Femme Fatale Page 5

  “You can find evidence of my reaction to it all along the dock.” Even to his own ears he sounded churlish.

  In her place he supposed he might have smiled, too. Just a small smile, quickly hidden. “Gosh,” she said, about as American as she could get. “I’m so, uh, sorry to hear it. Really.”

  “I’ll just bet,” he said. He slid his hand under the parka, neatly snagged his Browning, and scooped up the bundle so he could slide over to her bench, settling close enough to look intimate to anyone who happened to glance at them. She smelled of the same fresh scent as the parka. “Now, you want to talk to me about what went down this morning?”

  She managed to look amused. “And why would I want to do that, Jason Chandler? Because you think I killed the woman I was trying to protect? Or because you tried to take me away in cuffs? You’re not going to do that part again, are you?”

  “Not planning to,” Jason managed, thrown entirely off balance by her casual revelations. She knows who I am. She was trying to protect—?

  No, he wasn’t sure he believed that. His hand certainly didn’t believe it, curled reactively around the Browning grip the way it was.

  Or maybe it was just smarter than he was, and knew he was too off balance around this woman to play the game.

  She said, “I don’t know what weapon he used, but he was a fool. He was way too close to target, and even so, didn’t manage an instant kill. Worse yet, he didn’t follow through. We were wide-open while I dragged Lyeta behind that crane leg. Sloppy, sloppy. If you think you can pin work that bad on me, then you don’t have any idea who you’re dealing with, do you?”

  Jason gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Everyone has a bad day. Bad enough to leave the rifle behind. And maybe some prints?”

  She snorted. “As if.”

  After a moment he said, “Ah. One of those American nonsense phrases that’s supposed to mean something.”

  “It means I’m leaving.” She stared off at one of the plants, defiant in a way that made no sense to him. In sudden insight, he recognized it—she was in some way challenging her orders. Not surprising. “I’m not desperate enough to work with you.”

  “To work with—” Caught flat-footed, he stole her American nonsense phrase. “As if!”

  She slanted a shadowed gaze at him. “That really doesn’t work coming from a manly MI6 guy like you.”

  Creative types. They followed a logic that meant nothing to anyone else. They switched directions so fast you were always hanging with one foot over the edge of a hairpin curve, a helpless little cartoon character trying to catch up.

  And yet still, there was something stirring in such intensity. Such a self-directed approach to life.

  Not stirring enough. “You want manly MI6?” he asked. “How’s this? My nice macho nine-millimeter Browning is only centimeters from your bum. It’s a lovely bum, and I’d hate to make holes in it, but I’ve got a ten-round magazine and it’s full.” As an afterthought he added, “It’s got black epoxy finish. Very sexy.”

  “My bum?” she said faintly, although not from any obvious fear. More like disbelief of what she’d just heard.

  “The pistol,” he said. “Black epoxy. All the blokes want one.” Good Lord, she had him talking nonsense just like she did.

  “Yeah?” She actually seemed offended that he’d been talking about the pistol and not her sweet rounded body parts. “Mine is a Sig-Sauer P226. Nine millimeter, sixteen-round magazine, European proof marks, custom Nill-grips. Name of Wyatt.” She raised an eyebrow at him, proclaiming her trump. “That’s not counting my rifle, of course. Which you haven’t got. You’ve got some fool’s weapon instead.”

  “But I’ve got my pistol,” he reminded her. “Centimeters from your bum, remember? And unless you’re hiding a third arm somewhere, your Wyatt is not in hand. So when I suggest we quietly leave this little shopping mecca and head for a place where we can discuss why you killed Lyeta and what you found on her body—as well as what she told you—I hope you pay serious attention. And while you’re at it, you can hand over that nice fanny pack. Looks like it’s carrying a bit of weight. Wouldn’t want you to tire.”

  “SAS spelled sideways,” she growled. “And what if I don’t? This is such a nice place to make a scene, don’t you think?”

