The Spy Wore Red

“Bitte, Holic. Not while I’m driving. It is reckless and—”

“Shh… I will touch you whenever, Mady, and wherever. You know I will. Now drive and stay on the road.”

“The gun is in my coat pocket,” she offered, as if that was going to stop him from his intent.

“A good place for it, for now,” he said, finding the zipper on her jeans. Ten minutes later, he removed his hand from her underwear, pulled the dead man’s hat off his head and tossed it in the back seat.

His long hair hung limp and damp with fever, slightly diminishing his well-noted rugged handsomeness. But he was still a virile specimen of male masculinity and he knew it—after all, he had the look of a pirate and the reputation to go along with it.

He reclined the seat and relaxed, the scent of Mady and her spent climax hanging in the close quarters inside the vehicle. When a shiver took him, Mady flipped the switch on the heater and a blast of warm air filled the front seat.

He was just beginning to doze off when he felt her hand on his forehead. If he wasn’t mistaken, the SUV picked up speed after that, and he smiled again with the knowledge that she did love him no matter what he did.

As the miles came and went his thoughts turned to Groffen. They would arrive sometime tomorrow. Mady would get him there, he had no doubt. After all, she had taken a vow to obey her husband.

Loyalty then…it was the most powerful insurance a man could own. Mady was one of two people he could trust—she and Pris. Yes, his daughter loved him as much as Mady did. But unlike her mother, Pris wasn’t afraid of guns.

A smile touched his dry lips and suddenly he had the answer to his daughter’s dilemma, and possibly his own. Pris had the patience for it, and she valued perfection. Those were an assassin’s two best friends.

Nadja stood below a spotlight a hundred yards from the Learjet that sat on the tarmac at Prague’s Praha Ruzyne Airport. It was almost midnight and what gear she had packed fit into a compact carry-on. Whatever else she required she would purchase once she arrived in Austria.

A sharp wind blew out of the west, carrying more snow. Nadja wrapped her red cashmere cape closer to her body.

The weather forecast had predicted a major snowstorm for the Alpine region. It would be good for the ski lodges, but not for much else. It could easily bring the mission to a halt for days at a time if the storm stalled out in the mountains.

“Our reputations, yours and mine, are riding on the success of this mission, Q. Do whatever is necessary to complete it as planned. Understand?”

“Da. Holic will die after the kill-file is recovered.”

Polax nodded. “This mission could be tougher than anything you’ve come up against so far. You’re working with one of Merrick’s best. Trust that, and his ability to back you up. He’s damn good.”

Yes he was, Nadja thought.

“What’s in the file?” she asked.

“Names of agents and powerful people the Chameleon wanted executed. So you see why we must retrieve it. Questions, Q? You look like there’s something on your mind. Ask it, so we can get this mission under way.”

“Are we concerned that Quest agents are on that list?”

“We know it’s likely, but not who or how many. Again I’ll say there is a lot at stake here, Q. This mission is going to demand more of you than rhythm, a little moaning and good aim.”

Nadja picked up on something in his voice and suddenly asked, “You wanted me on this mission, didn’t you?”

“Of course. Except for your adversity to cold weather, you are the best agent for this job.”

“But…”

“But why did I suggest Lenova over you? Men like Merrick and Odell don’t like being told what they need. They believe they already know.”

“It was a gamble,” she said, knowing if she hadn’t showed up in his office and faced Bjorn she wouldn’t be taking the trip.

“Not to worry, Q. I always have a backup plan. There are, however, risks. You don’t need to get caught in the middle of a storm, so don’t. Don’t forget your limitations. You know what they are and how vulnerable they can make you.” Polax pulled a phone out of his pocket. “This will make it possible to reach me if you have to, but only if it’s urgent. It’s my newest invention. No one knows about it yet, so it’ll be our little secret. It’s a phone, a computer and a little more.”

He showed her the miniature plastic explosives behind a hidden compartment. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking that they’re too small to do the damage. One charge can put a six-foot hole in a wall ten seconds after detonation. Ingenious, yes?”

