Читать книгу Shannon McKenna Bundle: Ultimate Weapon, Extreme Danger, Behind Closed Doors, Hot Night, & Return to Me - Shannon McKenna - Страница 24

Tam’s eyes fluttered open to a scene of perfect beauty. She blinked, disoriented. She was in a baroque painting. Arches, sky. Clouds glowing a delicate pink, lit by the sunrise. The morning star glittering in the vault of pale blue and gold. All that was missing were the cherubs cavorting.

Her body felt so soft, so warm…ah. That would explain it. Beneath the thick wool blankets, she was wrapped in Val’s arms.

It was the first time in her life that she had awakened in a man’s arms without stiffening and trying to establish her personal space again as soon as possible.

This morning, she was in absolutely no hurry. She could happily stay just like this. A little moment of stolen peace. She wanted it to last and last.

She gazed at his sleeping face. Slumber soothed the rough edges, the lines of stress and strain. He looked vulnerable.

She didn’t want him to be vulnerable. She had enough problems. Let him be tough as razor wire, steel spikes, boot leather. Let him look out for himself, for God’s sake.

But her hand hovered over the contours of his face, taking in every detail. Each scar, the shape of his bones, the strength of his jaw. Each line and hair. Her finger almost touched his cheek, close enough to stroke its fuzzy nap without touching him, feeling his vital heat.

His sleeping face looked so young. She thought of his bleak childhood. It clutched her heart, how strong he was, how uncomplaining. How fragile.

I wasn’t always this big.

It made her jaw clench painfully to think of anyone hurting the vulnerable boy that he had been.

She cuddled closer. Her skin was so sensitive every brush of contact was a kiss, a deliberate caress. There was a throbbing glow in her belly and heart, a quivering tightness in her throat. Hot eyes. Her face wore an expression she’d never felt before. She wondered if she’d recognize herself in the mirror. She was afraid to look.

She didn’t want to call it happiness. That implied too much idiocy on her part. It was more like a kind of madness. But so lovely. So soft.

She should squash it. She knew how to suppress painful emotions. It had to be easier to kill beautiful ones. They were more delicate. The urge was almost automatic—but she suspended it, breathing deep to catch it, like the vanishing smell of a violet. So easily banished or lost.

Her fingertips gave in to temptation. She finally did touch his cheek, enjoying the supple heat of his skin. She studied the hollow of his throat, the tendons in his neck. The dramatic sweep of his eyebrows, each dark hair a pen stroke that emphasized his masculine beauty.

There was an ugly, recent scar twisting across the thick front part of his shoulder. A bullet wound, not the one he’d suffered on the bus. Her fingers hovered over it and moved away. Scar tissue could be extremely sensitive.

His eyes had opened. She felt a jolt of alarm, as if she’d been caught doing something for which she would be punished.

But his eyes did not mock her. They mirrored her own. Full of wonder.

He drew in a breath. Without meaning to, she touched her finger to his lips to silence him. Whatever he might say could ruin it. The moment was as fragile as a snowflake or a curling whorl of smoke. One of a kind, never again. Utterly improbable.

Let it breathe, unfold. Let it just exist for a while before they cheapened it with blunt words and hard realities. Please. Just a little pink and gold dawn fantasy. It wasn’t so much to ask, she told herself rebelliously. She might never feel this way again in her life. In fact, she might not even have a life. No, it was not so goddamn much to ask.

She made do with so little. She never let herself complain.

His lips were so soft against her hand. The warm rose blush of them against her finger was a miracle of nature. He clasped her palm, cradling it inside his own, and kissed her fingers. He turned it and kissed her palm. Reverently. As if her hand were a precious, holy reliquary. As if kissing it could grant power and redemption.

Their lips brushed. A glancing touch, so soft, it was more like a thought. The kiss bloomed sweetly, slowly. Their bodies melded.

Fear clawed inside her, and lost. She wanted to get inside him, she wanted him to be inside her. She wanted to see and know him, to be seen and known. All of her, all of him. The bitter and the sweet.

She climbed on top of him, flinging off the nightshirt. She welcomed the dawn chill against her hot skin. Her skin just perceived the coolness as another caress, and Val had heat to spare, blazing beneath her. So big and powerful. She straddled him, positioning his stiff penis carefully, adjusting the angle, then closed her eyes and flung her head back with a sigh of delight as she sank down, enveloping his beautiful, enormous cock into herself. She felt so tight and full, she could barely move at first, but she melted into him and found a way.

