“Yeah, well–You were willing to kill me if I didn’t do what Gustave wanted.”

  “Not me,” he said, holding her arm. “Never me.”

  She glared at him. “You’re telling me if it came between me and the mission, you’d double-cross Gustave and let me go?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Peyton,” and his voice was strained. “When you left…I tried to find you. I looked everywhere, tried everything. If something had happened to you, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.”

  “You’d live.”

  “Peyton!” He inhaled sharply, eyes narrowing; the warm and gentle tone giving way to steel. “I thought you were the brains of this operation? Use your head. The only way to make sure you came through safe was if you finished the job. I did everything I could to help you there, didn’t I?”

  “Except for the part when you went off-script and blew my cover so that my boss found me and has been hunting me down ever since.”

  His eyes flashed with pain. “And I paid for that every single day, knowing you were out there, wondering if you were dead or hurt–and all because…”

  She leveled him a cool stare. “Say it, Carson.”

  “All because I was an idiot.”

  Her eyebrow rose.

  “An imbecile. A moron.” His lip curved. “Darwin Awardee. Dumber than Uncle-Brother Cletus.”

  That drew a small snort from her and the tension between them lessened somewhat. After a long, charged silence, she patted his hand. “Roi is a powerful man, Carson. I can’t let you get hurt because of me.”

  He shrugged. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”

  She had to smile at his offhand and woefully inadequate maxim. Then she tilted her head, her expression turning curious. “How did you find me?”

  Carson’s grin froze into place. “I had help.”

  Three loud knocks sounded on the door–two short, a pause, another. A signal of some sort. Peyton glared at him, her voice hardening. “I swear to God, Carson, if you set me up again–”

  The door opened and in walked a tall, pale man in a light summer suit. The visitor crinkled his brow at the sight of Carson kneeling before the bathrobe-clad Peyton. He shut the door with a smart click. “Sorry to interrupt, Varis; you said two hours.” Peyton quickly assessed him: Irish brogue, emerald eyes, straw-colored hair and massive shoulders. He tossed a shopping bag of clothes in front of them, placed two large hands against his waist and tilted his head at them as if to say “Well, get on with it then.”

  A riot raged in Peyton’s head, but the first thought that succeeded in forming and traveling out her mouth was, “And who are you?”

  “Jim O’Malley. Agent O’Malley to you.” The big blonde man lifted a shoulder carelessly. “Interpol.”

  Her back shot up and she glanced at Carson, still kneeling between her legs and looking at her with a look that was equal parts challenge and concern.

  “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, buddy,” she hissed.

  Chapter 3

  Carson’s flat had a small bit of veranda set with two aluminum chairs. The view was uninspired–a residential street, the backs of other apartment buildings–but O’Malley leaned back on the iron rail and lit a cigarette, warming his face in the slim ray of sunlight that managed to pierce through the shade cast by the buildings.

  Half an hour ago, he showed her his ID and declared he needed to speak with them, preferably where he could smoke.

  “Fecking EU making it impossible for a decent fellow to poison himself in his own chosen method,” he explained in that weird, cheerful-fatalistic lilt that Peyton found so charming in the Irish.

  She dressed in the clothes he had brought–cheap gym bra, granny panties, a peach, short-sleeved blouse (which clashed tremendously with her coloring, not that she was being picky) and jeggings that were too wide in the waist. Carson, who always traveled with a small sewing kit, lent her a pair of safety pins to gather the extra fabric.

  “Ah. Well, we can get you things that fit later, eh?” said O’Malley as she obediently sat on the chair he gestured at. Carson plonked himself on the opposite seat.

  She felt a bit shy of him, and it wasn’t just the shock of being plucked off the streets and faced with an Interpol agent in a matter of hours. There was something compelling about Agent O’Malley. It could have been the accent, or the lopsided way he grinned, or the mashed-in nose that gave his rather plain face a certain rakishness. He studied her with mild curiosity, lighting a second cigarette. “So. Let’s get down to it then? My friend Carson here says you disappeared from Amsterdam ‘round six weeks ago, is that right, Miss Riley?”

