Unholy Promises (9 page)

“Marry me, Eva,” Liam asks, moving slowly over me, seducing my sex with the same gentleness he had no doubt used to win over the hearts of many before me. Problem being I want rough, always rough, especially on Christmas! Only Luka has the right to be gentle. Goddamn, why is my body responding again!

“Our marriage can be a sacred thing between us, even if The Agency is using us to do their will. I love you.”

Oh God, don’t say that!

“I can’t.”

“Give me one good reason.”

I could give you a hundred, but they would hurt your feelings. For starters… Fuck me! Pound me so goddamn hard that I will still feel you inside of me a week from now!

Fuck me so hard that I want to claw you and bite you and scream at you…

Instead of voicing my thoughts, I state the obvious, “Have you forgotten who I am?

Yes, I’m WODC, but I really am the heiress to the Lindquist fortune.”

“I’d love you even if you were poor, sweetheart.”

Stop saying that you love me! “That isn’t the point and you know it.”

“Oh, you mean the part about how your Daddy and Granddaddy and even Great or Great-great-granddaddies came by all that money? Or the reason we’re supposedly getting married in the first place is to preserve and protect that great vastness of wealth from the families they stole it from?”

“We did not steal that money!”

“I don’t want to argue semantics, darling.”

The only sound for a moment is the air blowing from the heat duct. I have to remind myself that I want this wedding as much as he does, it doesn’t matter that my ulterior motive is purely selfish. What concerns me is his ulterior motive, if it isn’t really for the love he professes so easily.

“Come here.” His voice softens to a bare whisper as he pulls me into his arms. His erection butts against my thigh. “All that matters is that in this one, The Agency is doing us a favor.” Pushing my thighs apart, he enters me. “We get to be together,” soft thrust,

“and for a while, no killing people for a living.” I try to pull away, but he holds me against him, pinning my hips as he pushes deeper. “No, Eva, don’t get mad. There’s no reason to get mad for me stating the truth. You kill, I kill, by taking this assignment, we get a reprieve.” Soft thrust.

“Until what? Until they ask you or me to kill my brothers?”

Soft thrust, soft thrust, soft thrust.

“Would you rather it is you, or me, or a stranger who does the job? By the time it comes to that, their deaths would be a kindness and you know it.”

I hit his chest, trying to roll him off, but he only laughs at me. “Even if it’s just a day, or a week, or a month of pretend…” thrust, thrust, “…I could stand a few days on the job with no one dying.”

Predictably, close to coming himself, Liam rolls onto his back, pulling me on top of him, allowing me to take control, ride as hard as I want to. The problem being, I don’t want to, because my heart is breaking … I really could use a day or two of no one dying.

Someone is watching.

Flying off Liam, I can’t climb out of the bed fast enough. I wipe blinding tears from my eyes and focus my internal antennae. Still there, still watching.

“Bloody hell, Eva!”

My eyes fly to the window. Grabbing my clothes from the floor, I quickly pull on my shirt, my pants, ridiculously tucking the hem of my shirt beneath the waistband of my pants haphazardly as I walk toward the window.

“I can’t talk about this tonight, Liam. You just took me by surprise with the newspaper announcement.”

“Shit!” Liam yelled, wrapping his quickly cooling, naked body in the sheets. “I will kill Matilda for opening her mouth.”

Staring through the window, I see no one on the streets—no one, no foot traffic, no cars. Scanning the windows of the apartments across the road, no one is visible, even if they are watching. Same for the rooftops.

“Don’t shift the blame to Matilda!”

“Christ, Eva, it’s Christmas. I skipped flying home so that we could spend our first Christmas together.”

“You shouldn’t have!” Pacing, I can’t rid myself of the feeling that someone is watching. First at Ops, then the graveyard, now here…

Throwing open the window, I lean all the way out, a nice, clean headshot if they want it.

“Kill me already! Just fucking do it!” I scream.

“What in the fuck is wrong with you, Eva?” Liam pulls me back into the flat.

“We’ve been together long enough for me to know this isn’t about newspaper publicity or wedding plans. Come inside, shut the window, and tell me just what in the hell happened today.”

