“Fine.” Although he didn’t look fine about it. In fact, he looked downright annoyed.
Well, it was my letter.
“Y’know, Quinn, the only reason why I’m not kicking your ass is because you were so f*****g young.”
“Excuse me?”
“You wasted all this time thinking this bozo was the love of your life.”
How had he known—Why was I even wondering that? He was Mark Vincent.
“He was supposed to love you.”
“Yes. And?”
“He calls you his dear, dear friend, but ends it ‘yours sincerely’? He addresses you as ‘vous’?”
“Ah. I see what you mean.”
“I knew you would. You aren’t stupid, even if you are CIA. And there’s one thing more, Quinn.” He didn’t give me a chance to ask what that one thing more might be, just snarled, “You can be damned sure I’d address you as ‘tu’!”
“You would?”
For a second I t
