Niko: Licensed to Kill (Paris Intrigue 1)

By Vonnie Davis

Zoey,
I’m sitting in a French safe house as I type this email. I’m eating caviar and drinking champagne with handsome government agent, Niko Reynard. He’s wearing nothing but navy silk pajama bottoms, oozing mega doses of sex appeal. I’m in big trouble, little sister. He’s kissed me several times and given me a foot massage that nearly caused spontaneous combustion. I'm feeling strangely virginal compared to the sexual prowess this thirty-year-old man exudes.
When I came to Paris for a bit of adventure, I never imagined I’d foil a bombing attempt, karate-kick two men, and run from terrorists while wearing a new pair of Pradas stilettos. I’ve met a German street musician, a gay poet from Australia, and the most delightful older French woman.
Don’t worry. I’m safe...the jury’s still out on yummy Niko, though. The more champagne I drink, the less reserved I feel. What an unforgettable fortieth birthday! I won’t return to North Carolina the same sister you’re used to seeing, but then wasn’t that the purpose of this trip—to have a life-altering experience? Love you. Hug and kiss my niece for me.

Alyson

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vonnie Davis
• Release date: Apr 25, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370162888

Vonnie Davis

For years I’ve been a romance junkie, perhaps that’s why I adore writing about love and passion. I’d classify myself as a late bloomer. I started college in my late forties, met the love of my life in my mid-fifties and published my first book in my early sixties. My husband and I live in Southern Virginia. We enjoy spoiling the grandchildren and traveling. My deepest desire is to write saucy, often humorous romances you’ll cherish long after you’ve turned off the e-reader.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

A grim-faced guard stepped in front of Alyson Moore when she raised her camera to take a picture. "Madame, in the Louvre, we do not photograph the Mona Lisa." His lips fashioned a thin line of disapproval.

Alyson’s eyes scanned the crowd, for even as the security guard admonished her, scores of other tourists, their arms upraised, used cell phones to snap photos. Am I the only one trying to take a picture here? Without waiting for a reply, she pocketed her camera, and the snippy, tight-assed guard moved on.

She shouldered her way through the early morning crowd in the Salon Carrẻ to get a closer look at the painting encased in bullet-proof glass. Seeing Da Vinci’s masterpiece was a dream come true. No one, not even an overzealous guard, would spoil her time with Mona.

Once the museum opened its doors at nine sharp, and Alyson passed through security, she hurried to see this woman of mystery. The throngs of people already crowding the gallery surprised her.

She slipped between two men and stepped closer to the leading lady of the gallery. Alyson’s nose twitched from the sweet and sour blitz of assorted perfumes and various degrees of hygiene. Murmurings of adulation echoed off the gallery walls as if the Mona Lisa were a five-hundred-year-old rock star. How had one painting achieved such stardom?

If the ever-present guard wouldn’t allow photographs, she’d sketch some of Mona’s fans standing, spellbound by her enigmatic smile. When she finally tugged her large sketchpad free from the tight confines of her yellow leather bag, other items fell and scattered.

Alyson crouched to retrieve pieces of charcoal, just as the man standing next to her bent to place a black backpack, the style European men were so fond of carrying, on the marble tile floor.

Their eyes locked.

Excuse me, you’re standing on my things. Alyson pointed to his shoe. The man, face damp with perspiration, scowled, raised his foot and snatched her navy scarf, hotel keycard and passport, crushing them into a ball. He stuffed the wadded scarf into her outstretched hand and stood.

Alyson reached, fingering for the last charcoal pencil that rolled beyond her reach. She straightened and realized the man in the dark green t-shirt was walking away. The tattoo of a scorpion on the back of his neck. "Sir? Sir, you’ve forgotten your bag. Monsieur?"

He didn’t respond.

She called after him again.

The man disappeared into the crowd.

The museum guard approached. "Is there a problem, Madame?"

