Page 24 of Lone Spy (Starstruck Thrillers #2)

Chapter Twenty

Yellow light spills through the large windows in dull rectangles.

The rest of my bedroom is a dark sepia. Temperance's smile is a slash of white.

His long legs and broad shoulders are sharp lines in the murk.

I suck in a breath, clutch my hand to my chest. "Jesus," I say. "You trying to give me a heart attack?"

"Nothing so dramatic," he purrs.

I flick on the overhead light, illuminating the luxuriously appointed bedroom—the king bed with its earth-toned sheets and gilded headboard, the crystal sconces, the terracotta walls.

Italian elegance at its best. Temperance in his suit with its subtle pinstripe and modern lines looks so reasonable and powerful sitting there, as if this is his bedroom and I'm the interloper.

"Yeah," I say as I slip out of my heels. "You're not dramatic at all, hiding in my bedroom like a creeper." Turning to the dresser, I start to take off my jewelry—one diamond stud, then the other. Temperance moves behind me, his footfalls quiet on the thick carpeting.

"Help me with my necklace?" I say, sweeping my hair over my right shoulder so that he can reach the clasp.

Breath caresses my bare neck, steady fingers grip the latch.

It gives easily and he parts the heavy choker—which combined with Zade's expertise kept the bruises around my throat hidden from the public.

Temperance brings it forward, his wrists bracketing my neck.

I take it, setting the heavy diamond-encrusted necklace in the velvet case along with the earrings.

Temperance drifts away. Staring at the sparkling collar, I’m reminded of my grandmother’s story of arriving in America with just her own grandmother’s gold necklace to pay her way.

It was a chain that reached to the center of her chest when she arrived at Ellis Island.

Grandma had two links left when she showed them to me soon after my parents’ funeral.

She’d never talked about fleeing her home, losing her family.

That rainy afternoon in her living room, Grandma told me the whole thing.

It feels burned into my brain, the sorrow of it twined with my own loss like DNA.

My grandmother was younger than me when she arrived in America alone, a refugee.

But she survived. And she promised me I would too.

I could take this necklace, this band of diamonds, and flee. Move to some fishing village, change my name, dye my hair. Disappear. But probably not…

“I’m going to change," I say, turning. Temperance stands next to one of the large windows with its view onto the gardens.

Located in the crowded heart of Rome, the Rocco Forte Hotel feels like a country villa with its extensive walled gardens and private terraces.

I stare at Temperance so long, he looks back at me.

I blink at him, tilt my head. Take the hint and leave so I can change.

"I'm escorting you to meet someone; wear something professional." His tone is conversational.

I blink at him. The gown I'm wearing suddenly weighs more. It's scarlet, one-shouldered and falls to the floor in elegant drapes—like a toga but modern. The yards of satin suddenly feel like chain mail.

I'm exhausted. At the premiere tonight I had to pretend I was the right amount of fine—shaken but okay. Hannah inspected my eyes and didn't believe me. Which is no shade on Zade's craftsmanship. She knows my tells.

But Hannah didn't confront me. Just brought me a glass of whiskey at the afterparty and sat next to me, playing interference.

She's a good friend, and the fact that I can't tell her the truth of my life is just one more sorrow to endure.

And endure I will. I straighten my spine and nod to Temperance.

He wants me to meet "someone" at this late hour. Fine. I can handle it. I can handle anything he throws at me.

When Temperance opens the bedroom door I see Ash standing on the far side of the sitting room, his expression blank, eyes cold. Our gazes meet over Temperance's shoulder. His does not change.

A flower bouquet overwhelms the coffee table—sent by Prince Omar with another note of apology.

"Ash," I say, stepping forward to hold the door open. "I need your help with my zipper."

He nods like it's normal for me to ask him for help undressing. Ash passes Temperance, who cocks his head slightly. I can't see his face, but I'm guessing it's asking Ash a question. Something along the lines of you're unzipping her gowns now?

I close the door, Ash on my side of it. Then I head to the bathroom. Ash follows. I face the mirror. He stands behind me, focus on my back, at the zipper that starts between my shoulder blades and ends at the base of my spine.

Ash's hair is longer every time I look at him. It's still stubble-rough but thick enough I can't see his scalp through it anymore. The feel of his hair against my fingers in that dark, smoke-choked hall crashes into me. So soft. So warm.

"Do you know who he's taking me to see?" I ask, yanking myself back into this moment.

"No." Ash's thumb brushes my skin as he grasps the tiny pull tab. An involuntary shiver raises goose bumps on my skin. The zipper comes down, Ash's eyes follow it.

"Are you coming with us?"

"No." His touch lingers a fraction longer than necessary at the end of the zipper. But then he steps back, eyes coming to meet mine in the mirror. Frigid cobalt.

The dress drapes open, my spine naked. I raise a hand to keep it in place. If I let the fabric slip off my body the way gravity wants it to, what would Ash do?

"Do you need anything else?" he asks like he didn't hold me while I sobbed hours ago. Like I didn't sleep on his chest in that hospital room. Like he didn't promise me I was safe with him.

I turn to Ash, facing the man instead of the reflection. He has fully transformed back into a statue, as cold as the marble busts in the garden. "Should I go with him?"

Ash blinks—he wasn't expecting the question.

Temperance, as far as I know, is not a US agent anymore.

He could be working for North Korea or another enemy.