There was no awkwardness, no anger. They clasped each other’s hands for balance, seeking the perfect angles, the perfect rhythm of sliding, surging dance. Pleasure licked up her every nerve, flames leaping and dancing for joy. She touched his face, exploring with her fingers. He reached up and touched her face. Their eyes locked.

Amazed at the startling grace of it. The unexpected gift.

She climaxed several long, lovely, melting times before she realized that he would not come himself. She had not put latex on him.

He would just serve her with his big, hot, beautiful male body, for as long as she pleased, however long it took. She loved his control. She slid off his rigid shaft, wiggling down his stunning body to take him in her mouth, and give back some measure of what he had given her.

He didn’t take long. He was primed. His climax jerked through him, and he spurted into her mouth. She held him there until all the wrenching pleasure had coursed through him and left him trembling and limp.

She crawled back up to sprawl on top of him, chest to chest.

He opened his mouth. “Tamar, I—”

“No.” She stopped him instinctively.

He looked frustrated. “But I did not expect for—”

“Me neither. But we can’t talk about it. There’s nothing to talk about yet, Val. We can’t make any promises or any plans. You can’t make any melodramatic declarations. We have a job to do. So don’t even say it. Don’t even start.”

His mouth tightened. He looked mutinous. “But we—”

“No.” She put her finger on his mouth, and was so pleased by the way his lips felt, she kept it there, caressing the softness and the warmth. She went on. “I will tell you what happens now. We put this thing between us, exactly as it is, into a strongbox with an encrypted lock. We hide the box and keep it safe while we go out there and do our jobs. If we both survive, we come back after and see if something is still alive inside that box. And we deal with it then.”

He frowned. “Things don’t live in locked boxes.”

“Strong things might linger for a while.” She tilted her head to the side and gave him a sly smile. “It also gives you some wiggle room. Think about what you really want. Me, Rachel. We’re a pair, and you know us by now. We’re complicated chicks. A huge pain in the ass, times two. Difficult. Expensive. High maintenance. Lots of big, hairy issues. Think about it long and hard, loverboy. Long and hard.”

His dark eyes narrowed with that look that pierced through all her walls. “You cannot intimidate me,” he said. “Do not try. It bores me.”

God forbid. She made a scoffing noise, but she was smiling inside. Secretly loving it that she could not intimidate him.

She slid off his body, and off the bed. “Anyhow, it’s time to get ready,” she said, turning away. “The box is closed. So’s the subject.”

She pawed through her limited wardrobe choices, seeking just the right look to encounter that spoiled bitch Ana. At least Tam assumed she was still a spoiled bitch after sixteen years. Time did not tend to improve people. Particularly the bad ones.

She concluded that her best bet would be chic, armored, but not particularly sexy. The sleek gray tailored suit with the nipped-in jacket and the flaring trouser legs over a black silk blouse. Bounty from her pirate’s raid. A good, understated foil for the poison horn necklace, the multiblade Liv ring and her sleep-shooting earrings. There was room for a gun, too, beneath the jacket, should she ever get lucky enough to score one. Contacts, to turn her eyes a smoky gray. A dab of powder to accentuate her pallor, a smudged lining of black eyeliner and mascara, for that harsh, dangerous air, good for the jewelry presentation. The cute black half boots, and she’d done the best she could with the materials she had to work with.

She’d pretended to ignore Val as he got ready, not even allowing herself to watch him shave, though he’d left the bathroom door open and done it in the nude. Shameless exhibitionist.

She waited to ogle him until he was safely dressed in his habitual uniform; black over black, a charcoal dress shirt, black jeans, black jacket, gleaming boots. As usual, he smelled amazing. His strong, sculpted jaw looked baby smooth. She had to force herself not to yank his face down to stroke and sniff. She’d probably end up tossing him on the bed again, and they didn’t have time to play.

They stopped in the dining room on Val’s insistence. Tam sipped an espresso while he inhaled cornetti, salami and cheese sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, coffee cake, and God alone knew what all else. She rolled her eyes through the inevitable lecture about her not eating enough, cut mercifully short by a chime from his cell phone. He clicked on the message.

“Henry will meet us at a stazione di servizio on the Autostrada,” he told her. “Thirty kilometers from here.”

