Ultimate Weapon (10 page)

But he had seen her without it. He had already seen the thick, disheveled braid swinging down her back as she played with the child. He had seen it wet and loose, clinging to her neck, to her slender, naked back and shoulders. The damage was done.

She looked up, rocking him with the sudden, blazing force of her eyes. “The provenance?”

He looked politely regretful. “As is often the case in my business, the piece came to me by unofficial channels. I bought it from a woman in Rome who had received it from a mysterious foreigner in Prague on a mad weekend love affair—after which she could never contact him again. He evidently gave her a false name and cell number. She sold the piece to me out of pique. The card was with it. I recognized your name, since I’ve dealt with some of your pieces before. I have received many offers already. The price rises daily, you will be gratified to know.”

“I see.” She stared down at the torque, a tiny dent marring the smooth skin between her perfect brows. “Were you aware that the last known owner of this piece died three weeks ago in Paris? She fell to her death from a penthouse terrace. Thirty-four stories.”

“I am shocked to hear it,” he said, his voice respectfully subdued. “Was it…?”

“Suicide?” Steele’s elegant shoulders lifted. “Murder? Who can say? Perhaps she saw or heard something she shouldn’t, perhaps she slept with the wrong person. I imagine it’s best for you that the story not be widely known. People might consider the piece cursed.”

Val made a noncommittal sound. “Forgive me if this sounds calculated, but considering the type of people who are most drawn to your work, it may enhance the torque’s value. Risk makes people feel alive. Danger is an indulgence for many of them.”

“Yes, of course. Carefully controlled danger. Like an amusement park ride.” Her tone was delicately contemptuous. “Do you like danger, Mr. Janos?”

“I am here, am I not?”

Her chilly smile pushed him away. She lifted a telephone set into the wall near the table. “Have you eaten? The food here is excellent.”

“I rarely eat in the evening,” he said. “But rules can be suspended. When temptation beckons, it is wasteful to resist.”

She ignored his flirting. “I had originally thought to invite you to a place that specializes in Italian food, in case you were homesick for
ragú,
or
gnocchi,
” she said. “Then I changed my mind, decided to range a little further afield.”

“You did well,” he said. “I seldom eat Italian food outside of Italy. No matter how talented the chef,
la cucina italiana
loses much of its magic out of context.”

“I agree,” she said. “Well, then. Your choices are the classic Japanese haute cuisine of Mr. Takuda, or that of his wife and associate, Mariko Takuda, who specializes in a more modern style of pan-Asian fusion dishes.”

“Choose for me,” he said gallantly. “I put myself in your hands.”

“Ah, you do enjoy risk.” She picked up the phone and spoke at some length in what sounded like fluent Japanese to whoever was on the other line.

“How many languages do you speak?” he asked.

Her gaze slid away. “Oh, I lost count long ago,” she evaded. “The question becomes irrelevant at a certain point. Shall I show you the pieces, while we wait for dinner?”

He assented. She turned on a light, and laid out her pieces.

Her work was stunning. The designs were bold and yet delicate, imbued with a sense of simmering danger, and the hidden weapons were as cunning and ingenious as they were effective. He understood why Steele’s work was becoming a hot investment. It was unique, timeless. The businessman inside him that desperately wanted to be let out was intrigued, already calculating the profits that could be had by organizing a private auction to select clients of Capriccio Consulting.

He tried not to dwell on how badly he wished his act was real.

A discreet knock indicated that their meal had arrived. Two attractive Asian women entered, clad in skintight, jewel-toned silk brocade dresses, pushing a rolling tray full of fragrant, steaming dishes.

Dinner was essentially a duel. He continued his attempt to flirt with her. She would lead him on for a few dance steps and then slam the door in his face. She ate little, despite the savory perfection of the food, and preferred the steaming green tea to the sake that accompanied the meal. He was pouring her another cup when her cell phone chimed.

She pulled it from some hidden pocket in her pants and glanced at the display, frowning. “Please excuse me for a moment.”