  “Yes.”

  “And where have you been since then?”

  She glanced at Carson, who’d been watching her closely, then back at the agent. “On the run.”

  O’Malley grinned at that. “Quite. And how long have you been here in Maastricht?”

  “Couple of weeks.”

  The agent sucked on his cigarette thoughtfully, as though doing sums in his head. “That’s about right. Before this, care to tell us where else you’ve been? People you’ve been seeing?”

  “Not really. How’d you find me?”

  “Peyton–” cut in Carson.

  “It’s all right, Varis, the lady has a right to know.” O’Malley took a drag on his cigarette and settled comfortably against the rail. “‘Round a couple of months ago, I heard about a minor art scandal–some lady was sold a dubious piece, paid a handsome sum for it. Funnily enough, the piece she bought was supposedly done by a very distant relative of mine, imagine that?” He looked at his big hands, as if unable to believe that his big cop’s hands could share a last name with a famous artist. He shrugged. “Our informants talked about a certain dealer who’d brokered the fraud. Can you imagine my surprise with what happened next?”

  “No?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you, it’s not often that a so-called dealer disappears without a trace, and the lady who’d purchased the fraud–aristocracy, mind you, married to some geezer who could trace his lineage to the Normans or fecking Mary Magdalene herself–would not even take legal measures to get her money back. Doesn’t that sound fishy to you?”

  She shrugged.

  “Ah, but so it did to me. Off-kilter, like. So I dig around, ask about. Found out about a certain Frenchman named Gustave and his two pretty friends, roaming about Amsterdam, meeting in museums and whatnot. A gorgeous redhead and an Adonis.”

  Carson reddened, whether from embarrassment or anger, Peyton didn’t know.

  “Then this redhead disappears from Amsterdam, which is a shame, you see, as I dearly want to ask her some things, so I go back again to my network. Said I: keep an eye out for this lass? And what do you know: not only do I find Adonis, in a few weeks one of my informants tells me this same red-haired lass was spotted in a squat in Maastricht. So off we go. Lady luck, eh?”

  “Very lucky.” She rounded on Carson. “Tell me what’s going on, Carson. Am I under arrest? Why is he here and what’s with all the questions?”

  Carson and the agent exchanged glances. Peyton’s outlook, lightened by the shower and the sandwiches and the clean, though ill-fitting, clothes on her back, was starting to sour.

  “Listen, if I’m not under arrest, I’m really not compelled to sit here and answer your questions.” She stood up with as much dignity as she could muster, which was hard, because her jeans were falling down her ass. “Thank you for the sandwiches, and the clothes, and the shower. I’ll be off.”

  The agent watched her, an air of open curiosity in his bland features. “Miss Riley, am I correct to assume that until six weeks ago you’d been in the employ of a man who calls himself Roi?”

  She glared at Carson, then answered the agent. “So he’s told you.”

  “Alexander Boulder Fielding?” asked O’Malley, as though simply confirming a common acquaintance. Peyton blanched and sat down. A small grin tipped his lips. “Oh yes, we know his name. And ‘tis this Alexander Boulder Fielding fellow that’s led us to you. He is quite the slippery eel.”

  “I’m not helping you catch him, whatever it is you want him for.”

  “Oh?” O’Malley’s eyebrows arched. “A loyal one, you are. Surely Mr. Boulder Fielding–Roi–is not in need of such a loyal employee, you being burned as it is.”

  Her foot shot out and kicked the leg of Carson’s chair.

  “I had to tell him, Peyton, he was the only way I could find–”

  “What’s he wanted for?” she cut Carson off.

  “That’s the thing, lass. We have our suspicions, but no real way of confirming them. And that’s where we hope you’d come in.” A third cigarette came off the pack and into his mouth, lit with a cheap plastic lighter. “Keep losing my pretty Zippos,” he chuckled, noticing her gaze. “Anyhow. This fellow, well, he seems to have fingers dipped in all sorts of pies and dealings that raise all sorts of questions, but there’s no real evidence for us to make a proper arrest of it. He’s a clever one.”

