Read Online An Affair of Vengeance by Jamie Michele - Free Book Online Page B

that she’d only recently begun to appreciate. The dusty labels were familiar, but she searched for something special. Amontillado del Duque, one of the finest sherries in the world, one that called for a snowy cabin, a roaring fire, and a dangerously sexy man. Perhaps not quite what her Marseille playgirl might desire, but sometimes, honest interest did a better job of masking an operative’s intent than the best disguise.
    She lifted the bottle off the shelf like it was a newborn baby.
    “Del Duque is not for the faint of heart.”
    Damn!
That cool Scottish ruggedness was unmistakable—McCrea had gotten behind her. The man was as stealthy as a stalking puma.
    “Je suis désolée. Je ne parle pas anglais,”
she mumbled, feigning confusion at his English. She tossed him a friendly but dismissive smile of apology and tried to move away. Looking too closely at her might tip him off. Green contact lenses made her brown eyes a subtle hazel, and bright orange liner applied just outside of her natural lip line broadened her mouth a millimeter in every direction. A heavy dose of expertly applied foundation and bronzer had even darkened her skin tone a shade.
    Because she normally wore very little makeup besides a heavy streak of black eyeliner, these little differences in application combined to make her look not disguised, but simply unlike herself. In her experience, looking unlike herself was enough of a disguise. Any effort at further concealment only drew unwanted attention.
    But all of that required a certain distance to work, and McCrea wasn’t giving her any.
    He reached around her and grabbed the bottle, temporarily embracing her from behind. The scent of his cologne hit hernose. Richly spiced cedar this morning, with an earthy base that made her think of a lakeside lodge. Her senses liked it. A second deep breath sent her shoulders back into his chest. Startled, she whirled around.
    “Bad drink for such a little mouse,” he said, not moving back an inch.
    His dark tone and immobility conveyed a warning. He was on to her, but whether he merely recognized her from the hotel, or whether he knew her as the waitress from last night, she couldn’t tell.
    “Je ne vous connais?.”
she said, asking him if they were acquainted.
    “I thought you couldn’t speak English.”
    She stared at him, taking in the gentle curve of his mouth, the hard ridges of his cheekbones, and the intensity of his golden eyes, and considered her options. She could keep pretending to be French, but it was harder than simply being an American. Lying was easier when you kept it simple and changed as few details as possible about your actual identity. And if he did, by some device, recognize her from last night, he’d know she was an American already. It’d be almost impossible to think of a story to explain it all.
    So she reverted to her native tongue and accent as she said, “To strange men who try to speak to me while I shop, I don’t.”
    He almost smiled. The corners of his mouth twitched, at least. “That’s wise. Forgive me. I was looking for del Duque, and when I saw it in your hands, I felt…possessive.”
    “Of the wine?”
    “Naturally.” His low, rumbling voice feathered her skin.
    She reminded herself that Penard had run away bleeding from La Banque last night, and she swiveled away to put more space between them. She waved an orange-manicured hand toward the shelf. “There are more bottles. No need to get possessive.”
    “I’m sure.” He kept pace behind her as she walked down the aisle. “But it’s unusual to find anyone hunting for the same thing that I am.”
    Cold sweat ran between her breasts. He wasn’t just talking about the sherry. He knew, or at least suspected, that she was following him. This was a dance, then, as each tried to see just what the other wanted.
    “My mother loved sherry,” she said, letting a touch of sadness break her voice. “Particularly this one. She died eight years ago. I wanted