He pulled away from her breast. “Look at me,” he said, his other hand fisting in her hair, and her breath caught in her throat at the sight of those tidal pool eyes blazing with anger and lust. She was so turned on by this angry, fiery, virile Carson, it wasn’t even funny. She couldn’t even remember wondering about sex with O’Malley just a few hours ago. “I’m done fucking playing, Peyton.” He pushed his fingers inside her higher, reaching a spot she’d never felt before, and she shuddered as she felt her climax start to build. “I want you and I always have. Do you understand me?”

  She whimpered as he drove against that spot, the sensation a hairsbreadth from pain, cresting a wave of pleasure.

  “Do you understand me?”

  “Yes!” she cried as he lowered his head and gave her breasts the same relentless, savage treatment with his mouth.

  “And you don’t scare me, Peyton,” he whispered, raising his head to kiss her lightly. The hand in her hair kept her head in place. He stopped kissing her to bite the top of her shirt and pull it down, freeing her breast. He drew it into his mouth and sucked, hard. She cried out; when she opened her eyes he was staring at her with an expression of grim determination.

  “You can be a bitch; you can push me or try to hurt me or make a fool out of me. But that isn’t changing how much I want you,” he said.

  He flicked his wrist and the pressure that pooled between her legs built so that she moved against his hand, not knowing whether she was easing or increasing the sensation. Up and down she went, circling her hips and grinding against his fingers, and he smiled and bit her under her breast again.

  “God, Carson!”

  “You’re not going to fuck me in return,” he said. Meanly. Savagely. “You’re going to come for me.”

  Another flick of the wrist under her sliding body and there it was: oblivion.

  “Fuck!” she cried. Her hands fluttered to his shoulder and she pressed her body tight against his to contain the force of her orgasm, and yet his fingers didn’t still: they pushed and pressed as she rode to the peak, able to wring more pleasure from her than she thought she contained.

  When she found the edge of the feeling, she slumped down, trying to catch her breath as he drew his fingers out of her. Her eyes flew open in surprise when he grabbed her waist and threw her on the bed away from him.

  She lay there bug-eyed as Carson stood, his shoulders and spine stiff. He was still angry.

  “Carson?”

  “You don’t get to throw stuff in my face like that and then accuse me of only wanting to fuck you in return.” His expression was livid. “Like I’m only putting myself through this for pussy. Give me some fucking credit.”

  She sat up, pulling the covers against her bare breasts.

  “I looked for you for more than sex, Peyton. I’ve turned down jobs and I’m helping you now, for more than that.” He gave up trying to button his shirt and yanked it off him in a fury. “And when you figure out what that is–you let me know.”

  He left the room, and the silence that followed rang in Peyton’s ear. She’d almost wished he slammed the door, to punctuate the sound of his anger with something final. She would have preferred that to this aimless, shapeless silence.

  Chapter 9

  The dining room was an avant garde jewel box; the tablecloths pristine and the small bites of food laid between them–rare little eels, baby octopus, fresh little bites of crisp vegetables, paper-thin slices of ham from pigs raised exclusively on acorns– exquisite. But for the scowls and the charged, tense silence that reigned on the table, you’d think Carson, Peyton and O’Malley were contemplating poisoned scraps.

  Dinner had been O’Malley’s idea. He’d gone back to the flat, his sandy face serious, and called Carson and Peyton to the kitchen, where he ordered them to get dressed because he had something important to tell them over dinner. Peyton was surprised when he took them to the trendy restaurant (she doubted very much that Interpol would have approved the expense) but O’Malley seemed to be in a strange mood. Defiant, somehow. He certainly took a grim pleasure at ordering the most expensive items in the tapas menu, but now he was antsy and fidgety. Probably in need of some nicotine.

  She glanced at Carson and looked away just as quick. He hadn’t looked or spoken at her since that scene in her bedroom.