They were very quiet on the Autostrada, speaking in short, terse phrases of practical things. Acting like colleagues, not lovers. His tone was polite and distant, his teasing charm gone. She missed it.

She had only herself to blame, though. She was the one who had mandated that they lock all tender emotions in a box. But not to kill them. Oh, God, no. To protect them, rather. To keep them off the gunnery range for as long as possible. To give them a fighting chance.

They might die anyway, she reflected bleakly. Things so often did.

Henry Berne, Val’s friend, was waiting for them in the dining room of the Autogrill restaurant, sipping a cappucino. He rose to his feet when they approached, eyes widening appreciatively as he checked her out. He was a handsome man, huge and muscular, square jawed, barrel chested and blue eyed, the classic American football player type. Inches taller than Val, even. They shook hands. His accent as they murmured introductions marked him as American, from the Midwest, although accents could deceive. Her own often did.

They sat down at the table. Berne’s eyes lingered on her in the silence that settled over them before getting down to business. He cast a speculative glance at her, then at Val.

“I could have met you at your hotel, for breakfast,” Berne said, his voice neutral. “Getting nervous, Val? You don’t even want your friends to know where you’re sleeping? What, dontcha trust me?”

Val shrugged, unoffended. “Just being careful. You must not take it personally. Surely you are not getting your feelings hurt.”

“Me? Fuck, no.”

“Good,” Val said in a businesslike tone. “What have you got for me?”

“Not a lot. Two days isn’t long enough to do surveillance. But I already heard the rumors about Stengl rotting away in a luxury clinic, so it makes sense that it’s near his daughter. And this place here looks promising.” Berne pulled a file out of a battered briefcase and pushed it across the table. He opened it, and tapped an address scribbled on a scrap paper-clipped to some photos.

“Yesterday and the day before, she went to this address outside Nocera at around five o’clock,” he said. “It’s a private clinic. High security, no advertisement, no information available on the Internet.” He plucked out a photo, and tapped it. “There’s the entrance. Biometric security. I’ve seen a retina scan machine and a full palm and five fingerprint lock. There’s no going in without Ana herself, unless you want to bring one of her eyes and one of her hands with you.”

“Messy,” Val observed.

“Yeah, a little. She stayed for more than an hour both times.”

Tam stared at the photo. At this distance, it was hard to be sure that the woman with her back to the camera was Ana, presenting her hand to the palm lock. But Tam couldn’t rule it out, either.

There it was, a direct link to the worst nightmares of her past. And she felt nothing as she stared at that frozen image. How odd.

She dragged her attention back to the men’s conversation.

“Take care,” Berne was saying quietly. “Word is out that you are persona non grata. There’s money to be had in telling them where you are or even where you’ve been. Don’t stay in one place for long.”

Val’s face was shuttered. “Just long enough to do what needs to be done.”

Berne passed another scrap of paper across the table to Val. “Come to this address in Salerno today. I’ve arranged for some goodies for you. Hope you have a big budget. This guy’s not cheap.”

“Not a problem.” Val tucked it into his jacket. “Thank you. As soon as we conclude this matter, I will be contacting you for the details, of our next adventure.”

“I can hardly wait.” Berne turned his gaze to her and gave her a knowing smile that bugged her. Who the hell did he think he was, anyway? What did he think he knew about her just from ogling? She gave him a dazzling smile and watched his face go blank.

She didn’t like him, but that meant very little, since she tended not to like men at all as a rule. Except for the McCloud Crowd. Though ‘like’ was the wrong word, considering how intensely they annoyed her. She trusted them, rather. Which she supposed implied liking.

And she really liked Val. Which she supposed implied trust.

God help her. She was actually starting to trust the man. It gave her the shivers. This emotional stuff was way too complicated for a cold bitch like herself.

“…to go? It is time we moved, Tamar.”

She wrenched her attention back to the two men, who were looking at her oddly. Berne rose to his feet and slapped Val’s shoulder, jerking his chin toward her. “Watch yourself, buddy,” he muttered.

Watch yourself, her ass. Watch out for what? Tam observed the guy walk out with unfriendly eyes.

“You trust him?” she murmured to Val.

He slanted her a wry glance. “Yes. He’s saved my life more than once. And I have returned the favor. We have been friends for years.”

“But you didn’t tell him what hotel we were in.”

