Lazlo's Last Stand

Well, they would, if Laz wasn’t so bent on keeping her locked up in his ivory tower, too bloody dense to know he was crazy in love with her. And vice versa.

On the other hand, probably just as well the pair of them were as blind as wombats when it came to matters of the heart, Adam thought as he rode the private car down to the subbasement where, via secret corridors, he would switch to the public elevators in order to access the building’s street floor. Otherwise one or the other of them was bound to notice Adam was crazy in love with the girl himself.

Lucia stalked across the courtyard, which still glistened with the misty rain that had fallen earlier in the evening. Though, to be honest, to call her progress stalking was perhaps overstating it a bit, given that she was wearing strappy sandals with four-inch heels and a gown that limited her stride to something more mincing than regal.

To her extreme annoyance, her escort kept pace with her without compromising his natural elegance one iota.

“I don’t see why you should be upset,” Corbett drawled in an undertone as, in a seemingly natural gesture, he placed one hand on her back just below the edge of the silver fox stole she wore, wrapped tightly against both nervous shivers and Paris’s December chill.

“You might have mentioned it,” she shot back, suddenly breathless.

“I thought I just did.”

“It would have been helpful if you’d done so before I got dressed. I would’ve chosen something a little more—” she swept a hand downward across her front “—a little less…”

The neckline hadn’t seemed that revealing when she’d decided on this particular dress for this evening’s “date,” but now, judging from the caress of the stole’s satin lining she felt with each heaving breath, it did leave quite a lot of her uncovered. Again, to be honest, she hadn’t been thinking all that much about décolletage when she’d chosen the slithery gold gown. She’d chosen it because the color complimented her tawny skin and brought out the auburn highlights in her hair.

Uh-huh, right. Girl, you chose it because it shows off your booty, and you know you look hot in it. If you’re going to be honest…

“You look quite lovely,” Corbett said, in the same tone he might have used to inform her she had a smudge on her cheek. “It isn’t as though you’re meeting the queen, you know—or even the bloody prime minister. Just a minor member of Parliament and his bride—hardly worth getting upset over.”

“A minor member of Parliament and his wife who happen to be your parents.” The last word emerged in a furious hiss. She halted and turned to face him. The horde of butterflies in her stomach turned happy flip-flops at the sight of him, so slim and tall and elegant in his evening dress, the gleaming white of his shirtfront only inches from her own heaving—and now largely uncovered—breasts. She drew a deep breath. “Corbett, you are going to be introducing me to your parents as your, um… They will probably think we…” She paused, met his gaze of cool appraisal, then muttered tartly as she turned to continue her promenade across the courtyard, “Then again, if you’re going to look at me like that, they probably won’t think anything at all.”

“Look at you like…what?”

“Like you’re studying a wine list. Or the morning stock report.”

“Would you prefer me to leer?” He was there beside her, effortlessly in step with her once again, his expression mildly amused. “Perhaps drool a little?”

Lucia had to quell an urge to kick him. How could he be so completely at ease, when she felt as awkward as when she was queen of the geeks in high school? And as nervous as if the captain of the football team had asked her to the prom?

Before she could think of a witty riposte, Corbett said dryly, “Don’t worry, my father will do enough of that for both of us. Well—probably not the drooling.” Then his hand was on her back again, touching her in a way he probably meant to be courteous or reassuring, and his laugh held more warmth and genuine amusement than she’d ever heard in it before. “Don’t worry, I’m joking. I seriously doubt the Honorable Andre Lazlo will be undone by a bit of cleavage.”

Lucia tossed him a look, incapable of coherent speech or thought now that he was touching her again. He smiled back at her, his austere features romantically shadowed by the courtyard’s security floodlights. “Never mind, my dear. You’ll understand, once you’ve met my mother.”

Nodding to the footman dressed in Dickensian costume, Corbett took Lucia’s gloved hand and deftly tucked it into the crook of his elbow. He added in an ominous tone, “You would probably be wise to steer clear of Edward, however.”

Lucia had visited the Paris offices of the British Embassy several times on various errands for the Lazlo Group, but this was her first visit to the ambassador’s residence, the grand old building on the rue du Faubourg St Honoré. She barely had a moment to appreciate the spare but elegant entry hall, with its patterned marble floor, red velvet draperies and sweeping curved staircase, before yet another footman was there to relieve her of her stole. She felt decidedly more vulnerable without it. It’s a mission. It’s what he trained me for. I can do this. She lifted her head high and pasted on the confident smile she knew Corbett expected from her.

She was less successful in controlling the tremors inside.

Corbett was aware of the quiver. Slight though it was, he felt it unmistakably even through his jacket and shirtsleeve. He was on the verge of saying something reassuring, but thought better of it. He was the one from whom she was trying so hard to hide her nervousness; she’d hate that he’d noticed.

He felt twinges of protectiveness to her and reminded himself that he’d trained her well, she had no reason for jitters.

That gave way to compassion. Anyone might be a bit nervous at the prospect of meeting the parents of the boss on whom she had a slight crush.

Then guilt: It was wrong of me to use her like this. Isn’t fair to her.

Although, damnation, he’d been careful to treat her with absolute decorum. Damned hard to do, too, when she was so incredibly beautiful. He could smell her hair, her skin, her own signature fragrance, that sweet, sassy scent that always made him think of warm tropical nights. Jasmine, perhaps?

“Dahling! There you are. Vere have you been, édesfiú? You terry-ble boy!”

The voice he both adored and dreaded soared across the crowded ballroom like the cry of an eagle. At his side, Lucia gave a start and threw him a look, half query, half alarm.

“That would be Mother,” he said resignedly, “obviously channeling the Gabor sisters.”