  His fork scraped against his plate. “Not that I don’t enjoy your company,” he said bitterly, “but after the ‘productive’ day I had, I’m beat. You mind telling us your news so we can get back to the flat and call it a night?”

  O’Malley speared an octopus with a fork and ate it with little relish. “Fine. Here’s my news: we better reckon what our next steps are, because we need to get out of Spain.”

  Carson sighed. “Figures.”

  O’Malley shot him a baleful look. “Well, after that break-in at the warehouse and certain allusions to Interpol at the Mercantile Registry–”

  “Oh no, you’re not pinning that on me, you son of a bitch. You broke in with us, remember, and unless that lady at the Registry just wanted to fuck with me some more, it seems that a certain official email was all it took to get those documents you wanted.”

  “I asked you to go there so that you could observe and gather more leads, not blab about Interpol like a—”

  “Bullshit, O’Malley!”

  “Hey,” Peyton whispered sharply when the other diners started looking up at the noise. “You two mind keeping it down? I don’t think those folks at the end of the room were able to hear ‘Interpol’ clearly.”

  Carson met her eyes for one charged, angry second, vein ticking in his jaw.

  “Let’s figure out our options,” said O’Malley.

  “So what have we found from the files Carson brought back?” she said.

  He rubbed the blonde stubble on his cheek. “QED Pharma bought Alejandro y Compania last spring in a cash deal, at less than half the value of what Alejandro was listed for when they were attempting to purchase Ayerton Chem–the deal you were supposed to stop last winter, Peyton. QED’s a newly incorporated venture; from the security papers it seems to have been cobbled together less than two years ago from a string of smaller companies. And yes, just as you said, International Ventures Inc. is their majority shareholder. I’m having Database check if the paper trail yields anything interesting.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin and fixed his green eyes on them. “However, we can’t wait around here for that. The orders I got were pretty clear: we need to get out of here tomorrow, or shit will hit the fan right quick.”

  Peyton shrugged, picking at the fine slices of ham on her plate. “Then we better get to London.”

  “London?” O’Malley’s eyes were wide. “Right were Roi is? Tip him off we’re sniffing around his business?”

  “I don’t see what other choice we have,” she said. “We didn’t find Bachmann Frois. We got some documents with information that we don’t know will be useful until your contacts confirm them. Spain’s a bust so far, and the only other lead I got is Gareth Bixby.”

  “Anja—” said Carson.

  “We don’t know where she is.”

  “Too soon,” O’Malley shook his head. “I don’t want to contact Bixby when we don’t have anything else to pin Roi down. He could tip his boss off, they could pack and go underground and this whole thing could come to nothing.” He looked back at Peyton. “Are you sure you don’t have any other leads? You grew up with the man, Peyton. Surely he had other staff—”

  “He went through them like brushfire. Some of them, I didn’t even learn their names before they were sent off and replaced. When I started working from him…he didn’t even want me passing reception on the main office. He had me take the freight elevators, and the only other person I was in contact with for the takedowns aside from him and Frois was Gareth.”

  “I don’t know why we’re even yapping about this,” Carson snapped. “It’s pretty clear. We need to get the hell out of here; the only other contact we have is Bixby.” He stood up and threw his napkin on the table. “We’re going to London. Good night.”

  Somewhere on the Black Sea…

  It was called an island, but it was little more than a wretched, barren rock, the size of a small English town. Wind whipped the sea over it in chilly, violent sprays. Inland, free from the pervasive fingers of the agitated surf, the ground was hard and flinty, and nothing grew save for abnormally colored lichens and stunted bushes that tenaciously clung to life. It was cold and miserable, and there was nothing to see for miles around.

  Nothing to see, save for the turboprop that had glided to a stop on the makeshift landing strip in the center of the island. A group of four men alighted from the aircraft. They bent double in the gusty wind, pulling up the hoods of their fur collars to fight their way to a low building near the landing strip. It was the only building in the entire island.