“It is no reflection upon him.” Val shrugged. “Caution is a habit. And I like to keep things as simple as possible. It makes the process of elimination easier. It is a protection for him, too. PSS is his life.”

“But not yours?” she inquired.

He gazed straight back at her, unsmiling. “Not mine.”

It was a perfect day for a drive up the twists and turns of the Amalfi coast. Tam felt a funny tug inside herself, an odd longing to take a step out of time, a vacation from reality. Just to give her a chance to take a deep breath and enjoy this man, this place. There was a glowing sparkle to the air, even in winter. The place seemed soaked with light: the craggy, pale rocks, the scrubby silver-green foliage that clung to them, the verdant stairsteps of terraced gardens, the ancient white villages hanging precipitously over the sea.

But time raced relentlessly forward. In too short a time, they had reached the home of Ana Santarini. It was an exquisitely restored Renaissance-era masseria perched on the crest of a hill overlooking the sea. A wrought iron gate hummed aside to let them in, and they drove down a road bounded by ancient stonework. On one side, there was a sheer drop to the brilliant blue sea; on the other, an orchard of olive trees centuries old, each one like a gnarled goblin statue.

That bitch Ana had done well for herself, Tam reflected. Although one needed a look at the mafioso husband to be sure it was worth it.

A big, grim-faced man stopped them at the end of the driveway, looked them over, and showed them where to park. They were led into the house and left in a large, lovely salon with vaulted ceilings painted with original frescos, and decorated with priceless antiques. An enormous veranda looked out over the sea.

A woman stood by the window, dramatically posed, ass jutting out. She turned at their entrance and flashed a calculating glance at Tam before wrapping a dazzling smile of welcome across her face. Not Ana. This was a striking thirty-something. Fake redhead. Lots of makeup, fake tits, and big, rolling green eyes. Must be Donatella.

Tam hated her on sight. She sensed that the feeling was mutual.

The creature flung herself at Val. “Valerio! Amore. At last,” she purred. “You look wonderful, tesoro.” Her eyes flicked to Tam and then back to Val. “And you smell…as good as ever. Mmm, delizioso.”

Tam watched Donatella do the Italian two-kiss choreography, then cup Val’s face in her hands, gaze adoringly into his eyes, fling her head back, and give him three more. Smack, smack, smack.

Tam’s hackles rose. My, how very, very friendly Val and Donatella were. Old pals. Touching. It would have irritated the living shit out of her, had she not been distracted by the second woman, who appeared in the doorway at that moment. Tam’s stomach lurched, abruptly.

Oh, yes. It was Ana, all right. Looking better than Tam might have hoped. Black hair swept into an elegant roll, her buxom figure shown off by a simple black sheath dress. Her ass was a bit on the large side, but the shelf of her surgically enhanced bosom balanced it out. She’d had some work done on her forehead and neck that made her look weirdly smooth and taut under her makeup, like a television personality.

Ana ignored Tam completely as she watched Donatella crawling all over Val. It was clear from her face that she was accustomed to being the center of attention. As such, Donatella was not her favorite person.

Huh. Tam could relate. Donatella’s spike-clawed nails dragged possessively over Val’s chest, palpating. Tam’s own nails dug into her palms.

Well, well. Val hadn’t said anything about having fucked this Donatella woman. Not that Tam had any right or reason to be annoyed if he had, but still. Her lip curled involuntarily. That petulant, pinheaded, plastic slut? How had he gotten through it without fainting from boredom?

Men were such indiscriminate pigs. She did the introduction routine, shaking both women’s cool, manicured, diamond-laden hands, and kept her smiling mask riveted in place. Ignoring the die, bitch vibes that were ricocheting wildly all over the room.

“…permit me to introduce you to Ms. Steele, the artist behind the designs,” Val was saying, smiling and making no effort to extricate himself from Donatella’s tentacles.

Donatella and Ana swiveled their perfectly coiffed heads in unison and cast identical cool glances over Tam.

“Oh, yes, of course,” Ana said. “Donatella has been telling me about your jewelry. Very intriguing. You’re not at all what I expected.”

Tam smiled sweetly, eyes big, and refrained from asking what Ana had expected. She was entirely uninterested in what went on in Ana’s empty head.

Then Ana surprised her by frowning and taking a closer look.

“Have we met?” she asked.

Val’s smile froze. His eyes flicked to hers, alarmed.

Tam shook her head. “I’m sure I would remember,” she said.

