’d known him, he rarely whispered. It was always a firm command, not shouted, but loud enough to make me jump. His whisper put me more on edge than if he’d bellowed. I complied, shrugging out of my jacket and boots before pulling my jeans over my hips. As I stood, his hand slid up my bare thigh, stalling all cognitive thought, including that I still wore a T-shirt, bra and panties, remembering only after gentle fingertips slid beneath the hem of my shirt, playing over the sensitive skin covering my ribs. I fought to hold still, feeling his body, so near but not touching. Those fingers making me forget time and place, and what I was supposed to be doing.

“Take this off.” He sighed, his breath a soft whisper over my collarbone.

I hurried to comply, his fingers not ceasing their movement, tracing the length of each rib. Fingers trailed higher, tickling, but I refused to move. Something inside of me demanded I remain still. Fingertips slid under the tight edge of my bra, stroking the full round curve of my breast.

“And this,” he commanded.

I reached behind my back to unfasten the snap, my arms brushing over his arm. I felt his skin, the soft hair covering his forearm, and knew he too had removed his shirt. Was he nude as well?

I longed to brush my thigh against his—just to discover.

Dropping my bra to the ground, I did just that, lifting my knee, bending it just far enough to touch the heat I knew was so close. Bare skin touched bare skin and my every muscle clenched with the knowledge that he was nude; the muscles low in my groin, already needy, clenched tighter, my buttocks, aching, pressed back to find him.

“I didn’t say to move,” he snarled, a low deep, growl from the back of his throat.

I jumped, just a little, nervous, not knowing what to expect.

Afraid? Maybe, just a little, but only of the voice, not the man. The man I trusted—

for no specific reason other than I did—from the moment my eyes first met his at Whips, an underground Paris BDSM dance club.

“Sh-h.” He gentled me, resting a hand over each pelvic bone. He stood behind me, his heat searing me even though our skin didn’t touch.

Two fingers lifted the edge of my satin panties, turning my insides to mush. The elastic snapped back into place. “Now these.”

Bending, I complied, heart racing.

It had never been so gentle between us before.

As Lord Fyre, he had been brutal the six months we’d been together. At least then, I knew what to expect. This new gentleness was worse than any pain he’d inflicted onto me in the days past, solely because I didn’t have a clue as to what to expect next.

“Kneel,” he commanded, and I did, assuming he wanted a blowjob and reaching out, seeking his penis. He brushed my hand away with a hiss. “No! Tonight is for you.”

Hmmm? My brain imploded. Me?

His lips closed over mine in the most tender kiss I’d ever known. He was killing me with this strange new softness, his hands moving around me, untying the blindfold, letting it fall between us. Sitting back on his haunches, he watched my face as I took in the surprise he’d prepared for me. I am certain that surprised wonder met his questioning gaze.

A hundred pristine white candles surrounded us in a perfect circle at least three rows deep. Candles reflected back from strategically placed gilded antique mirrors.

My whispered, “Wow,” didn’t do justice to the scene he’d created.

His eyes told me he was glad that I liked it and his silent, mischievous smile told me that the scene had yet to begin.

“Trust me,” he said, moving to kneel behind me.

He pulled me back into him so that his warm chest hugged my back. Within what seemed like seconds, my hands were tied behind me, as were my ankles. Without the blindfold, the bondage was pure agony. Something about seeing myself in all those mirrors, tied and helpless. It occurred to me that he could feel my fear, that subtle something in the air as distinct as the perfume of Persian Roses. He gave me time to relax into my bonds. Without saying a word, he made me unafraid, solely by stroking my shoulders and arms.

Lifting a candle, he held out his arm and dribbled melted wax over his forearm as I watched. His sigh of pleasure washed over my neck the moment before I felt the fall of wax over my skin. First, my left nipple, then my right. I gasped in surprise, not fear or pain, just surprise, because the wax was hot but not hot enough to scald. Fleeing fear pushed a relieved laugh from my throat. I regretted the sound immediately, looking across the room to a gold gilt mirror for his reaction.

Catching his smile in the mirror, my heart exploded with emotion as his soft chuckle reverberated through me in perfect accompaniment.