  An elderly man waited for them, sheltering from the wind under the building’s stone lintel. He was wrapped in a long gray coat and a thick muffler. His face was dark and hairless, and a fine pale scar traced his right eye. He had been a respected scientist, once, in a country that had been under totalitarian rule until the people had deposed the old leader in a bloody coup. He had been wise, reading the signs and going into hiding, long before his president and patron ended up a defiled corpse dragged through the capital’s streets.

  Old as he was, the scientist stood proud and erect. He ushered the men into the building’s lobby and shook their hands with statesmanlike gravity. He took special care to give homage to the large, mustached man at their center. Patrons liked to be honored, and this man—though he was a mere businessman, a far cry from the noblemen he had once served—was no different.

  “I trust that you have all that you need?” said his patron.

  He inclined his head. “Thank you very much, sir. The last shipment of equipment has been most adequate.”

  “And the weather? It does not bother you?”

  He laughed politely. “I must admit it is much colder than what I am used to, but it is a minor inconvenience.”

  His patron raised an eyebrow. “And how have you been getting along?”

  “Very well, sir. I have made much progress, and I am honored that you have granted my request for a meeting. I have much to tell you.”

  The man’s bushy blond moustache twitched in a smile. “I am glad to hear it. You have been making such quick work of the conundrum I sent your way, but given how much I’ve paid for your services, it’s merely quid pro quo, isn’t it?”

  The scientist bowed his head and led the way to the building’s basement: a large, subterranean area the size of two football fields. The size was necessary for the tests he had been conducting.

  “What are you going to do with all that money, anyway?” asked his patron. “Pardon me for saying this, but you’re a bit long in the tooth.”

  He smiled. “I plan on disappearing somewhere far away. Preferably warm, with lots of loose women to warm my bed at night. It will be my final voyage, and the fee you’ve paid me, sir, will ensure that my last years on earth will be as comfortable as can be.”

  “I like your style,” laughed his patron. They were in the elevator now, descending.

  He allowed the men a moment to take in the size of the testing area.

  His patron whistled. “Well, at least its money well spent. You’ve gotten all this done in the three weeks since I sent the equipment?”

  He nodded, and motioned them to take their seats in the control room. It was set on hydraulic bars which could be set in motion at the push of a button, high enough to survey the testing area without suffering any effects from the tests.

  “Now,” he said to the men. “I shall explain to you the breakthroughs we have been making. By my estimates, sir—we should be seeing a stabilized result in a week’s time.”

  His patron sat back in his chair, looking immensely pleased. “I like what I am hearing. John—” he turned to the tall, powerfully built blond at his side. “Fetch me one of my cigars, if you please. Do you mind if I smoke, doctor?”

  “Not at all, Mr. Roi. Not at all.”

  Chapter 10

  Summer in London was warm and bright–not as hot as Spain, but still hot enough to make the short brown wig clamped over Peyton’s head feel torturous. She stuck her finger under her nape and tried to scratch a particularly persistent itch. She felt the wig’s elastic band slip over her scalp; she withdrew her finger, growling in frustration.

  She’d spent the morning with O’Malley, walking surreptitiously round the perimeter of the gigantic, criss-crossed dildo building nominally called 30 St. Mary Axe, but which everyone referred to as The Gherkin. She was quite sick of it. Roi’s offices were actually across the street from the phallic tower, but there was no escaping its pornographic visual assault.

  Now it was near noon, and she’d shown up for her rendezvous with Carson in the tony residential streets of St. John’s Wood, the posh London neighborhood where she had spent more than half her life living in Roi’s house.

  “Nice disguise,” said a voice from a small alcove, hidden in the ivy-covered perimeter wall of a neighboring mansion.

  “Where were you?” she hissed, as Carson emerged from the shadows. “We were waiting for you at The Gherkin.”

  “Oh, did I miss another completely boring morning watching people come in and out of the office, hoping one of us would spot Roi?”

