of final,
internal decision, opened his door and stepped out of the car.
“Well, now, where are you going?”
“To talk to the model.” The door slammed
behind him, closing in Kizzie’s incredulous “Cheater!” Phil stood
stone still a moment, and then, with a curt about-face, strode
toward the back of the car.
“The girl’s the other way…” Kizzie spun in
her seat to track him through the rear window. Her heart rate
kicked up a notch as he cleared the trunk, cleared the car parked
behind them, moving purposefully up the street. Her gaze darted to
her surroundings, searching the crevices of the darkening
street.
A set up?
Liking Phil didn’t mean she trusted him. And
all that stay or go business put her spidey-senses on high alert.
Although, there were easier ways to kill an agent than
flying her to Paris for a last hurrah.
She settled again on the café where a figure
trailed behind the hostess. The pair zigzagged through the maze of
tables and chairs and then stopped at the back booth. Kizzie
snatched up the binoculars.
Tall, dark, ridiculously sexy.
Xander Duquesne.
The hostess gone, Xander dipped to kiss the
“model” on one cheek and then the other, slid onto the padded bench
she occupied. He extended his arm behind her and she snuggled under
his wing.
Kizzie arched a brow. Le subbie?
The two chatted over the menus, the woman
looking up at Xander with obvious affection. Something was said and
Xander bobbed his head. The waiter came over; more words exchanged.
Xander passed both leaflets to the man and that’s when Kizzie saw
it.
Gold band.
Left hand.
Fourth finger.
Kizzie’s gaze zipped to the woman beside
Xander, but her hands were in her lap. Or his….
Her mind went haywire half a second, and her
body flushed with heat from toes to scalp. She huffed a breath,
shook her head.
Do your job, agent.
Tapping the button on the binocs snapped a
series of photos of the pair, her focus more on the woman. Kizzie
knew what Xander looked like—wished she could get his face out of
her head, this trembling out of her fingers. The woman, however,
was a new variable and a possible point of exploitation. Mixed up
with the likes of Duquesne, she just might be in a database
somewhere.
The waiter returned and set two demitasse
cups on the table. The charming couple waited a beat for the man to
leave before sipping the steaming contents. Xander bent to whisper
in the woman’s ear; she replied with a giggle and a head toss.
Raspberry-flavored bile rose in Kizzie’s
throat.
At the door eight minutes later, Xander
helped his wife into her coat. Kizzie studied the little slip of a
woman backlit by the cafe. She was… okay . Not necessarily
runway material. And now that Kizzie thought about it, the
hairstyle was dated, the dress too tight, and she’d bet money that
perfume was something cloying and over-sweet. What an elderly aunt
poured on by the gallon, stinking up the whole damn house.
“Ugh. This shade of green clashes with your
badass, Kiz.” She shifted her gaze to the woman’s feet. “Cute
shoes, though…”
They came to the street, facing each other
now. Xander’s wife slid her hands up his torso, and they
disappeared beneath his coat. Kizzie stopped herself from making up
snarky dialogue.
She couldn’t lie. Her chest constricted—
—and exploded a moment later when le
subbie tugged Xander down and kissed him full on the mouth with
enough heat to melt the chocolate in her lap. The truffle Kizzie
smacked on almost fell from her gaping candy hole. Quintessential
cheesy moment: Paris, the café, and two people sucking face after a
rainfall.
“A fuckin’ postcard…” she muttered.
Xander engulfed the woman in a hug, and
Kizzie grunted. This was the “something” Phil needed to do
first. Any moment now Xander would get in the car, reeking of his
wife and looking at Kizzie with… Hell, he wouldn’t look at her with
anything. Whatever happened in Mauritius, whatever he said
internal decision, opened his door and stepped out of the car.
“Well, now, where are you going?”
“To talk to the model.” The door slammed
behind him, closing in Kizzie’s incredulous “Cheater!” Phil stood
stone still a moment, and then, with a curt about-face, strode
toward the back of the car.
“The girl’s the other way…” Kizzie spun in
her seat to track him through the rear window. Her heart rate
kicked up a notch as he cleared the trunk, cleared the car parked
behind them, moving purposefully up the street. Her gaze darted to
her surroundings, searching the crevices of the darkening
street.
A set up?
Liking Phil didn’t mean she trusted him. And
all that stay or go business put her spidey-senses on high alert.
Although, there were easier ways to kill an agent than
flying her to Paris for a last hurrah.
She settled again on the café where a figure
trailed behind the hostess. The pair zigzagged through the maze of
tables and chairs and then stopped at the back booth. Kizzie
snatched up the binoculars.
Tall, dark, ridiculously sexy.
Xander Duquesne.
The hostess gone, Xander dipped to kiss the
“model” on one cheek and then the other, slid onto the padded bench
she occupied. He extended his arm behind her and she snuggled under
his wing.
Kizzie arched a brow. Le subbie?
The two chatted over the menus, the woman
looking up at Xander with obvious affection. Something was said and
Xander bobbed his head. The waiter came over; more words exchanged.
Xander passed both leaflets to the man and that’s when Kizzie saw
it.
Gold band.
Left hand.
Fourth finger.
Kizzie’s gaze zipped to the woman beside
Xander, but her hands were in her lap. Or his….
Her mind went haywire half a second, and her
body flushed with heat from toes to scalp. She huffed a breath,
shook her head.
Do your job, agent.
Tapping the button on the binocs snapped a
series of photos of the pair, her focus more on the woman. Kizzie
knew what Xander looked like—wished she could get his face out of
her head, this trembling out of her fingers. The woman, however,
was a new variable and a possible point of exploitation. Mixed up
with the likes of Duquesne, she just might be in a database
somewhere.
The waiter returned and set two demitasse
cups on the table. The charming couple waited a beat for the man to
leave before sipping the steaming contents. Xander bent to whisper
in the woman’s ear; she replied with a giggle and a head toss.
Raspberry-flavored bile rose in Kizzie’s
throat.
At the door eight minutes later, Xander
helped his wife into her coat. Kizzie studied the little slip of a
woman backlit by the cafe. She was… okay . Not necessarily
runway material. And now that Kizzie thought about it, the
hairstyle was dated, the dress too tight, and she’d bet money that
perfume was something cloying and over-sweet. What an elderly aunt
poured on by the gallon, stinking up the whole damn house.
“Ugh. This shade of green clashes with your
badass, Kiz.” She shifted her gaze to the woman’s feet. “Cute
shoes, though…”
They came to the street, facing each other
now. Xander’s wife slid her hands up his torso, and they
disappeared beneath his coat. Kizzie stopped herself from making up
snarky dialogue.
She couldn’t lie. Her chest constricted—
—and exploded a moment later when le
subbie tugged Xander down and kissed him full on the mouth with
enough heat to melt the chocolate in her lap. The truffle Kizzie
smacked on almost fell from her gaping candy hole. Quintessential
cheesy moment: Paris, the café, and two people sucking face after a
rainfall.
“A fuckin’ postcard…” she muttered.
Xander engulfed the woman in a hug, and
Kizzie grunted. This was the “something” Phil needed to do
first. Any moment now Xander would get in the car, reeking of his
wife and looking at Kizzie with… Hell, he wouldn’t look at her with
anything. Whatever happened in Mauritius, whatever he said
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