Ana preened. “I imagine you would,” she said, dismissing the matter with a wave of her crimson claws.

But Donatella had now been languishing for too many seconds off of center stage. “Valerio, you are an angel for arranging this for me,” she broke in. “And a private showing, too. I’ve been dying to lay my hands on some of these pieces.”

“Actually, it’s not the wearer who is supposed to die,” Tam pointed out helpfully. “If all goes well, that is. There is an element of risk that has to be considered.”

Donatella’s blank look turned into a fuck-you smile. “Of course.”

“Is there a table where I can lay them out for you?” Tam asked.

Things proceeded smoothly from that point. For all Ana’s glaring shortcomings as a human being, and all Donatella’s stomach-turning grabs at Val, the women were dream customers. Deep pockets, limitless self-indulgence, an absolute sense of entitlement plus a pinch of competition all added up to big, big sales. The not so subtle one-upmanship probably prodded the two women to buy three times as many pieces as each one would have on her own. It was a possible sales technique that she’d never considered.

Not that she’d ever use it. Women like these annoyed her too much. Forced to spend time with them, she would feel like killing them. Problematic, killing your customers. Word got around. Bad for business.

That was one of the reasons she esteemed the McCloud Crowd women. Not one of them were cat bitches, pretty though they all were.

Tam wondered if the sales would go through. It depended on the timing. She could make two hundred thousand bucks, and in these complicated days, she could use the cash. But hey, she had a date with destiny to kill this woman’s father. It wouldn’t do to get greedy.

“Usually, I just leave instructions on how to arm the pieces on a password-protected Internet bulletin board,” Tam explained. “But for special customers like you, I’ll make an exception. I still need to obtain the explosives and the poisons. I’ll come back another day and show you personally how to arm them.”

“How soon?” Ana’s eyes glittered with eagerness, and suddenly, Tam wondered about the woman’s relationship with her husband.

“Tomorrow?” Val suggested. “At four o’clock?”

Ana frowned. “Four o’clock is not good for me,” she said. “I have an appointment at five. Can you come earlier?”

“Three?” Tam offered.

“Very well. I will expect you tomorrow at three.” Ana gave her a sugary smile. “I assume you prefer cash?”

“If possible. And you might consider dismissing the domestic staff for the day,” Tam said. “So we can have privacy to speak freely.”

“I’ll see to it,” Ana assured her.

They exchanged bright, glittering fuck-you smiles once again.

Donatella broke in. “And when can we meet to arm mine?” she demanded petulantly. “I need my jewelry armed soon.” Her voice dropped, and her eyes flicked toward Val. “I will need them, to keep a certain tall, dark, and handsome lover in his proper place. In Paris.”

Paris? What the fuck was that about?

Tam made an appointment with the woman for the following week, but such was her feeling of unreality, she did not even note the time or date they agreed upon. The information just came out of her mouth and then floated out of her head. Who knew if the appointment would take place? She could die a horrible death by that day.

But who knew from one minute to the next when death would pounce? It was always a rude surprise. Who could have imagined that hot August morning that her family had gotten up. A morning like any other. Breakfast like any other. Laughing and teasing and squabbling.

But that had been it. The last day. The last morning. The last breakfast. Who knew?

The high-pitched, empty-headed chatter of the two women faded in her mind. The sound of hens clucking. Faraway dogs barking. The distance between herself and the rest of the world widened into a vast buffer of awful silence. She was utterly alone, sealed inside it.

Tomorrow she was going to find out once and for all if revenge could make any difference. Ghosts clustered around her: Mamma, her father, and Irina standing next to her, clutching Tam’s knee with her chubby, dimpled ghost hand. Her liquid dark eyes so uncannily like Rachel’s eyes. She’d been barely two when—

No. Not now. No fits. Not in front of Ana and Donatella.

Tam shut her eyes and saw the dirt scattering into their wide-open eyes. Her ears were starting to roar, her heart to pound.

She tried to tune into the hens clucking, dogs barking, just to grab onto something else. Focus on anything else. Anything at all.

“…so we can eat late,” Donatella was cooing into Val’s ear, in a tone Tam was not meant to overhear. “The cook at La Cantinola will be happy to cook for us, even after eleven o’clock. I’m a special client. And there’s a lovely room above La Cantinola, with a sea view…”

Listen to that. Brazen slut. Trying to coax Val into meeting her for dinner and a quickie.