Relaxing was easier then, and I rested tense shoulder muscles against the firmness of him; finally relaxing with complete abandon into my bonds. It was a new experience, not fighting the ropes.

My reward for trusting was melted wax splattered in controlled chaos over my breasts, stomach, thighs, and finally easing over my freshly depilated sex, leaving me suddenly glad for his foresight in making me remove the pubic hair, though it had been embarrassing at the time.

I’d felt indecent, naked like a child, and that seemed unbearable—at the time—but now, I was sorry for the unnecessary tears.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” I whispered, ashamed.

“Your Master has reasons for all he does, never forget that, never question.”

I nodded, fighting back tears, as layer upon layer of melted wax fell over my clit.

Heat then weight, as layer upon layer was added. Unable to control myself, my hips began to move with the rhythm of the wax dripping over my most vulnerable flesh.

Knowing I wasn’t to move without permission, especially seeking my own pleasure, my eyes flew to his, waiting for his reprimand, climbing, climbing, unable to stop the mounting waves of pleasure. However, no reprimand came. Instead, he smiled and leaned close to my face, butterfly kisses over my jaw, and so much tenderness from the man I’d came to fear, love, hate, need, that I felt I’d die with the pleasure of his gentleness. And then more wax meeting the rhythm of my frantic hips.

“It’s okay, Eva. Come for me. I want you to enjoy this.”

Butterfly kisses and the scruff of his beard on the base of my neck made it impossible to focus as heat and weight of even more falling wax combined. Too much pleasure, too much. The first wave of orgasm wasn’t a gentle wave at all, but rather lightning shooting through me … and then I was coming … coming from the heat and the weight of the wax … coming from the tenderness of the man.

I fell apart, and yet pieces of the puzzle that had been missing all of my life came together.

“Merry Christmas, Eva.”

“Merry Christmas, Master,” I whispered in return, hearing the midnight tolling of church bells. It would be a Christmas I’d never forget.

Later, after he flecked off the wax with a dangerous-looking knife, we made love, so slowly and tenderly that the sweetness of it ached deep within my soul, causing tears to run over my cheeks through the duration of the scene. Tears he kissed away over and over again.

He moved over me in sweet, decadent slowness most of the night and I lost count of the number of times I climaxed in his arms. It was too sweet, too painful. I felt so loved, but even more, so cherished in his arms. I slept, finally, beneath him, waking to find him gone. A small package lay on his pillow, wrapped in red foil. I didn’t open it then, waiting instead to open it in front of him when he returned. To this day, it rests on my mantle, unopened.

“An errand,” he’d said, leaving just after dawn. I fell back to sleep, waking just after noon.

I heard his return, the crunch of his tires on gravel, a welcome sound after hours of being alone, and rushed out into the alley to greet him. I had just thrown my arms around his neck, bubbling with laughter, when the sounds of automatic weapon fire reached my ears.

Bullets meant for me, bullets that killed him.

…I feel certain that his tale is true. Feeling that certainty, I befriend him. As long as that certainty shall last, I will befriend him.

And if any consideration could shake me in this resolve, I should be so ashamed … no good opinion so gained, could compensate me…

~ Charles Dickens, The Mystery of Edwin Drood

Avoiding tolls and major highways, I zigzag a path from Paris to Lyon. Surrounded by the sights of the countryside, I realize just how much I’ve missed France. Rolling hills and clear skies lend to a quiet peacefulness I have rarely encountered elsewhere. If I were free to do as I pleased, I might make a life here. Once, it had seemed possible … but that life, so far away now and impossible to return to, was merely a dream, never really attainable.

My pocket vibrates, a cell phone call interrupting my daydream, irritating me when I realize that I was daydreaming. What is it about this place that awakens something so very different inside me?

The phone vibrates again and I consider not answering, but I know without looking that it is Garrett, or Kitten, or both of them together, and that they are worried. I shouldn’t, because by answering I will leave too many unanswered questions, which will in turn worry them more than if I hadn’t answered at all.

“Hello?”

“Where in the bloody hell are you?”

Ah, Garrett, and yes, by the sound of his voice, hours past worried.

“I had to go out of town, but I should only be a few days.”

“You promised no more disappearances,” accuses Garrett.

