Page 1 of Sinful Beauty

Prologue

Tristan

Yesterday

London, England

The conference room door opens, and Saint peers in, checks the backside of the wooden door, glances over his shoulder at the hall, and enters, closing the door behind him.

The agents cautious actions are unnecessary. No one will enter the hall because an untraceable shell company reserved all the meeting rooms at St. Martin in the Fields.

Saint’s gaze locks on a small white dome in the right quadrant of the ceiling.

“The camera has been deactivated,” I assure him. “Our team currently controls the video stream on the property. If someone is monitoring your activity, they will observe you entering the church on London surveillance, but they’ll never see where you went inside. There’s a service at the moment and we are placing you in the grainy footage in a middle pew close to the aisle.”

“That’s a complex approach. Did you hate the safe house that much?”

“Needed a bath after quitting the space.”

Saint snorts and steps up to the refreshments a lovely woman named Patricia prepared an hour earlier. He passes over the wine and tea, opting for water.

“Do you know why this room is called the Peter Benenson room?”

He picks up a scone, sets it on a small plate, and his nostrils flare. He may not play along. But then, Saint’s an amenable chap. “He made a sizable donation to the church?”

“In 1961 Peter visited St. Martin’s to reflect on two students being imprisoned in Portugal for drinking a toast to freedom. From the pews of this historic sanctuary, Amnesty International was born.”

He places the plate and glass on the table. He balls a hand into a fist and twists his neck, eliciting a cracking noise. “Two students. Does this story somehow relate to the two sisters?”

“Only in the loosest of senses.” He glares at me, and unexpected contrition wrenches me. “If you wish to meet elsewhere next time, we can. I recommend the countryside, far from London surveillance.”

I was straight up with him, the safe house we previously used to meet is beyond dodgy. But with London surveillance getting tighter by the day, and too many with access, greater precautions are warranted.

He pulls out a chair, flips it around, and sits on it backwards, legs wide, facing me and not the table. The posture and his cowboy boots add to his American aura, a role he’s been playing for so long I suspect it’s become ingrained in his nature.

“The sisters are safe?” Yes, of course, their welfare is his primary concern.

“Indeed. I was with Sloane in Grand Cayman two nights ago. You have my word. She’s unharmed and doing well. She’s currently on the outskirts of Washington D.C. being debriefed by your people.”

His face contorts with displeasure. “I was promised she would be looked after.”

“And she is.”

He shifts in his seat, moves one arm beneath his suit jacket, and lifts a handgun. He sets it on the table, pointed to the frosted glass wall that overlooks an atrium.

My gaze flicks pointedly from Saint to the gun.

“It was uncomfortable.”

“I’m your friend, you know?” I’m not blowing shit up his arse. I’ve been his contact for years. I might not know his real identity, but I know his character. The man is deep undercover on a mission with the highest level of security, so high that I’ve only been partially briefed. He’s been too deep for too long, if you ask me. A man can lose himself when all his effort is spent pretending to be someone he’s not. But he’s not working for us, and it’s not my call.

“Wasn’t tickle fucking you. The gun really was uncomfortable.” His lips turn up and there’s a trace of amusement. It’s good to see he’s still capable of humor. “What else do you have?”

“Too little. We’re tracking William Salo’s colleagues with emphasis on his supervisors. If he wakes, he’ll be a valuable intel source, but the doctors aren’t optimistic. We’ve looked into the employee Sage Watson spoke with who claimed Sloane resigned. She’s an executive assistant. Interestingly, she has family members in prison in Brazil, but we haven’t uncovered any connection. Right now we expect the people behind the scheme work for one of the big pharmas.”

One of Saint’s eyes narrows into a slit, his head tilts and his lips purse. “I’ve dug around on my end. The syndicate isn’t behind it. But whoever is has Russian connections.”

“We’re looking for Russians?”

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