  “But you’re Interpol,” she said, eyebrows furrowing. “You’re not into art fraud and larceny; you only get involved if there’s a…” She met O’Malley’s emerald eyes for a charged second. His face turned serious. “You don’t mean to suspect Roi of…of being a terrorist?”

  All the affability disappeared from the agent’s demeanor, and now he looked tired and burdened. “We’ve had an eye on him for years, but as you so rightly put it, his previous, ah…activities…are not under our jurisdiction. But this is different. Funds are moving, certain speculations are bandied about. It’s enough for the powers that be to want me to look into it.”

  Peyton felt cold all over. Terrorism? Roi was many things, but a terrorist? Could it be true?

  O’Malley leaned toward her. “We know you ran because you were afraid, Peyton. We can protect you. You are the only meaningful link we’ve found. Help us build the case against him, and I promise you, you will never have to run again.”

  Her heart began to beat wildly in her chest. Betray Roi? Sure, she’d been burned, and she did not want to meet him again. But betray him outright, to the police? It was the difference between hiding in a cellar until a storm blew over and standing in the eye of it, shaking your fists in defiance.

  O’Malley watched her as she wavered. “Your work with him, these past six years? I heard you are in the business of stopping things from happening?”

  “I’m sure Carson’s told you about the takedowns.”

  “Takedowns,” he smiled. “Sounds apt. But indulge me, please.”

  She exhaled heavily. “As you say. I get called in to block things from happening. It’s a service Roi offers for selected clients, for a good price. Usually when I step in, the groundwork’s been done, the intelligence gathered, the plan started. I execute. Strategize. I’ve helped stop a couple of mergers, the execution of a will, property purchases, even a few weddings. Just certain events that people don’t want to push through.”

  “And how do you do that?”

  She shrugged and picked at a loose thread in her blouse. “Certain activities that cast doubt on a person’s credibility. Distraction. Sleight of hand.”

  He smiled, as though he understood what she meant. “A lot of secrets to be kept, job like that.”

  She continued to pick on the thread. “I suppose.”

  “There may be many people who’d gain from those secrets.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “You help us, we expunge your records.”

  Peyton’s eyebrow arched. “That’s the thing about takedowns. They’re clean,” she snapped, not without a hint of professional pride. “Nothing I do is strictly illegal, or major enough to cause an arrest. None of my previous jobs resulted in any trouble with the law.”

  “Well of course,” said O’Malley, the affable demeanor back. “But I’m not talking about your work with Roi. I’m talking about the record you already had before you worked for him.”

  Carson’s eyes widened. “A record?”

  “Think about it, Miss Riley.” O’Malley flicked the ash off his cigarette, carefully put it out on an empty plant pot, and then rearranged his rapidly wrinkling jacket. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow.” He edged his way between them in that crammed veranda, whistling as he left the flat.

  “A record?” Carson repeated, lowering his gaze to catch Peyton’s eyes. “What’s he talking about?”

  Chapter 4

  The sun seemed to have dimmed with O’Malley’s departure.

  Peyton shook her head. It was as though she was looking at two images, one superimposed on the backs of apartment blocks in a Maastricht residential district, like a heat haze. She seemed to be seeing a gray building–solid, terrifying; the inside walls were painted a tired pistachio green that made her think of sickness and wrongness.

  Carson touched her forearm, and the heat haze disappeared. The bright Dutch summer evening shifted back into focus, but she shivered as if caught in a cold blast.

  “Peyton?”

  She twitched.

  “What did O’Malley mean?” he pressed.

  A deep breath left her and she went absolutely still.

  “I lived on the streets for a while,” she began, tentatively, every word shaken out of her like pebbles out of an empty wine bottle. “When I was a kid. I got into trouble. Bad trouble.”

  She paused, and then:

  “They…they ruled it was self-defense.” A shudder wracked through her body like a burst of electricity.