  “Only one of us is wanted by the local Boer for murder,” he said complacently, not bothering to mention it wasn’t her. “You go ahead. Make your scene. I’ll be the manly MI6 agent who tracked you down.” He nodded in thoughtful satisfaction. “I like the sound of that. Then we’ll still talk—only you’ll be behind bars.”

  She glared at him. It was an amazing glare, coming from blue-green eyes the same color as the parka. Deepest turquoise. Those eyes should have been illegal all in of themselves, never mind what else she was up to. The shopping center visitors walked happily by the sunken conversation area, chattering kids in tow, laden with touristy totes and smelling of suntan lotion. Jason had an unhappy awareness that the population of the center had nearly doubled within the past hour; it was well and away time to be out of here. Cape Town’s beautifully moderate weather would bring tourists out in droves as the day wore on.

  And she still glared at him. “You know,” she said, “I’ve got things to do, and you’re wasting my time. Has it ever occurred to you that we’re on the same side? That I didn’t kill Lyeta? That you’re just getting in my way, stopping me from accomplishing something that will benefit us both—not to mention just about anyone else on this little global village we call a planet?”

  “No,” he said automatically. “Or why resist coming along with me in the first place?”

  She made an inarticulate noise of frustration. “Because you’re in my way. I don’t have the time to waste!”

  “I’m afraid you’re going to have to convince me with something more along the order of details,” he said. “Lots of details.” But he hesitated, aware of the doubt sitting rather heavily in the center of his chest. The genuine frustration, the way it showed on her face along with everything else—

  That doesn’t mean it’s real—she already proved that.

  “Six billion, two hundred million people on this planet waiting for me to get in gear. One million, six thousand right here in Cape Town alone,” she grumbled. “And I’m sitting here waiting for you to make up your mind.”

  Ow. “As it happens, my mind’s made up.” It wasn’t. But if he followed procedure, if he brought her in, then it didn’t have to be made up. The decisions would be made for him. “Give over the fanny pack and let’s go.”

  “Stiff-necked stuffed shirt,” she muttered, renewing her glare as she unclipped the fanny pack. “You deserve that haircut.”

  As the BMW motorbike idled in front of a red light, Chandler turned his head just enough to shout at Beth. “Keep still,” he snapped at her.

  She rested her chin on his shoulder, heedless of the way the helmet clipped him on the head. “I’m bored,” she said. “And you made me wear this helmet. I feel like a banana.” At least she had her parka. The sweater had been fine in calm sixty-degree air at the waterfront, but even though the sun had continued to warm the day, the wind from their passage drew goose bumps on Beth’s arms.

  He gritted his teeth as the light changed, resolutely turning his attention back to the traffic as they headed into Cape Town proper. She could see the muscle of his jaw twitch, squaring it even more. He took them through areas with incredible Victorian architecture with iron lace railings and exacting paint jobs and into the more modern part of the city until buildings rose high above them, ultramodern architecture gleaming of glass and steel.

  Beth, her hands handcuffed around his waist, felt it the better part of valor not to pitch an escape attempt right here on the moving motorbike, leaving potential smears of herself all over the road. Work with him, Barbara had said. It didn’t look like she’d have a choice.

  Or rather, the choices were such that allowing him to take her to a quiet place for a chat was t
he least of all the evils. And if she could break away somewhere along the way, so be it. Meanwhile, she snugged up against his back and let her hands rest on his belt buckle, tapping restlessly…and quite clearly getting to him. Good. The more she annoyed him with the little things, the less seriously he’d take her, the more distracted he’d become—and maybe that moment to break away would be hers for the taking.

  They turned onto Strand Street and after a short jaunt through the traffic-filled lanes, swooped down a ramp into the cavernous parking garage below the towering Holiday Inn Cape Town. When he flipped the kickstand down and cut the motor, the resulting silence held the peculiar quality of underground garage acoustics everywhere.

  “‘We are the Pilgrims, master, we shall go…’” Beth murmured.