I don't want to betray my country. But then again, if he was removed for being unreliable and replaced by someone more loyal to Grand, he could be on the right side.

There is an election next year, maybe Grand will lose and people like Temperance will be restored to power. My chest tightens with a mix of hope and dread.

"Do you think I can trust him?" I ask.

A frown forms between Ash's brows. "Trust no one."

"Not even you?"

My heartbeat flutters in my throat. And I let my dress slip.

Ash's nostrils flare even as his eyes stay trained on mine.

I take a step closer to him. My lace strapless bra brushes the lapels of his suit.

Ash's hands land on my hips, holding me still, stopping me from getting any closer. Branding my skin with their rough heat.

I lay my hands on his chest and cock my head, a smile tugging at my lips.

"You won't hurt me." My voice comes out a husky purr.

His eyes burn down at me—still totally focused on my face, refusing to drift lower.

"Look how noble you are—most men would have pushed me up against the sink.

" I lick my lips. "Lifted my legs around their hips, and.

.." I smile. "Well, I bet you can use your imagination about what would happen next. "

Ash moves back, his hands still on my hips, holding me in place—making sure I can't get closer. "I know you want me," I say. He swallows and doesn't deny the truth. "But you won't take me because you are just that good of a man."

"I am not a good man." His voice has never been so deep. So gritty. But his eyes don't drop, his hands don't move.

I shrug. "Have it your way." I go to turn but he's holding me too tight—I can't move. I raise one brow at him. His fingers loosen, and I turn in them so that I'm facing the mirror again. Ash's eyes drop. Get caught on my ass and stay there.

The hunger in his gaze steals my breath. Fuck. I'm playing a very dangerous game. A thrill runs through me. I may have a thing for dangerous games.

It's still warm, the nights in Rome at this time of year cooler than the scorching days but pleasant enough that the light jacket I'm wearing is plenty of coverage.

I choose chunky-heeled thigh-high boots and a pale yellow linen short suit—leather-covered legs served me well last time I almost died. I think they are going to be my uniform moving forward. Practical in a way I never expected.

The ones I have on now are buttery soft, a deep aubergine, and were a gift from the designer whose name I can't remember. But boy will they blow up if my body is found wearing them…assuming I'm not burned to a crisp or swimming with the fishes.

My purse is a cross-body bag—one that if I was blasted across a room would still stay on. Inside is my new phone and hotel key. No compass full of kompromat . Temperance still has that. No weapons. I should have kept one of those scalpels.

"I appreciate you taking the time," Temperance says as we walk through the hotel's garden, our footsteps crunching on the stone pathway. The lighting is subtle, illuminating the sand-colored pebbles but keeping the topiary’s black green and the flower beds waving in shadows.

"I wasn't sure if I should trust you," I admit.

"You shouldn't." Temperance's voice edges on teasing but not enough for me to believe he's joking.

"You sound like Ash."

Temperance glances over at me. "He told you not to trust me?"

"He gave me the age-old advice to trust no one." I wink.

Temperance huffs a laugh. We reach a gate hidden in one of the walls behind a drape of ivy, and he pulls out a key. I shake my head as he unlocks it. "You have all the toys, don't you?"

Temperance looks down at me as he holds the door open, allowing me to pass through first. "Keys are not toys, Angela, they are tools."

"Thanks for the clarification." Sarcasm drips off each word.

We exit onto a quiet street lined with parked cars and darkened residences. Temperance locks the door behind us and then leads me to a motorcycle. Not the same one he had in London, this one is all black, less speed demon and more cruising the Amalfi coast.

He hands me a helmet. Cocooned in its padded embrace, my body wrapped around Temperance’s, we zip through the city, avoiding main roads, sticking to sleepy side streets, passing under shuttered windows.

Another ancient European capital he seems to know by heart.

My exhaustion has turned into a nervous energy.

The air chills as we get further from the center of the city. Soon we are in a quiet residential neighborhood, the road bracketed by thick walls topped with broken glass.

We slow, turning up a stone drive to a large black gate that slides aside as we rumble in front of it. The long drive leads to a modern villa, all stark white and harsh lines.

Temperance parks in front of the large front doors. He helps me off the bike as one of the massive doors eases open. A woman wearing dark slacks and a silk blouse in blood red smiles at me, her eyes friendly.

"Good evening," she says, her accent slight, just the right inflections of Italian gracing the words. She's probably in her fifties with streaks of silver running through her night-black hair. "Please, come in."

I glance around but don't see any obvious security. Which means they are really good because there is no way this place isn't secured with more than broken glass and an elegant hostess.

"Thank you," Temperance says, leading the way into the house. The entryway is large and echoey—marble floors and high ceilings extend into a sitting room with clusters of modern furniture that looks radically uncomfortable. Designed to perch on during a cocktail party.

A wall of glass reflects the room back at us.

My hair is in a slicked-back ponytail that the helmet turned into something much less slick.

I run my hands over it, trying to settle the fly-aways.

Temperance slides back one of the doors, exposing a terrace and darkened swimming pool overlooking a garden smudged in charcoal.

Clusters of furniture dot the deck, more inviting than the sleek pieces inside but still stiff looking. A woman stands from one of the high-backed chairs.

She's hard to see in the low light but vaguely familiar. Her smile broadens the closer we get. "Angela, I'd like to introduce you to Rebecca Levi, the next President of the United States," Temperance says.