“Ingenious.” Nadja took Polax’s latest invention and slipped it into the inside pocket of her cape.

“I’ve loaded the necessary data you’ll need into the computer chip. It can be accessed by using your PIN number. The data includes information on your partner, and the target. There’s a high-frequency text messenger for fast communication with me. It’s useless to anyone who doesn’t know the codes, so if you lose the phone, Quest won’t be compromised. But at the cost of two million a phone, try not to lose it, Q.”

“No, sir.”

“One more thing. Normally I would tell you not to trifle with a man of Holic’s caliber, but as I said before, whatever it takes to recover the file is acceptable. Make the most of every opportunity. You’ve proven that there isn’t a man alive who can resist your charms. It’s your trademark, after all. Love ’em and leave ’em…dead, Q. Good luck.”

Polax remained beneath the glowing security lamp when Nadja started across the tarmac toward the Learjet. She boarded the jet with false composure, but no one would have been able to tell. Since seeing Bjorn in the corridor at Quest she’d started to play the what-if game. A deadly game she rarely indulged in. But truthfully, seeing Bjorn today had shaken her.

Luckily she’d been able to fall back on her professional training. She’d managed to play the aggressor in Polax’s office. She hadn’t dared to show any weakness.

Six years ago when she’d joined Quest, she’d had no idea what she was letting herself in for. But she’d soon accepted her role. What choice did she have? She’d become single-minded: do her job—cancel the man beneath her—then return to headquarters. She’d followed the rules without question in Vienna. The bedroom assassin had found her quarry, canceled her target, and was on her way out of the city—when she realized she was being followed.

That’s why she’d slipped into the keller, and Bjorn had come to her rescue in the alley.

She hadn’t needed him to save her. But he had saved her that night in a very private way, and damned her, too.

The truth was, he knew the level of her passion. He knew how she looked naked. How long her legs were and the shape of her breasts. And he knew where she liked to be touched most, and to what degree. He knew where his lips could do the most damage. Knew she had a secret spot on her body that could render her helpless.

But what he didn’t know was that all the other men who knew those same facts were dead. Every one of them. She had never had to look into their eyes after she’d given herself to them. Not an hour later, not a day or a year later.

Bjorn had changed the rules that night in Vienna. She hadn’t been able to confirm that he was an enemy, and then there was that technicality as to where they had sex—she could honestly say she’d never had a sexual encounter in the shower before that night.

She could say that’s what had altered the outcome of their night together—why she’d let him live—but she would be lying. From the very moment he had taken her hand and led her out of the alley, she had lost some of her ability to think rationally.

She hadn’t analyzed it at the time, but now, five years later, she knew what had made the difference, and she felt foolish—she’d been had by a professional, taken in by some of the most basic tricks a man could use on a woman—good old-fashioned experience.

She’d thought she was the one with all the experience, but Bjorn Odell was the master, his touch capable of lighting a thousand fires under a woman’s skin.

And the way he used his lips…

Even now the memory of him coaxing her into climax sent raw chills up her spine. Helpless in his arms—that was the only way to explain how she had felt. Helpless and willing to forfeit everything to feel what she had never felt with any other man.

No, she had never wanted to see him again, didn’t dare. Not after the way she had shattered in his arms. But that didn’t mean she would ever be able to forget the man with the hot hands and the sky-blue eyes.

She wanted to turn around and run from the airplane, but she wasn’t going to. She needed to visit Wilten Parish, and if Ruger wasn’t there… No, he would be there, and he would assure her that all was well—that their secret was safe.

Then he would prove it by saying the prayer that produced miracles and moved mountains. Ruger had saved her once before, and he would do it again.

She came aboard wearing red wool and snowflakes, and the memory it evoked tightened Bjorn’s gut. He watched her slip off the cape and toss it on a seat opposite him.

She was dressed all in black under the cape, and he sized her up. Her sweater moved along her curves as if it had been painted on. Her pants, too, fit like a sleek pair of expensive leather gloves. His eyes shifted to her narrow waist, then traveled to the flare of her hips. Then to the junction of her thighs.