“Fucking nothing happened today, Liam,” I scream, slamming closed the shutters, pacing away from the window, away from him, at least as far away as the small bedroom allows. He’s never seen me like this before, so frantic, I just want to be alone. Seeing the concern in his eyes makes it all the worse. He truly has fallen in love with me.

“I’m sorry, Liam, I have to go away, get out of here, get some air.” I’m rambling hysterically as I head into the dark hallway with him close on my heels.

“What do you mean, go away?”

“Not go, just air—I need air, away from here.” I grab my holster and 9mm, slinging it over my shoulder and tightening down while he tries to figure out a way of convincing me to stay. Standing so near him in the dark, I can see every thought that crosses his face, but all he can come up with is, “I love you, Eva. We can work through whatever it is.”

It is so the wrong thing to say.

“If you can still get a flight, go home to your family.” I give him a quick peck on the cheek before racing from the apartment.

“Come with me, Eva.” His plea is a bare whisper, but I hear him. I turn to see him standing naked in the doorway. He’s shaking, or maybe I’m shaking.

It occurs to me as I slam the door of my Miata that I have quite possibly gone insane.

The sound of the key unbolting the deadlock pulled me back to earth. I stand poised to enter the warehouse apartment I shared with Luka for the three short months we were together before he died, not remembering how I’d gotten here. Holding my car keys, I know I at least drove.

Facing the heavy steel door and peeling paint, I know I’ve forgotten something. I try to force my brain to work, to de-numb. Why is it always so hard to remember the forgotten and easy to remember the fact that something important has been misplaced, even if just a memory?

The iced-over metal grate beneath my feet is hazardous as I stomp snow from my feet, my hand on the doorknob for support. I finally remember the forgotten in the knick of time, pressing a hidden finger lever and disabling the first of many security measures.

I should go.

I can’t believe I’m here.

Looking out across the ebony Seine, the answer to why I am here lies in the memory of other things forgotten, though more likely pushed back and away, deeper into my psyche so that the memory is less painful. Here, every scent holds his presence, the fragrance of this place found nowhere else on earth. The combination of water, wood and rusted steel awakening memories long tucked away.

In the days following his death, I hid here, lost in the scent, comforted by the sameness. Henri forced me out, and thank God he did so. I lost myself in work. Lost myself in a different kind of sameness, comfort found in the routine of destruction and death. I return after so long, seeking once again the memory of him.

Opening the door to the warehouse, I am assailed by the faint memory of a cologne I never knew the name of, the contents of a full bottle soaking into plaster and wood where the bottle shattered on impact the night of Luka’s funeral. Crossing the threshold, I shun the light switch and kick off my boots, before padding barefoot to the cabinet that holds his best Ouzo Giannatsi. Reaching blindly, my hand closes around the familiar shape. Of course, not the same bottle we shared before he left, but one of the many stocked in his pantry because Giannatsi is impossible to get without traveling to Greece. He kept cases.

I swig straight from the bottle, choking on the heat of the first swallow, before enjoying the more subtle licorice after taste. Bottle in hand, I cross the wide-open space to sit on his bed, actually just two mattresses stacked—quite utilitarian, except they are covered with luxurious satin sheets, a velvet goose-down-filled duvet, and a mink blanket. You would have had to known the man to appreciate the simplicity and the luxury. Luka was first and foremost a sensualist.

Running my hand over the velvet, I remember that it was once a brilliant burgundy, the color remaining only a faded memory of its former glory. Its texture stirs memories of a cold, snowy afternoon, but I force them away, waiting for the Ouzo to take hold. Only then will I dare face them. More ouzo, standing, pacing. I really shouldn’t be here.

My cell phone vibrates and I pull it from my inner jacket pocket. Liam appears on the caller ID. I wait for the call to go to voicemail, wait longer, waiting for the message light to blink.

Two swigs of ouzo and then two more before I am ready to listen to his message.

“Eva, s’me. I took your advice, my flight leaves in two hours. The Welsh countryside is lovely in the winter, peaceful. You need some solitude right now, too.