  “How old were you?”

  “Twelve. Nearly thirteen,” she said simply.

  Carson had a horrifying vision of a younger Peyton–a small, frail girl, without the confidence and capability of the older version sitting across from him; a scrawny thing, living rough and frightened enough to do something that still frightened her to speak of, to this day.

  “For some time, I had to stay…somewhere. A place bad enough to make me want to live on the streets again.” She drew another shaky breath. “And then I was found.”

  All it took was the steel in her spine and the strain on the corded muscles of her neck to confirm Carson’s suspicion. “It was Roi who found you.”

  She nodded.

  “He was more than a boss to you.”

  Her blue eyes darkened. “My mom disappeared when I was three, and it was my father and I, until he died unexpectedly when I was eleven. Then it was just me. Until Roi.”

  Carson reached over to take her hand. She gripped it tight.

  “He never replaced my dad, you know. He was never what you’d call a loving person. I…I have always been frightened of him.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “No,” she paled. “But he always gave the impression that he could, if he wanted. Still and all, he put a roof on my head, food in my belly, clothes on my back. In time, a job. Might not have been all that legal, but it paid well. And I was good at it. Am good at it.”

  She turned to him. “And your Agent O’Malley is asking me to betray him.”

  Carson stood and drew her inside, his hand on hers gentle as though cradling an injured bird. “It’s been a long day,” he said, pulling out the sofa seat to make a double bed. “You need to rest. Don’t decide right this moment. Sleep on it.” She eyed the bed and glanced at him. “I’ll spread the blanket on the floor,” he added.

  Her fingers touched his arm, feather-soft and hesitant, and heat radiated through him where their skin made contact.

  “Please,” she whispered. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

  He couldn’t sleep. Not with her this close, tucked against him, her body curled and her fists pushed under her chin. He’d worried so much. But he’d found her.

  She had been so exhausted that no sooner had he returned from the bathroom did he find her crashed out on the sofa bed, over the blanket. He raised her gently and tucked her under the covers, unable to resist the impulse to tuck her flaming red hair behind her ear.

  Then he stood in the tiny flat, at a loss for what to do. He was tired himself, an exhaustion that went deep into the bone, and yet his nerves had been strung too tight for sleep.

  He paced the flat for hours in his socks, willing his mind to quiet, hoping for rest.

  But all his mind did was return to Peyton.

  Peyton as he had first met her, her skin blinding under a tropical sun; Peyton tied to a chair in Gustave’s house, defiant though his nerves sang with fear for her; Peyton in the flat in Brouwersgracht, stiff on her side on the bed, pretending to be asleep; Peyton in Brussels, moaning for him. Peyton, who was like a fever in his bones.

  He had to bite back a laugh when he thought of how deeply she’d seeped into his marrow. She was trouble from the moment he saw her, and that was it: a man like Carson Varis–a man who had to call himself a name like Carson Varis–would never be attracted to a conventional woman. He was polished and urbane and knew how to chat up the most mannered aristocrat, but Carson would never choose to live legit, despite the many times that the opportunity had presented itself. A part of him craved excitement and constantly sought the edge. He lived dangerously. Didn’t know any other way to go. A normal girl wouldn’t keep up.

  But with Peyton he wondered if he’d ever know all that there was to know about her, let alone keep up.

  It was the trouble that hooked him in, her body that dragged him deeper, her skills that stoked his admiration, her ruthlessness that intimidated him (and scared him, if he was honest with himself), but it was those small flashes of fear in her that called out to an instinct him, an instinct so strong it burned in him. It had flamed brightest when Gustave’s goon had her against the alley in Amsterdam with a knife.

  He wanted to protect her. Needed to.

  At the thought he slid into the bed, careful not to wake her. He watched her breathe, chest rising and falling, deep in slumber.

  It was past midnight.

  Asleep, tightly folded into her own body, she exuded wariness. She didn’t trust him. Probably never would. But she couldn’t know how dangerous the Amsterdam mission really was. How close Gustave was to truly hurting her.