Yes, that man left his backpack here. Alyson indicated the black canvas bag on the floor. He set it down at the same time I dropped some things. She held out her navy scarf to show the guard and suddenly it hit her that her scarf was empty. She shook it out to make sure. My hotel key and passport! Pulling apart the sides of her shoulder bag, she rummaged through its contents, hoping against hope she’d shoved them inside without thinking. Still, with her passport the same shade as her scarf, she assumed it was wrapped in the scarf’s folds.

"I don’t believe this. He took my keycard and passport. Why would he take my things and leave his bag behind?"

The guard’s eyes widened for a second. "Madame, you are sure the man left this bag?" He pressed a button and spoke into a speaker attached to the lapel of his uniforme, a scowling gaze intent on Alyson.

Yes. He…he was setting it on the floor at the same time I squatted to retrieve my fallen items. I asked him to move his foot since he was standing on them. Alyson groaned as realization sunk in. She was in a foreign country with no passport. Oh, hell!

The guard cautiously unzipped the backpack. Yellow wires. The man stepped back, depressed the comminications button again, and spoke rapid-fire French. Pandemonium erupted. Armed guards rushed toward the abandoned black bag. Once the word bomb was uttered, visitors screamed as they stampeded from Mona Lisa’s room.

Suddenly, Alyson stood in the eerie deafening silence with only the pounding of her heart and the cocking of guns reverberating in her ears—she and the black bag containing explosives surrounded by eight armed guards.

Holy effing shit!

****

She was unceremoniously hauled to Paris police headquarters, the Prefecture de Police, and interrogated for nearly eight hours by various detective teams, each more stern-faced than the last. Visions of being locked away forever in a French dungeon flashed in front of her like a neon No Exit sign. She had zero rights in this country. No passport. No one to help her.

When the door to the interrogation room opened and two men swaggered in, the testosterone level rose by a factor of nine. Even though the first man, middle-aged with graying temples and silver-framed, square glasses riding low on his nose, was handsome in his own right, it was the second male who commanded her attention—and her fascination.

He was striking. Or, as Zoey, her free-spirited sister, would say, Oh my God, he’s make-my-panties-damp gorgeous.

While the young man wasn’t blatantly tall, he was excessively male. Sex appeal oozed from every pore on his skin. Alyson’s body responded, which surprised her. She’d thought that part of her body long dead after a near sexless marriage.

With the firm and muscled, yet slender build of many European men, she judged him to be around thirty. He had an olive complexion and short, wavy black hair styled like that of a GQ model. His eyes were dark and angry.

What’s his problem? I’m the one held here against my will, hungry and thirsty. And, dammit, I have to pee.

The older man sat while Macho Male prowled the room like a tightly-reigned panther.

Ms. Moore, I’m Field Supervisor Henri Moreau. I head the French task force on counterterrorism. The irritated man behind me is my second in command, Niko Reynard.

The young man deigned to spare her a nod in greeting. Oh, she knew the type.

She nodded once in return with a dose of her own attitude. After all, she hadn’t been a teacher all these years without perfecting a piercing glare. One of his dark eyebrows quirked in response and a corner of his mouth quivered for an instant as if he were a heartbeat away from laughing at her. She hiked her chin and held eye contact with him for a few seconds.

Touché.

Okay, so she was being bitchy, but after all she’d been through today, frankly she didn’t give a crap.

We’ve reviewed the Louvre’s security tapes and completed a thorough background check on you. Moreau flipped open a manila file. You’re a high school art teacher from Asheville, North Carolina. Went to university at Duke. Additional studies in New York City. Worked for two years at the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art. His head nodded as he cited her life’s history, almost as if it were nothing more than another series of boring facts—which unfortunately it was.

You’ve been teaching art for thirteen years. Married for twelve. No children. His gaze rose to hers. You’re recently divorced. Your husband…

"Ex-husband." She crossed her arms and sat back in her chair. She may have to put up with this interrogation, but she didn’t have to like it. Nor did she appreciate having strangers inventory her personal life, no matter how damn boring it was.