  “Shut up,” she flushed. “Jim went inside the building too.”

  “He did? After three days of telling us to stay within the perimeter?” He gasped in pretend-shock. “What a rogue. A-plus detecting!”

  She glared at him and then stared back at the walls of the big house across the street.

  “I don’t suppose he found out anything we don’t already know? That Roi has a legit trading company headquartered in that building, and that you’d also get your orders for his takedown racket from there?” He sketched a quick bow. “Aaaaand that’s it.”

  “No, he didn’t,” she admitted.

  “Hmm,” he said after a moment, stroking her wig with his knuckle. “I don’t like this one much. You look like a secretary from an eighties movie.”

  She stuck her tongue out at him.

  “I like the one from the other day. That one that made you look like a Latina superstar.”

  Peyton rolled her eyes at the thought of the shoulder-length wig of chocolate brown waves that Interpol had procured for her when they arrived in London. It was indeed pretty, but also extremely stifling. She’d complained so much O’Malley tossed her today’s Butch PE Teacher wig as punishment.

  “So where is our fearless leader today?”

  She leaned against the ivy. “You’re extremely hostile to him, you know that?”

  “I don’t like him.”

  “It wasn’t my idea to work with Interpol.”

  “Oh yeah, I bet you really miss that squat in Maastricht.” He had the grace to turn away as she blushed. Then, so quiet that at first she thought she only imagined it, he muttered: “I don’t like how he looks at you.”

  “Come on, Carson.”

  “He likes you.”

  She didn’t answer.

  Carson scoffed. “You like that he likes you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she snapped. “And you sound like a twelve-year-old girl.” She pretended to twirl a lock of hair on her shoulder. “‘Oh my gosh, do you like like him, or is it, like, you think he likes you more…?’”

  He smiled, but his eyes were stormy with hurt. “Nice impression of a sixth-grade mean girl. It’s almost as if you know what that’s like.”

  She flashed him a dark look. “Don’t go there.”

  Carson’s face was momentarily stricken. Then his eyes softened, and he looked away. “I’m sorry. I was being a dick.”

  She held her breath for a few moments, and then let it out slowly. When she looked back at him, she pushed the dark thoughts away with a wry smile. “I learned that from watching the Olsen Twins’ movies. You know, before they became gothy fashionistas.”

  He grinned with real amusement.

  Something in Peyton’s chest expanded at the smile on his face. She’d missed it so much. The days he’d spent angry at her, ignoring her all throughout their trip from Barcelona to London – she’d told herself his tantrum didn’t matter, but it didn’t change the fact that it did hurt. She tried to question the relief she was feeling, but she was just glad to be in his good graces again; that enough time had finally passed since their explosive encounter in the flat in Barcelona for him to decide to speak with her.

  “You’ve been here all day?” she asked, trying not to smile back too widely at him and reveal her thoughts. If he knew how happy she was that he was being friendly with her again…

  “This place is much more interesting than that stupid old office block.”

  “How interesting?”

  He took her by the elbow and led her down the road, to a shaded, cobbled street corner. They had a partially hidden view of the arched entrance set within Roi’s walls. The walls were polished gray stone, and the arch was made to look a miniature version of the arches on Roman aqueducts. Carved faces were set on either side of the entrance.

  Two men stood there, casually lounging against the stone, and beyond them, just visible from their street corner, was a gate of iron bars.

  “Notice anything unseasonal?” asked Carson, his mouth right at her ear.

  She shivered at the feel of his breath, and squinted at the guards across the street. It took a while for her to notice what he meant, but when she did…

  “Awfully hot for them to be wearing those blazers.”

  “Those jackets are hiding their holsters. Maybe two side arms a piece.”

  Peyton let out a low whistle. “Roi used to have just one guy out here. There would be a couple more around the house. One of them would drive for him and hover around when he went out.”