Val, to his credit, was wiggling like an eel, vacillating between lavish compliments and careful excuses. But the bitch’s hands were all over him. And he was not pushing them off.

The anger helped. It made that sick, sinking feeling back off.

Good. Anger worked, so she embraced it. Bastard. Dog. Porcone.

He would pay for that, later. In blood.

The atmosphere in the car for the drive back to San Vito was subzero. Tam did not even look at him, she just stared straight ahead, radiating a bone-chilling cold with more vicious intensity than he’d ever felt from a woman. Or at least, that he’d ever bothered to notice.

“Would you tell me my crime?” he demanded finally, when they were approaching the San Vito exit.

“No crime,” she said, her voice cool, toneless. “I just can’t imagine how you actually managed to go through with it, that’s all.”

“With what?” he demanded. Although he knew.

She shot him a glance that indicated that she knew that he knew and did not appreciate his dissembling.

He sighed and offered it up. “It was some years ago. I was undercover. Investigating a smuggling ring. Her husband was involved. She was angry at him. I needed info. It was unavoidable.”

“Oh, really? I suppose you fought, tooth and claw,” she said.

“No. I did my job,” he said stiffly. “Just as you have always done.”

“Oh, so now we’re throwing whore darts, are we?”

He shook his head. “It was not particularly memorable,” he said flatly. “Nor was it altogether unpleasant. I have no burning desire to repeat the experience. It did facilitate my job.”

“Works with me, too, eh? Smooth, Val. Fucking your targets into boneless submission. What a trick.”

“Bullshit,” he spat out. “After this morning, you know that is not true.”

“How do I know that? With a man as slick and smooth and pretty as you, how could I possibly know that for sure? Gigolo Janos. So you have a date to meet her in Paris, hmm? If you want to go meet her for dinner and cunnilingus tonight at La Cantinola, please feel free.”

He pulled into the hotel parking, muttering obscenities, and grabbed her jewelry case. “Come,” he snarled. “I will walk you to the hotel, and then I must go to Salerno.” He had planned to keep her close to him, but not in this mood. They would end up killing each other.

She jerked the jewelry case out of his hand. “You remember my shopping list?”

“Of course.”

“Then there’s no need to escort me through a crowded parking lot.” She slammed out of the car. “I can escort myself.”

He loped after her and jerked her shoulder around. “Do not be an idiot.”

“Why not? Seems like it hasn’t put you off before.”

He seized her shoulders. “You are playing games, Tamar. Stop it.”

“Don’t maul me, you oaf—”

“It is stupid and out of character for you to be so angry about my past professional dealings with a woman like that. You are using this as an excuse, no? You would rather be angry at me and jealous about Donatella than feel whatever it is you are really feeling. No? About your past, your family? Ana or Stengl?”

The fight went out of her, and the color drained out of her face. “No,” she whispered. “Don’t try to psychoanalyze me.”

“Then do not cry out for a fucking diagnosis. You are acting like a child. If you need distraction from the way you are feeling, I will come to the room with you now and give you one that you will never forget.”

She stumbled away, grabbing the stonework railing that led up to the hotel entrance. “No,” she said unsteadily. “We have work to do.”

“Then go do it,” he said harshly. “I will distract you when I get back. At great length. Count upon it.”

She scurried up the stairs, disappearing into the lobby of the hotel. Val stared after her, his face hot. He was half tempted to follow her up and make good on his promise, here and now. She would protest and fight and scratch and bite, like always…but then…ah, Dio.

He went back to the car, clenching and unclenching his hands to unload the tension. And the guilt.

He had to edit and send another piece of footage, the one from that morning, to Novak. This was killing him. It got worse every day.

He got into the car, booted up, attached the thin cable. Downloaded the footage. He watched it and relived it. The way she moved, the light shining off her body. Her hands, touching his hair, his face. Her back to the camera, slender and straight as a blade, the perfect curve of her hips swelling out as she straddled him.

His own face to the camera, his feelings revealed. Transfixed by her beauty.

He cut out as much of it as he could and still satisfy the filthy old satyr, and was trying to connect to the Web when the split second realization came to him. Air moved in the car that should not move. Tiny movements, plays of light and shadow, out of place. He froze.

A small sound. No. He reached for a gun that was not there.

Too late. A cold circle of metal pressed against the nape of his neck.

“Hello, Janos,” Hegel said.