  He jerked around to look at her—or tried to, for he was still enclosed in her arms. He frowned at her, those glacial eyes searching hers. They were close enough for Beth to see how the edges of his irises were darker than the rest, as though someone had applied watercolor in a circle and the color slowly, dramatically seeped inward. In this lighting, his pupils had gone huge; it made him look more vulnerable…not so much of that chipped ice British exterior. “How’d you—”

  “It’s on the clock, right?” she said. “The SAS memorial at Credenhill.”

  “Hell bloody yes,” he said. “What are you doing with it?”

  “Trivia. Just one of my many endearing qualities,” she murmured modestly. Not to mention it had the effect she wanted, which was to throw him off stride again. She really didn’t want him to start thinking efficiently. It might occur to him to search her, in which event he’d surely find her little S&W in the ankle holster.

  He looked at her another moment and then gave a sudden little snort, turning away to abruptly lift her hands over his head.

  She fumbled with the helmet, finally removing it, and when he took it, used her cuffed hands to first muss her hair slightly and then smooth it back. Then she held them out expectantly, palms up.

  “Not a chance,” he said, hooking the helmet over a handlebar and bringing a leg over the front of the bike seat.

  “You don’t think it’ll be a little obvious if you take me in there in cuffs? You don’t think I can find a way to make it obvious?”

  “I think I can find a way to make you regret it if you do,” he said.

  “Oh, I’m trembling. Big bad SAS. At least take one of the cuffs yourself. It’ll be more comfortable for me and, gosh, we can hold hands and no one will ever know it’s because there are handcuffs involved. It’s not like I can run off and leave you again. At least, not without killing you and rifling your body for the key. That’ll be hard to do in the lobby, even for me.”

  He shook his head; she couldn’t decide if he was incredulous or just hiding a smile. She sat quietly and with quick, efficient moves he freed her left hand and snapped the cuff closed around his own. Taking her hand, he said, “What’s your name?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your name,” he repeated. “If I’m going to walk into the hotel holding hands with you, I need to know your name.”

  “Ah. An old-fashioned kind of guy.” She hesitated, considering pseudonyms and considering the warm, gentle pressure of his fingers over hers. Finally she said, “You can call me Beth,” with all the implication that it wasn’t truly her name.

  “All right, Beth,” he said evenly. “Here’s how it goes. We’ll walk through the public areas of the hotel quietly, and we’ll stay quiet all the way up to my room. Keep in mind that you’re wanted for murder; being with me isn’t the worst situation you face. If you make it hard on me, that could change.”

  “I believe I’ve already made it hard on you,” Beth said, and widened her eyes in affected innocence.

  Goodness, he blushed. Mr. Manly MI6 blushed. But he wasn’t going to admit it. He said shortly, “Let’s go.”

  She dismounted the bike, walking alongside him with casual ease. They took a short flight of stairs, automatically adjusting for the tight space and the rhythm of each other’s movement. When he pushed open the glass-fronted door to the lobby, Beth had to stop and gape a moment. The lavishly appointed lobby sparkled at them, worthy of any gala. In the center, a slab fountain rippled discreetly into a small pool filled with tossed coins, creating only enough water noise to be soothing without being disruptive. Brass shone and plush, spotless carpets led the way to a bank of elevators. At the far end of the lobby, a glass-sided staircase curved up to the balcony of the second floor, from which a murmur of conversation trickled. Conference and meeting rooms…no doubt a ballroom. No doubt all as posh and glittery as the lobby.

  Between the door from which they’d just entered and the far staircase, the lobby offered overstuffed chairs and couches. It was to these that Beth marched, taking the initiative abruptly enough so Chandler followed along, his reluctance stiffening his grip on her hand.

  “Relax,” she said, automatically spotting the main exits and the smaller bellboy exit off to the side; other exit signs beckoned beyond the elevators. She marked the interior management doors—the places from which people might unexpectedly appear—and she headed for a small couch that kept their backs to a large square pillar. Before the couch sat a low table, laden with brochures. Blue Crane Winery. Just off the N2 in Faure. Weekly evening reception…tonight. Bet there’ll be plenty of tables, she thought. And under one of those tables she might find Lyeta’s computer keycard. She turned her attention back to Chandler, not certain if he’d seen her distraction, and said, “I’m not causing any trouble. I’m giving you the opportunity to talk. Right here, right now.”

