Page 17 of The Truths that Deceive

Jones flips the conversation to some contract killing that Eva, aka the Black Widow, completed, and I finish my walk up and down the street, as the rain comes down, thunder rolling loud overhead.

The rain right now is so heavy that I’m the only idiot outhere wandering around. But I haven’t seen anyone casing my place, not from the lobby across the Straße at the apartment building opposite. Not at the restaurant or bar. And not in any of the cars parked along the street.

“Are you taking on this job to avoid a certain upcoming wedding?”

I take a final drag, drop the butt, and grind it out while scowling at nothing. “Fuck you, Jones.”

I hang up on his sharp laughter and head down to the exclusive bar where I’m meeting my contact.

Marta is still as beautiful as I remember when I catch her walking into the bar, long ice-blond hair falling around her face in thick waves with plump red lips. She’s wearing the kind of dress in a matching red that takes all the attention away from her stunning face.

Her glass of Krug is waiting for her as I sip my scotch. I don’t mind bourbon or whiskey, but for some reason I’m into scotch right now. It’s a good drink for Europe, and it fits with the moneyed man I’m playing.

I’m also fucking beyond loaded, but it’s not something I tend to flash around unless it suits me. Here and now, it suits.

“Schmidt,” she says, kissing both cheeks and leaving a cloud of perfumed air as she settles onto the stool. She’s one of the only people who calls me that, from a decade ago when we’d burn down places with the hot sex we had, along with the hotter intel we gathered together. “I assume this isn’t a booty call.”

“Nope.”

I slide a piece of paper over to her and she looks at the word on it. “You’re not with the agency anymore. Last I heard you were out of freelance intelligence.”

“Humor me.”

Marta sighs. “I’m BND, Schmidt.”

“I’ll get you a medal.” I nod at the piece of paper with Hendrix written on it.

“I’ve heard of the hacker. Supposedly with the CIA. But that’s all I know. There’s talk of something else being up, but everyone is jumpy about it.”

“A weapon?”

Her mouth thins and she nods, then sips her champagne. My eye catches for a second on the red lipstick stain on the crystal flute when she sets it back down. “I don’t know much, just parts of a new weapon turned up. I only know that because my government’s unhappy since some of them showed up on black market sites, and together, they enhance other ones. And some of those weapons are German made.”

She tips her wrist to look at her slender watch and a diamond ring glitters on her finger.

“Congratulations.”

She smirks. “It’s for show. I’m like you. Not the marrying kind.” She toys with the ring. “If this is about a girl, play it smooth and low-key, okay?”

Once upon a time, I’d have talked her into coming back to my place. Or to meet me in the bathrooms here, or even a hotel room, and she’d have said yes in a heartbeat. The invite is there in her eyes. But even though I’m interested on a base level, I’m not.

Because there’s a girl with rainbow hair in the way. Rainbow hair and a tongue that spits acid. I want to chase Calista down in the fucking rain.

So I don’t take her up on the silent offer. “Okay.”

After Marta leaves, I order another drink. There’s a part of me that wants Calista to break out of the apartment. Her fight and fire have stirred the primal part of me, the hunter that’s in my name, in my being. I want to stalk her, chase her. I want to fight her down to the ground and fuck her hardin the mud and rain and come inside her, biting her, marking her, staking my claim.

All because of this unexpected and sudden rush of desire that burst free of floodgates the moment she shifted and parted her thighs wider for me when I frisked her.

She wants all of that, too.

“Got some info.”

Years of training are the only reason I don’t jump a mile at the sound of Reaper’s voice behind me.

The dark-haired man slides into Marta’s vacant seat. “You didn’t want to hit that?”

“I’ve hit it plenty.”

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