She retreated to the far corner of the room, and stood with her back to him, muttering in Portuguese, in a tone he wasn’t meant to overhear. “…yes, I told you she needs a bath…well? So? She always has a cold! If I only bathed her when she didn’t have a cold, she’d never be bathed at all…so heat the bathroom, and dry her hair…Cristo Santo, Rosalia, you’ll survive if she screams. I survive when she screams…no, not the yogurt. She’s constipated. Give her the fruit, and the bran cookies if she wants another snack…how should I know where the fuzzy pink blanket is? Look in the laundry room, or under the covers of my bed…”

The hot buzz that had been building up in his balls vanished.

The child. He’d been so titillated by his seductive role, he’d let his lies and his lust become almost real.

And this was his chance when she wasn’t looking. Her jewelry carrying case sat on the floor within arm’s reach. He had no idea if the room had hidden cameras. He weighed the risks and made his choice.

He poked the tiny, missile-shaped RF beacon needle tip right through the black leather of the case and insinuated it beneath. It left a tiny misshapen bulge, but by the time she noticed, it would no longer matter. It would only monitor her for maybe thirty-six hours, having so little battery power.

But Imre only had a couple of days, in any case.

“…so tell her I’ll be back soon. And only Elmo, or Pooh. The other ones give her nightmares. Yes. Just a couple of hours. ’Til then.”

She clicked the phone shut. He sensed rather than heard her sigh of frustration.

“You have a child?” he said quietly.

She whipped around, alarmed. “You speak Brazilian Portuguese?”

He shrugged. “Romance languages,” he said lightly. “Spanish, French, Italian, Romanian. You learn one, you learn them all.”

“Hmmph.” She gazed at him, eyes wide. He had scared her.

“Tell me about your daughter,” he urged.

Her haughty chin lifted. “I do not discuss my private life with strangers.”

He gave her a coaxing smile. “I am still a stranger?”

“Let’s focus on business,” she said crisply. “Why am I here, Mr. Janos? Talk. And be succinct, please.”

He displayed appropriate good-humored disappointment at being frozen out. “Very well. I am interested in organizing a private auction. Many of my clients are already eager to acquire your work. Once I put out the word, there will be a quiet stampede. And I have the perfect setting for it, too. A friend of mine owns a restored medieval
masseria
in San Sebastiano, near Naples, where we could organize a weekend event, and if you came—”

“Why the hell would I come?” Her voice was sharp.

“Your presence would be a huge draw,” he assured her. “Your mystery, your secrecy, your beauty.”

She gave him a disdainful look.

He persisted. “I am serious. Nothing stimulates people to spend money more than feeling part of an exclusive club. The commisions you will get for future pieces will keep you busy for years. You could earn hundreds of thousands, Ms. Steele. Perhaps seven figures.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and pondered him. “And you?” she asked. “What do you earn, Mr. Janos?”

He shrugged. “A modest percentage, of course.”

“Modest,” she purred. “A dangerous word. Very subjective, especially when it comes to money.”

“Never mind the money. We can hammer out the financial details later. For now, think about it. You come to San Sebastiano, enjoy a sensual, profitable weekend, and then disappear again to your secluded privacy with a sack of money. Why not?”

“It sounds dangerous,” she said.

“Not at all,” he assured her. “The place is private, the guests hand-picked, the security good, the time interval brief.”

“It’s dangerous because
you
are dangerous,” she said.

“You are more than what you seem. Or less. Shall I tell you why?”

Her words chilled him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Let me tell you all about yourself.” She gave him a coaxing, overly sweet smile. “Then tell me if I hit the mark. Think of it as a get-to-know-you game. Wasn’t that what you wanted? To know me better?”

He sensed a trap, but threw up his hands,
galantuomo
to the last gasp. “How can I refuse a lady?”

T
am cupped her tea in both hands and inhaled the steam as she studied his face. She didn’t like to admit it to herself, but it was taking more energy than she’d expected to withstand the gale force of this man’s sex appeal. Not just the language but even the way she talked changed in his presence.

Erin had not been kidding. For some reason, Tam had been expecting a generic, male-model sort of handsomeness. Which was unfair. Erin was married to Connor, after all, and even Tam could appreciate his craggy, fierce good looks. Even at her moodiest.