  His fingers tightened painfully around hers. “Not what I had in mind.”

  “Not in your rule book?” she said, letting scorn lace her words. “I learned long ago that everyone else’s notion of a rule book isn’t necessarily what’s best for me. There are only a few people in this world who can lay down rules for me, and you’re not one of them.”

  “Good Lord,” he said, sitting next to her on the couch more bemused than anything. His gaze flicked to the brochures before them, then away. “I’ll bet you don’t get along with your mum.”

  “My mum,” she said, and smiled tightly. “No. But let’s talk about you and your mum instead.”

  He shook his head, more to himself than at her. “Let’s talk about why you were with Lyeta.”

  Beth hesitated. Work with him. There’d be no working with him if she couldn’t convince him they were at least nominally on the same side. And…for all she’d played him, kept her options open and done her best to keep him off guard, she could see the benefits of teaming up. If he ran his ops by the damn rule book, at least she’d know what to expect of him.

  So she said, “Let’s talk about why I wasn’t.”

  He regarded her steadily, looking relaxed in the short, comfortable couch. Beth knew otherwise. She could feel the tension in his thigh next to hers; the heat of being against him warmed her.

  “You mind?” she asked, reaching for the zipper of the parka. With the handcuffs in play she couldn’t take it off, but when he gave a short nod she was glad enough to unzip and open it. She said, “The average sniper is eighteen hundred percent more effective than the average soldier. That goes up, of course, when you put an M24 SWS in the hands of that average soldier as opposed to his M16. But there’s still no comparison.”

  He gave the smallest of smiles; she had the feeling he was beginning to catch on to her non sequitur way of thought. “I’m sure you’ll somehow make this fascinating bit of trivia relevant.”

  “You betcha. Because I’m far more than your average sniper. And as I said at the shopping center…the person who shot Lyeta…that was your average soldier. Your people should have been able to tell you that much.”

  “You still want me to believe you didn’t kill her.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I want you to believe that.”

  “Why?”

  She bit her lip and d
ecided she really had nothing to lose. Not while she had his attention here in the lobby, and wasn’t yet actually in formal questioning…or not so formal questioning, for which even stuffed-shirt MI6 guys didn’t follow the rules. “I think we can work together,” she said. “Things went bad at the dock. Lyeta wasn’t supposed to die. That leaves me with unfinished business. You’re no better off, or you wouldn’t be trying to squeeze me for information. If we work together, we both win.”

  “That’s assuming we’re on the same side,” he said, although how he did it with that slight humor in his eye, Beth didn’t know. It gave her a window into an entirely new facet of him, one she hadn’t considered. One that made her more aware than ever of just how warm she was, bundled in her squall parka and sitting hip to hip, knee to knee, on the small couch. One that made her remember his eyes as they faced each other in the parking garage, and give her a foolish little hiccup of yearning. It had been so long since any man had tempted her beyond the purely physical…

  Not this man. Not this time, this place.

  She gave herself a mental throat clearing and responded, “We’ve got to start on the same side before we can go anywhere else. We’re at a dead stop until then.”

  He gave her hand a little squeeze. “And I suppose this is the first step. Unlocking these.”

  “That would be my guess.” She watched him; he didn’t turn away from her gaze. In fact, he returned it, considering her words…considering her.

  She saw the decision in his eyes the moment they shuttered; something in him went distant from her. He unconsciously squared his shoulders. Disappointment clogged her throat…something more than purely professional. Her foolish little hiccup of yearning, squashed.

  But before either of them could say anything, a perfectly nondescript man swept in through the front entrance at just about the same time another came from the bellboy’s door, and a third from beyond the elevators. Ooh, nice. Coordination. Beth and Chandler hadn’t been spotted yet, but it was only a matter of seconds.