Page 111 of Skotos
Thomas turned to me, his eyebrow raised. “Care to explain why you just talked me out of staying on the most important case we’ve ever worked?”
I released his leg and leaned back in my chair. “Because I’m tired of watching you get stabbed, shot, and generally used as target practice by religious fanatics.”
“Will—”
“No. Don’t you dare Will me.” I held up a hand. “Paris means quiet surveillance, filing reports, and maybe the occasional jog to our favorite café. Rome means ancient conspiracies, armed cardinals, a language neither of us speaks, and you bleeding all over historical landmarks.”
Thomas was quiet for a moment, rolling his shoulder in that unconscious way that proved he was still hurting more than he let on. Stubborn bastard.
“You think we can’t handle it?” he muttered.
“I think you’re too stubborn to admit when we’re in over our heads.” I stood and began gathering our papers. “Besides, something tells me the Order isn’t done with us. If they’re smart, they’ll let things cool down for a while before making their next move.”
“And if they’re not?”
“Then Interpol can deal with them.” I stuffed the last of the reports into our briefcase. “Either way,we’ll be in Paris drinking good wine and chasing cowards instead of fanatics.”
Thomas stood slowly, testing his shoulder with a careful rotation. “Maybe you’re right.”
“I’malwaysright. You just don’t listen often enough to notice.”
He shoved my shoulder hard enough to make me stumble into the wall, but when I turned back to bark at him, a wide grin brightened his face—the same grin that had me tripping over my own feet all those years ago at Harvard when we first met, when I first fell for him. I could never be angry with that smirk . . . and he knew it.
Fucking Thomas Jacobs.
As we headed for the embassy exit, despite my lightened mood at returning to Paris, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were walking away from something unfinished. The Order of Saint Longinus was still out there, still planning, still dangerous. But for once, they’d be someone else’s problem.
And Thomas would be safe.
At least, that’s what I told myself as we stepped into the Roman sunshine and began planning our return to the City of Light.
52
Thomas
We made it home.
The evening air in Paris carried that distinctive scent I’d missed more than I realized: fresh bread from theboulangeriedown the street, a faint trace of cigarette smoke drifting from café terraces, and something indefinably romantic that seemed to emanate from the cobblestones themselves.
Will had spent the better part of the afternoon arranging our flat with the methodical precision of a man determined to restore order to his world. Clothes returned to the armoire, and our few traveling possessions were placed exactly where they belonged. It was as if he was trying to erase the chaos of Rome through sheer organizational willpower.
I watched him from the kitchen doorway, nursing a glass of wine and enjoying the sight of Will in his element. He was completely focused, his tongue poking slightly out of the corner of his mouth theway it did when he was concentrating. He’d insisted on doing it all himself, claiming I needed to rest my shoulder, though I suspected he simply craved the ritual of making our space feel like home again.
“There,” he said finally, stepping back to survey the living room with the satisfaction of a general reviewing perfectly aligned troops. “Civilization is restored.”
I raised my glass in a mock toast. “To domestic tranquility.”
“And to not getting shot at for a while,” he added, moving to pour himself wine from the bottle I’d opened.
The sun was setting over the rooftops, painting everything in shades of gold and amber that made the city look like it had been touched by the gods. Through our windows, I could see couples strolling along the Seine, tourists taking photographs of bridges that had stood for centuries, life continuing in its beautifully ordinary way.
“Dinner?” I asked.
“Chez Henri,” Will suggested, his face lighting up. “God, I’ve been dreaming about theircoq au vinsince we left.”
We walked the few blocks through streets that felt like old friends welcoming us home. The café was exactly as we’d left it, with small wooden tables spilling onto the sidewalk, checkered tablecloths, and the owner’s wife arguing with someone overthe phone in rapid-fire French that made her sound like a beautiful machine gun.
Henri himself spotted us from behind the bar and bellowed a greeting that drew every eye in the place. “Mes amis américains!You have returned to us!”