But still. She was utterly unprepared for…well, him.

Lethal.
It was the first word that came to mind, even though it embarrassed her. He was so solid, so hard looking. Dynamic, and yet calm and focused. Nothing soft about him, except for the gloss of that thick brush of black hair. She wanted to touch it, just to see if it really was as soft as mink. Gypsy dark eyes, inky brows and lashes. The planes and angles of his face were starkly masculine, arrogantly sensual, but that smile was pure temptation. She’d considered herself impervious to men’s lures, so why was she marveling at the lines carved into his cheeks when he grinned, or that blinding flash of teeth against his dark skin?
Get a fucking grip, Steele. This is unacceptable.

His face looked hard used for a rich business consultant. There were bumps on his slightly crooked nose, a white diagonal scar sliced through one thick, slashing eyebrow, and subtler scars that only a trained eye accustomed to evaluating the effects of cosmetic surgery could catch. And the hands, of course. He’d fought in his life. Fought hard. Won, more often than not, judging from his vibe.

And what a vibe. It blasted out of him, full force. It was out of human range, a frequency that only a fucked-up freakoid with a weird, checkered past like hers could perceive. But so different from the danger waves that had throbbed out of the sicko madmen she’d had the misfortune to get close to before, like Novak, Georg, Drago Stengl. Their vibration had made her recoil.

Not so with Janos. In him, the danger was blended like a cocktail with seductive, predatory male sexual energy that assaulted her at every level. It silently said, beneath the smooth veneer of perfect gentlemanly courtesy, that he wanted to fuck her, left, right, up, down and sideways. And that it would be well worth her while.

She didn’t doubt it. But she wasn’t going to listen, not even with her nerves jangling, her skin prickling, her heart thudding. Back off, boyo. This was business, and that was how it was going to stay.

“You’re not what you try to appear,” she said. “You are charming and flirtatious and inscrutable, Mr. Janos, but tiny details betray you. Your hands should be soft from handling nothing heavier than a pen and a computer mouse, but yours are scarred and callused. And your face. Your nose has been broken. Several times it wasn’t set. You can’t blame the martial arts club. If it happened during sparring, why would a rich, image-conscious businessman neglect to get his nose set? Of course he would not.”

“I did not see the point of—”

“So it happened when you were a boy,” she went on smoothly. “No one set your nose then, either, which implies poverty, neglect, or both. I’m thinking an urban environment, judging from your basic vibe. And those scars on your face, the tiny one above your lip, the one cutting through your eyebrow, the one on your forehead that you almost hide with your hair, it makes me wonder what other scars you hide with the beautiful six-thousand-euro suit you’re wearing. You’ve had laser treatments, dermabrasion, but the ghosts always remain.”

“I’m glad you like the suit,” he said blandly.

“You’re no country boy,” she went on. “But you’re not from Rome. You don’t have the accent of the Roman periphery. Your Italian has a Roman cadence, but to my ear, it is a studied one, not a native one. You grew up somewhere else, speaking something else, and learned your perfect Italian later. And you grew up rough. Very rough.”

He stared back at her, frozen into stillness. His eyes were chips of black, opaque glass. “Go on,” he said.

She set down the teacup, threaded her fingers together, and rode the swirling current deeper into wild speculation. She felt like she was drifting on a boat into a night-dark cave of mysteries, and only the currents of air, the echoes, the flutter of distant bats’ wings could hint at its true vastness. It was dangerous. And…exciting.

She pondered his stark face for a moment, and went on. “You are a ladies’ man, and your charm is practiced. You are accustomed to controlling women with sex, but unlike other men with that ability, your ego doesn’t rest on it—although your looks and your body would entitle you to—”

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“I’m not complimenting you,” she said, her voice impatient. “This is an analysis, Janos. Not flattery. Not flirting.”

“My error,” he said, after a brief, startled pause.

