remain neutral and feel nothing. I deal with facts, not emotions. Never mind the thing that just happened. That
was a normal physical response to sexual stimulus. That thought made her
feel stronger. It was a nice little arsenal of manipulation he had at his
disposal, but she was way ahead of him. As long as she responded to him
physically, Alexi would believe he had the upper hand. But whatever her body
had done—or would do—her mind was her own, locked away. And he would never know
it.
“Why, krahsniy ?” he was asking. He had turned to look
down at her and there was a strange expression on his face, almost pained.
“You were an assignment. My adversary,” she answered.
“And you were trying to kill me.”
“No, no, not the shooting and,” he waved a hand at the
darkening room, “all this. Why those men in the club?”
She opened her mouth and then shut it. It was not the question
she had been expecting.
“That would be none of your goddamned business. You have no
right to question me about my private life.”
“I don’t like these toys, but I will use them. Don’t be
stupid, girl. You are my captive and Alexi asks the questions. If you lie to
me, it will hurt.”
The golden glitter in his brown eyes was as bright as ever.
She kept her eyes on his, considering how much to give up.
“Is this?” He trailed a finger down the thick, scarred skin
on her side. Ever since it had healed, the area had been an odd combination of
numb and sensitive. His touch was like balm, cool and soothing. He did not look
away from her face, and his hand did not hesitate, just stroked the ugly patch
as if it were as smooth as the rest of her skin.
“If you mean am I a piece of damaged goods who feels so ugly
I can only make love in the dark to strangers, the answer is no. It was ¼ a one-time thing.”
“I see. So men have touched you here. Many?”
“None since it happened,” she admitted.
“We are all damaged, Coco.”
Her head and shoulders flew up from the bed, but the chains
on her wrists jerked her back.
“Oh yes. I know who you are.” Alexi laughed softly.
“Constance Marie Fiori, twenty-eight years of age, in Overseas Security
Operations of United States. But most citizens, they know nothing of you, yes?”
He continued to stroke her scar, spreading his range out to her belly and ribs,
brushing over her navel. “Trained in negotiation, infiltration, martial arts,
hand-to-hand combat and low-caliber artillery. Allergic to chocolate—is funny
for a Coco. I don’t call you that, silly American nickname.”
“So we know each others’ names. I’m shaking in my boots.”
“Specialist in Southeast Asia. One day, this agent boards an
airplane for Indonesia and disappears. Six months, file is blank. Why gone so
long? This ‘damage’ you speak of, it was the one thing I don’t know about you.
Now I know.”
“Please stop that,” she said. “Take your hands off me.”
He gave her nipple a vicious pinch.
“I ask again who is the good guys,” he hissed. “You think of
that when they take your fingerprint, give you fake passports, cover story,
when they tell you mummy and daddy and boyfriend can never know what you do? If
America loves freedom so much, why she keep her means of enforcing it in the
shadows?”
The shadows. That was her own term for the ninety percent of
her life that made up working for the OSO.
“You’re right. It’s much better to just gun down a train of
civilians and firebomb schools. The CRF is much more transparent.”
He ignored this. “Was your mistake?”
“What?”
“This.” Again, he traced a cool finger across her scar.
“Even shadow American agents make mistakes. Or were you ambushed, outnumbered?”
“I was ¼ ” How easy it
would be to say that she had been taken by surprise by wily adversaries, to say
that her backup had failed or she had been betrayed by her own agency. One
little lie and she could retain the advantage of being a powerful cog in
was a normal physical response to sexual stimulus. That thought made her
feel stronger. It was a nice little arsenal of manipulation he had at his
disposal, but she was way ahead of him. As long as she responded to him
physically, Alexi would believe he had the upper hand. But whatever her body
had done—or would do—her mind was her own, locked away. And he would never know
it.
“Why, krahsniy ?” he was asking. He had turned to look
down at her and there was a strange expression on his face, almost pained.
“You were an assignment. My adversary,” she answered.
“And you were trying to kill me.”
“No, no, not the shooting and,” he waved a hand at the
darkening room, “all this. Why those men in the club?”
She opened her mouth and then shut it. It was not the question
she had been expecting.
“That would be none of your goddamned business. You have no
right to question me about my private life.”
“I don’t like these toys, but I will use them. Don’t be
stupid, girl. You are my captive and Alexi asks the questions. If you lie to
me, it will hurt.”
The golden glitter in his brown eyes was as bright as ever.
She kept her eyes on his, considering how much to give up.
“Is this?” He trailed a finger down the thick, scarred skin
on her side. Ever since it had healed, the area had been an odd combination of
numb and sensitive. His touch was like balm, cool and soothing. He did not look
away from her face, and his hand did not hesitate, just stroked the ugly patch
as if it were as smooth as the rest of her skin.
“If you mean am I a piece of damaged goods who feels so ugly
I can only make love in the dark to strangers, the answer is no. It was ¼ a one-time thing.”
“I see. So men have touched you here. Many?”
“None since it happened,” she admitted.
“We are all damaged, Coco.”
Her head and shoulders flew up from the bed, but the chains
on her wrists jerked her back.
“Oh yes. I know who you are.” Alexi laughed softly.
“Constance Marie Fiori, twenty-eight years of age, in Overseas Security
Operations of United States. But most citizens, they know nothing of you, yes?”
He continued to stroke her scar, spreading his range out to her belly and ribs,
brushing over her navel. “Trained in negotiation, infiltration, martial arts,
hand-to-hand combat and low-caliber artillery. Allergic to chocolate—is funny
for a Coco. I don’t call you that, silly American nickname.”
“So we know each others’ names. I’m shaking in my boots.”
“Specialist in Southeast Asia. One day, this agent boards an
airplane for Indonesia and disappears. Six months, file is blank. Why gone so
long? This ‘damage’ you speak of, it was the one thing I don’t know about you.
Now I know.”
“Please stop that,” she said. “Take your hands off me.”
He gave her nipple a vicious pinch.
“I ask again who is the good guys,” he hissed. “You think of
that when they take your fingerprint, give you fake passports, cover story,
when they tell you mummy and daddy and boyfriend can never know what you do? If
America loves freedom so much, why she keep her means of enforcing it in the
shadows?”
The shadows. That was her own term for the ninety percent of
her life that made up working for the OSO.
“You’re right. It’s much better to just gun down a train of
civilians and firebomb schools. The CRF is much more transparent.”
He ignored this. “Was your mistake?”
“What?”
“This.” Again, he traced a cool finger across her scar.
“Even shadow American agents make mistakes. Or were you ambushed, outnumbered?”
“I was ¼ ” How easy it
would be to say that she had been taken by surprise by wily adversaries, to say
that her backup had failed or she had been betrayed by her own agency. One
little lie and she could retain the advantage of being a powerful cog in
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