Dangerous Desire

8

He flicks a cool gaze in Raphael’s direction, then stops a few feet away, crosses his arms over his chest, and looks at me.

It feels like being crucified.

I glance down, my heart banging around in my chest like a kicked can.

“That color’s good on you.”

His voice is a throaty grumble. I hesitate to answer, feeling again like this might be some kind of test. I’m wearing the clothing he left me, a dress of soft jersey knit in butter yellow, tied around the waist with a sash. It’s a simple thing, the kind of dress you’d pack for a casual weekend getaway to the beach. It’s also a perfect fit, a fact I found interesting.

This isn’t the style of clothing Dimitri would choose for me. Nor is it his preferred color. He favored me in jewel tones—sapphire, emerald, ruby—and couture. Elaborate, expensive confections he very much enjoyed ripping to shreds with his hands.

He’d consider what I’m wearing a rag. In fact, it’s more like the clothing I chose to wear on Cozumel. Light, airy, and ultra low-maintenance, made for hot climates and stuffing into a travel bag.

I wonder who bought it, because I already know who didn’t.

“Thank you,” I say, still looking down. Then, carefully: “I like it, too.”

Silence. When I glance up, Killian’s eyes are smoldering. His expression makes my mouth go dry.

“Did you use the arnica?”

When I nod, he licks his lips. “Good girl.”

After a sharp look in Killian’s direction, Raphael clears his throat. “My dear, won’t you have a seat on the sundeck while lunch is brought up?”

I want to snap something about how this isn’t a pleasure cruise, but decide against it with Killian’s weird intense energy throbbing all around. I’ll go with prim and proper instead and keep my ears open to see if I can find any clue as to what strangeness is afoot.

Last night, I thought Raphael was in charge. Now, I think he’s window dressing.

I think Killian is really the boss here, only I’m not supposed to know it.

Which makes me wonder what else I’m not supposed to know.

And what else these two are hiding.

FOUR

NAZ

I find Tabby in the war room, the central command of Metrix’s operations. A huge black conference table dominates the center of the space. Two walls are covered with big screens depicting various satellite and video images from around the world. On the floor below the screens, operatives wearing headphones and the standard Metrix work uniform of black cargo pants, black T-shirt, and black combat boots man consoles bristling with colored buttons and switches.

All of them have Glock semiauto handguns strapped to their waists.

Looking distinctly out of place in her pigtails, tiny leather miniskirt, and hot-pink tee, Tabby sits in front of another console, this one operating a larger screen that takes up almost the entire third wall of the room. She doesn’t turn when I approach, but says over her shoulder, “Give me a sec. I just got started.”

Standing behind her chair, I watch as her fingers move lightning fast over a keyboard. Several windows open on the large screen, atop a background image of what I assume is the root directory of some external computer system she’s already hacked into, judging by the directory tree of dozens of files and subfiles on-screen. Her fingers keep moving. In a few seconds, another window opens, this one with a wide-angle picture of a harbor at night.

“Is that what I think it is?”

“If you think it’s the New York Port Authority’s recorded video footage from their security cameras at the harbor from this morning, then yes. It’s what you think it is.”

I watch in fascination as she accesses footage from various angles, obviously taken from different cameras stationed throughout the harbor. The time stamp on all the screens reads today’s date and 00:01. A minute after midnight. Then each image starts to speed up.

“Wait—you’re going too fast to see the hull identifiers of the ships.”

“Don’t worry about that. Just keep your eyes peeled for a woman in a white dress. If Eva was here—assuming she didn’t change clothes from the last time I saw her—she’ll stand out like a beacon. Once we see her, we can follow her to the right ship.”

“Oh. Right.” I feel silly that I didn’t think of that.

We watch the sped-up video feeds in silence for what feels like a long time, until I’m convinced this is a useless effort and I was wrong about Eva being headed to the docks. But then I spot a flash of white in the corner of one dark screen, and my heart leaps. “There!” I shout, pointing.

Tabby hits a button. The video stops. She slowly rewinds the feed using a dial until we see a woman walking backward, her head lowered and her arms wrapped around her body in an attempt to ward off the chill she was surely feeling due to her lack of proper clothing for such a cold, misty night.

Short-sleeved white cotton dresses aren’t good for keeping warm.

It’s Eva.

The rush of emotion that hits me is overpowering. I can’t do anything but stand still and breathe heavily for a moment as a powerful blast of adrenaline rockets through my body, setting every nerve on fire.