She did not acknowledge his sarcasm. “Sex is a tool for you,” she said. “But when seduction does not achieve its goal, you just change tactics without getting your pride hurt and try again, and again, and again. This suggests a lack of machismo not normal in a man from any culture I know—particularly not one who professes to have grown up in Italy. Italian men aren’t known for their humility, or their self-control. This coolness, this calculation regarding sex is a trait I associate with high-end sex professionals.”

His gaze flickered.

She pounced. “Ah. I’ve hit a sore spot,” she murmured. “Have you ever been a gigolo, Mr. Janos? Do you have a more colorful past than you lead people to believe? Some dirty, dangerous secrets of your own?”

He stared at her. His eyes burned.

“Tell me something, Janos,” she whispered. “Can you make your cock hard on command?”

His mouth was a hard, flat line. “Yes,” he said. “But in your vicinity, no effort is necessary.”

“What a lovely compliment. Should I be gratified?”

“Reach under the table, and take the measure of your future gratification right now,” he said.

“Oh, my.” She pretended to be shocked. “The veneer of the perfect gentleman is cracking.”

“You should not wonder at it since you shattered it yourself with an ice pick. See what lurks beneath the veneer. Go on, feel it. It’s yours for the asking. I do not think you will be disappointed.”

She stared at him, her heart pumping. The game had slipped out of her control and taken on its own life. She realized that she was tempted to do exactly as he invited. To grasp his cock, test his heat, the hardness. Feel the vital energy of him pulsing against her hand.

Currents of silent communication swirled between them, dangerous eddies of challenge. She dragged herself back from the brink.

“No,” she said. “I’m not finished yet.”

“On the contrary, Ms. Steele. You are. The subject is closed.” He rose to his feet. The hard tone of his voice and the coiled tension in his body suggested that he was reaching the end of his self-control.

Good. Exactly where she wanted him. Adrenaline pumped through her. She got up and moved in behind him. “Everything you told me is a lie,” she challenged him. “Capriccio Consulting is a lie, your smooth style, your ego-stroking offers. I can’t see inside you, Janos. All I see are smoke and mirrors. Which makes me think that perhaps there is no one inside at all. Just a gutted, blackened hole. Which means…”

She seized him from behind, pressing the tip of the tiny dagger from the ruby-studded horn necklace against the throbbing pulse point in his throat in one swift lunge. “Who the fuck are you, Janos?” she asked softly. “Who sent you?”

His throat worked. “I will warn you only once,” he forced out. “Release me. Now.”

“I’m warning you, too,” she said. “This blade is coated with a poison that works with incredible speed. If the dagger breaks the skin, within seconds your convulsions will be so violent, they will probably snap your spine.”

His larynx moved beneath the blade. “Cut me then.”

That was so unexpected her brain wouldn’t process it for a second.

“Go on,” he prompted. “Why should I fear death? I am a gutted, empty hole, no? Death holds no terrors for me. So cut me.”

She opened her mouth, not sure of what she was going to say, and in that moment of hesitation and doubt—

Holy…
shit.
The dagger flew, bounced. She was spun and flipped. Pain flashed white hot through her body, and
oof,
her breath was knocked out and her head hit the floor, painfully hard.

She was flat on her back, staring up at the bottom of the table, at the carved leg of his overturned chair, seeing stars.

Janos pinned her, blocking every point of leverage. Her arms were stretched high, both wrists clamped in the manacle of one of his enormous hands. His steely forearm pressed her chin up and put intense pressure on her windpipe.

How
…? God, he was fast! No one had gotten the better of her like that in years, not since she’d learned to fight like a hellion. She fought the panic, the fury. “What happened to your death wish, you lying snake bastard?”

His face was inches from hers, a taut mask of fury. “I reconsidered it. I do not like a poisoned blade at my throat.”

His forearm lifted, enough to let a stream of air rush through her bruised throat. It rasped, making her cough. Their eyes were locked.

“Let me go,” she coughed out, without much hope. “Get off me.”

“Ten seconds ago you were about to kill me. Why should I?” he asked. “Do I look that stupid?”

She coughed again. “Who are you?”

“You are in no position to ask the questions. Enough about me. Let’s talk about you. Turnabout is fair play, no?”