Come with me; get away from Paris, get away from work. God only knows how hard the last assignment was on you. I went over the debriefing notes, why didn’t you tell me a kid was shot? You can’t keep this stuff inside, Eva … you can trust me … share your emotions with me. You don’t have to literally be the Ice Princess all of the time. Call me back, or show up at the airport. I’m worried.”

Four swigs of ouzo weren’t enough for me to have listened to that message and I’m not sure which emotion to experience first. Warm and fuzzy, because he wants me to join him in the romantic Welsh countryside? Pissed as hell, because he was in my file, reading my personal notes on what exactly happened that the child was hit? Annoyed maybe, because he referred to me by the pet name I was given first year because absolutely nothing made me cry?

I’m not calling back.

If he’d said, meet me at the airport, I would have gone.

As it is, I just need more ouzo.

I toss the phone onto an antique sideboard and swallow more liquid fire before setting the bottle next to it. Turning, I face the biggest demon in the room—his antique wardrobe. It is a prize possession, a family heirloom passed too many generations to mentally click which great-great it would have been who lovingly carved and painted it for his new bride. It is exquisite, with elaborate twists and curves, and painted roses. Just opening the door releases his scent and, knowing that, I wait, taking the time to slide out of my jacket, holster, shirt, and pants. I seriously consider leaving my bra and panties on, but who am I kidding? I want to be naked when his scent leaps free from his closet, I want my skin wrapped in his scent.

The room is icy and my skin stands at attention, covered with gooseflesh, as I open the closet door. Inhaling deeply, I step inside, pulling his silk robe, a traditional kimono he acquired in Japan, from its hanger. I hold it to my face, taking Liam’s advice, I embrace the emotion tearing through my heart and sob openly for the first time in a decade. Tears streaming down my face, I rub the cool, slick fabric over my breasts and stomach in complete agony over my loss of him, before wrapping myself in it. Within moments, my body heat mingles with the scent, so that when I lift the fabric to my nose, it is like we are together once more.

Stepping over the pile of tossed clothes, I reach for the ouzo and take several long swigs, warming the back of my throat. His ouzo, just as his scent, is a familiar comfort, and I remember the night that it was his lips, his tongue, teaching me to enjoy the flavor, the flavor of him.

The sound of rain hitting the windows draws my eyes to a high window. When did the snow change to rain? The storm makes the sky appear as black as night, it must be day by now at least. A flash of lightning illuminates the room. Reaching full force, the storm pounds the metal roof, reverberating through my pounding head. I blame the headache on Liam.

Reaching for my jacket, I withdraw a small pillbox containing Vicodin and swallow several.

Keeping the ouzo near, I lay down on the bed, wrapping myself in the luxury of the mink throw, and prop myself against the many down pillows. I flip on the bedside CD

player, filling the room with soft jazz. Lulled by the hypnotic bass notes and warmed by the alcohol coursing through my veins, I will myself to relax, the tension in my neck and shoulders greater since the storm began. Or since Liam’s call.

Funny, I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t on edge, each mission blurring into the next. The last mission racing to the forefront. I battle away the images of the man, his gun barrel aimed, his trigger finger ready. Was I really that much faster? The wife and daughter screaming, but not racing to the man, racing to the playpen in the corner. It seemed not real when she lifted the toddler to her chest, the blood … slow-motion horror, and then fast-forward as so many were yelling, running, an airlift ordered for the youngest victim. It seems like a million years ago, it still doesn’t seem real. It was Mattie who carried the bundle across the snow to the waiting helicopter, leaving a trail of blood in the white snow. Am I a horrible person that I wasn’t thinking about the baby when I dropped to my knees and picked up a handful of red snow? God, Luka, will I ever forget?

I close my eyes, thankful that the baby lives.

I really need to let go of the past … I know I do.

Should I go to Wales? I don’t need the Welsh countryside to relax.

Yes, here with more ouzo I chug from the bottle … I need to be here with Luka.

If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel’s heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence.

~ George Eliot, Middlemarch

“Celia?” My secretary calls from the other side of the door. I am locked in my private bathroom and have absolutely no intention of coming out … but she doesn’t know that yet. “Celia?” She knocks on the door. “Are you all right?”