Lucia braced herself to meet the couple sweeping down upon them. To her the Honorable Andre Lazlo and his wife seemed to belong to another age, and the chamber music rising above the hum of genteel conversation a fitting accompaniment for them as they glided over the gleaming parquet floor. Lydia-Maria didn’t need a towering powdered wig, panniers and a black beauty spot artistically applied to her heart-shaped face in order to fit perfectly with the grand ballroom’s eighteenth-century splendor of carved paneling and gilded mouldings, cascading chandeliers and red velvet draperies. In her platinum pouf and shimmering white gown, with a neckline that plunged dangerously close to the limits of decency—Yes, Corbett, I see what you meant!—she seemed to glitter like the brightest diamond in a rococo setting.

Her husband, by contrast, seemed almost austere in his tux, even with a festive swath of red, white and blue ribbon across his chest. He was a tall man, regal in bearing, handsome in an ascetic sort of way, with silver-white hair and luxuriant moustache to match, and the ice-blue eyes he’d bequeathed to his younger son.

This is what Corbett will look like when he’s old, Lucia thought.

It gave her an odd feeling, as if she’d been allowed a tiny peek behind his facade.

She could almost hear the elder Lazlo’s heels click together as he took her hand and bowed over it with military precision, but was unprepared and had to stifle a nervous giggle when he kissed her hand and in the process let his eyes linger on her half-exposed bosom with an unmistakable twinkle of appreciation. She wanted, but couldn’t quite bring herself, to look at Corbett, to see if he’d noticed.

The introductions had barely concluded when Lucia saw Edward Lazlo heading toward them through the crowded ballroom, with pauses for handshakes and backslaps along the way. Glad-handing, Lucia’s father would have called it, like a politician on the campaign trail.

For all his charm and apparent popularity, Lucia had never managed to like Corbett’s older brother. Being around him gave her a feeling of clammy distaste, as if she’d inadvertently touched something slimy and cold. And, since she was the agency’s computer tech and he its controller, she had to spend a good bit more time in his company than she liked. She tried her best to hide the way she felt, of course, knowing how close the two brothers were. Knowing, too, that Corbett felt deeply indebted to Edward for financing Adam Sinclair’s efforts to clear him of the treason charge, back in their SIS days.

Hard to believe the man could ever have been guilty of so selfless and noble an act, she thought now as she endured his arrogant smile, the look of heavy-lidded appraisal as he took in her gown and cleavage, and the touch of his fat hand on her bare shoulder with a murmured, “How nice to see you, Lucia.”

Then for a while she slipped willingly into fifth-wheel status, wearing the stiff, meaningless smile of the outsider as she watched the four Lazlos draw together and become family. Corbett, of course, drew most of her attention; it was fascinating to see him in this context for the first time. She’d always been struck by how different the brothers were, but now she could see how and why that could be so. Corbett took after his father, both in looks and manner, while Edward favored his mother in much the same way. His body was shorter, softer and rounder than his younger brother’s, which was all sharp angles and hard planes, like his father’s. Edward’s face had the open, friendly plumpness of a happy cherub, while Corbett’s finely chiseled features seemed always veiled in shadows. And yet, watching, she could see genuine affection between the two brothers, as well as the deep respect both had for their parents.

Families, Lucia thought, suddenly missing hers. She was an outsider here, as she would expect to be. What gave her an unexpected pang of loneliness was the realization that she would be just as much an outsider in her own family now. She’d missed them terribly when she’d first moved to Paris, but over the years, visits to her parents’ home in the San Francisco suburb of Pleasant Hill had grown fewer and farther between. Now, on those rare trips to California, all she could think about was getting back to her apartment in Paris, her job…and Corbett. This was her home now, and the Lazlo Group was her family.

And the Lazlo Group—my family!—was being threatened. Someone was picking off their agents—mybrothers and sisters!—one by one. Someone had tried twice to kill its founder and head, Corbett Lazlo. Someone was bombarding agency computers with horrifying e-mails.

And she’d been powerless to stop them.

The hum of genteel conversation, the tinkle of chamber music, the laughter and lights and Christmas cheer all faded into nothing as Lucia’s mind tugged and plucked at the puzzle knot that had frustrated her since midsummer. So far all her best efforts had done was teach her that it was far easier to be a hacker than to catch one.

Maybe, she thought, if I backtrack through…

“Hmm…are those pixels I see in your eyes, my dear?”

The quiet voice so near her ear gave her a start. Electric currents ran wild across her skin as she looked into Corbett’s brilliant blue eyes.

“Let’s not keep the ambassador waiting. Shall we?”

She laughed to cover her shiver and tucked her gloved hand into the crook of the arm he offered.

It was an hour or so later, maybe two—Lucia had lost all track of time—when she and Corbett left the embassy’s heavily secured courtyard and began to stroll along the rue du Faubourg St Honoré. They walked slowly, close together, like lovers reluctant for the evening to end. The night had turned cold and raw. There were few people on the streets, though by Paris standards it wasn’t late. A nasty little wind riffled Lucia’s hair and curled freshly around her neck and under her skirt. She moved closer to Corbett’s side, telling herself it was permissible to do so, that they were supposed to look like lovers, after all. And she tried not to enjoy too much the warmth and closeness of his body, the smell of his jacket and aftershave.

A little ripple of something—perhaps a combination of pleasure and suspense—shivered through her. As if he’d felt it, Corbett pressed her arm, the one that was tucked through his, closer against his side, an odd little hug that may have been only encouragement but somehow felt more intimate than that.

“You did very well tonight,” he murmured, and his voice wasn’t soft like a lover’s, but had a slight rasp to it, as if the words didn’t come easily. “Handling—ah…dealing with…meeting my parents.”