Panic swelled inside her. Spots danced before her eyes. Being pinned reminded her of…
no.
She would not think of it.

She struggled harder. “Let…me…go!”

“No.” He countered every move, keeping her flat to the floor. “Where to begin? I am a more ordinary man than you gave me credit for being, so I will start from the obvious place. Your beauty.”

“Oh, shut up. I’m not interested in your bullshit—”

“Too bad. You are afraid of your beauty?”

She snorted. “Wrong.”

He ignored her. “You are too afraid to destroy it, in case you might need it. Too vain to hide it completely. But you are afraid to use it as you could if you wished. Look at you, all in black, every inch covered. Hair dragged back, face bare of cosmetics. You hate men. You love to confuse them, attack them. Punish them for treating you like a thing—”

She convulsed. “Let go of me, you twisted son of a bitch!”

He bore down, squashing her to breathless immobility. “You knock everyone who gets near you off balance,” he went on. “It is the only way you feel steady yourself. You are always braced for a blow, always angry, always afraid. You are too thin, with purple shadows under your eyes. You sleep badly, eat little. You weep secretly in the darkest part of the night.”

She stopped moving, chilled to her bones at his supernaturally good guesses. “Shut up,” she whispered. “Just…stop, Janos.”

He moved in smoothly for the kill. “Your jewelry says so much, I am amazed that you dare to make it. Sensuality clashing with violence, beauty clashing with paranoia. The contradiction is like a bleeding wound. For you are wounded, no? Mortally wounded, maybe. But you are taking your own sweet time to die, hmm?”

No.
She mouthed the word. There was no breath behind it.

“Even the name you’ve chosen reflects this longing for hardness. You wish you were forged from steel, no? The only thing that gives you pleasure is working with metal. Sharp blades, needles, drugs and poisons. Secrets to armor you. You dream of invulnerability, but it is just that…a dream. You are curled around unhealed wounds.”

Her throat ground against the crushing pressure of his arm as she turned her head away. “No,” she croaked. “It’s not true. It’s not me. None of it. You asshole.”

His eyes narrowed. “You hide behind the child.” His voice took on a tone of discovery. “You need the child. What other reason do you have to keep living? Why else wake up in the morning, put food in your mouth? You need her to claw your way from one day to the next. No?”

“Leave her out of this.” Tam squeezed her eyes shut. With her hands confined, she couldn’t cover even her shaking mouth, her leaking eyes.

Nor could she reach the panic button strapped to her thigh, the one that would summon Nick and Davy, guns drawn. They had begged and urged and lectured her to mike the room so they could monitor the conversation, but know-it-all bitch that she was, she hadn’t wanted their noses that deep in her business.

“Poor little girl,” he murmured. “Too innocent to understand how she is being used. And still, in the middle of the night, you are terrified at what you have done to yourself. The vulnerability, the work, the time, the noise. The awful responsibility. Do you wonder if survival is even worth it? If death would be less frightening? Less effort?”

Her body shook in his hard grasp. “Fuck you,” she whispered.

“I would,” he said. “Right here, on the floor, until you whimper with delight. You like strength. You crave it, as much as you fear it. And I am strong enough for you. I would put it all at your service. Everything you fear, everything you hate, everything you fight so hard against dedicated to your pleasure.”

Her eyes popped open at that absurdity. “Oh, please. What a pile of melodramatic shit.”

“I could force you,” he said. “Part of me wants to. But you are so fragile. You would close up completely, and I would find myself fucking a beautiful doll.”

She laughed. “That’s enough for most men,” she muttered. “They never know the difference.”

He stared into her eyes. “I know the difference.”

She felt too weak to lift her ribcage beneath the weight of his body. But that was all right. She didn’t really want to breathe. Her chest felt too unstable. Pulling air in could ignite it like dry tinder, make it burst into flames. Her brain kept trying to form responses to what he said, but they didn’t make it as far as her shaking mouth. She could make no sound without air anyway. She was muddled, flushed with a strange, hot power that pumped up from some mysterious hidden spring inside her. Speeding her heart. Her skin felt weirdly sensitive. Hairs prickling up.