“It couldn’t be helped,” I reply, wishing I hadn’t answered. “Is everything okay there?”

“Everything’s fine, if you don’t count Kitten’s dramatics. Could you speak to her?”

Oh hell. “Of course.”

“She’s already on the line.”

“Kitten?”

“I’m here,” she whispers, but not so softly that I don’t hear her voice crack or the underlying thread of worry. Not giving me a chance to reply, she asks, “You’ve gone to find her, haven’t you?”

“What?” I ask, shocked but trying to remain calm. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s okay, Thomas, Garrett isn’t on the phone now. He had to deal with something downstairs, so you can tell me the truth.”

“The truth is I have to do something that is very important and I will be home in a few days.”

“The truth is you’re evading. Tell me that you haven’t gone to find Eva?”

Sometimes Kitten scares me with her accuracy … like now. I pull off onto the side of the road and step out of the car. I need air and it smacks me in the face with an icy gust.

Beneath the clean air is a subtle hint of wood smoke. Strangely, its scent is a calming embrace. The gravel beneath my feet gives way to crunchy frozen grass as I walk over to a fenced field, breathing, watching cattle grazing, their warm breath a cloud of white around their faces. Not too far away, a farmhouse spills dark smoke from a stone chimney. “Why do you say that, Kitten?”

“Because it’s the truth. I just wanted to hear you say it.”

My heart skips a beat and I wonder why Kitten’s feelings matter so much. “I love you, Kitten.”

“I love you, Thomas. Just promise me that you will come back to us.”

“I will come back to you and Garrett, Kitten. You need not fear that.” I sigh, running my hand through my hair, pacing, thinking too much. How can I be so transparent to her?

“That’s not what I fear. Please, please come home to us.”

For the first time since fleeing Paris, I wish I could confide in her. She would rest easier if she knew I was here for Nikkos. “What do you fear, Kitten?”

“Eva.”

December 25

Lyon, France

Interpol Secretariat’s Office Building

“I’m not going to ask you again, Henri, where is my brother?” I ask him in French, the language belonging to the soil I stand on, though I could have just as easily asked in English, German, or Russian, giving us at least four languages in which to converse. It’s been a long time, I wonder if his Greek has improved over the years. I attempted teaching him during our weekly chess matches a long time ago, when he, looking out for Interpol, would manage to confer with me, Head of Operations for the World Office on Drugs and Crime, otherwise known as The Agency, the darker side of world law enforcement, more covert, not existing as far as documentation went, liaison to both Interpol and the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime and janitor for GPAT, Global Programme against Trafficking in Human Beings.

“He’s dead. Just accept it!”

“He’s as dead as I am! Now tell me where he is.”

Henri, once considered my oldest and dearest friend, is entirely too predictable. I’ve scolded him sorely for it in the past. He is an easy target for his enemies; he assured me he had no enemies.

He overestimates the power of our friendship.

He is behind his desk, just as I knew I’d find him. It doesn’t matter that it is three a.m. on Christmas morning. He has been married to this life of servitude for almost fifty years, and if he has ever had a real-time wife, girlfriend, lover, I have never been privy to such a fact. Once, a long time ago, he fought in a war alongside my grandfather. Then, according to my grandfather, he saw the right and wrong as very black and white, today his view tinges on gray, and I wonder, at times, when this transformation happened.

He had been against the operation from the beginning, and originally, I was to be planted into a group of traffickers. My idea. I had been deemed too hot by The Agency, my enemies becoming too many and too great in number. I had become a liability. By going deep undercover in an assignment that would span years, The Agency would be safe.

It didn’t work out that way though. In a horrible turn of events, several agents died, and Nikkos, who had been merely my backup, had been mistaken for me and had gone with the traffickers. That isn’t the way it appeared. With everyone else dead and my brother missing, it soon became obvious that The Agency’s intent was to try me as a traitor, then keep me caged and at their bidding. But I am no one’s puppet. Henri made it possible for me to disappear permanently by staging my death. Dying in Eva’s arms was an extreme attempt to tie up all the loose ends in the personal life I wasn’t supposed to have, while several governments were shown my death, and the agency that no longer wanted my liability was free of me.