He spared her the briefest of smiles. She closed her eyes, sensing what was coming next. "Your ex-husband is now living an openly gay lifestyle…"

A wounded sound escaped from her chest, her broken heart giving one last whimper of pain. Robert had hurt her so badly.

Macho Male stopped pacing behind his partner and nudged him with his elbow. "Gentillesse, Henri."

Of course, one must always be gentle. The older man glared at her. If it is appropriate. Coworkers claim you had surgery four months ago for a female prob…

Macho Male expelled a loud string of profanity, his long-fingered hands decorating the air with their angered gesturing. Henri smirked. You are too sensitive, Niko. Comes from all those women in your life. I’m sure Ms. Moore does not mind if we discuss her medical history. American women love to talk about their operations. The older man gave a wave of his open hand as if to deflect the younger man’s outburst.

Alyson looked from one male to the other, wondering what battle of wills was going on between the two and why she had to be the one in the middle of their ego-driven conflict. Or were they merely playing good cop/bad cop?

Henri shrugged in that arrogant, self-assured way Frenchmen had. You have no criminal record. No known ties with terrorists. Your bank records and tax records seem in order. He closed the file with a snap, and she flinched. Damn, her nerves were frayed. We have concluded you are innocent of trying to harm one of our national treasures, the Mona Lisa.

Indignation simmered. "Of course I’m innocent. I would never try to harm her or any work of art. As I’ve told countless interrogators over the last several hours, I have no association with the man who carried in those explosives."

She shuddered and closed her eyes, thinking of all the lives the bomb would have extinguished had it exploded. The Salon Carrẻ was crowded with onlookers just like her, hoping for a glimpse of the famed masterpiece. Life was so fragile, especially in the hands of violent people.

"One question does keep rolling around in my mind, Monsieur Moreau. The field supervisor flicked his wrist quickly as if to signal he’d grant her one question. As if anyone could stop her at this point. How did this man get a bomb inside the Louvre? My shoulder bag was searched and x-rayed when I entered. Also, I had to acquire prior written approval to sketch the Mona Lisa. Passing through security was rather arduous. Why wasn’t it for this man?

‘Someone was asleep at the switch,’ as we say in America. She tapped one finger against the table as she spoke, her tapping added impact to every word.

The older man’s eyes narrowed as if he were insulted she’d dare criticize the French for anything. Rest assured, we are investigating that very question. We have concluded he was not acting alone. One of the cleaning crew at the Louvre has gone missing. We suspect he was a companion of the man you saw. Even so, these facts are no concern of yours. He tapped the edge of the file on the table and stood. You are free to go, Ms. Moore.

Look, I… She cleared her throat. I have no passport. Dear Lord, what would she do without one? How would she get home to the States?

Field Supervisor Moreau jerked his head in the direction of his second in command. This young man will see to that. He’ll also guard you until this matter is resolved. Have no fear, he may look like a model, but he’s passably effective.

Screw you. Macho Male leaned a shoulder against the wall, his hands in his pockets, all scowls and attitude.

Alyson tore her gaze from his handsome face to the man in charge. What do you mean, guard? I don’t need a guard. All I need is my passport.

Moreau leaned over the table, his strong cologne sickening. "You got a good look at the terrorist. He was smart. Cunning, in fact. His face was always turned away from the security cameras, as if he knew where they were located and what direction they were filming. Now we know he probably did. Niko studied the tape showing the x-rays of this man’s bag at security when he entered the museum. It contained a wallet, sunglasses and one of those plastic coated street maps of Paris tourists use.

Later, security cameras show him entering a restroom in the Richelieu Wing shortly after the now missing janitor, who appeared to have a similar bag. We suspect a switch was made in the restroom, where there are as yet no cameras.

They had every detail planned out, didn’t they? She looked first at Moreau and then Macho Male.

The younger man ran a tanned hand down his navy paisley necktie. Pristine white shirt sleeves were rolled up a couple turns, exposing firm, corded forearms. I was able to analyze the security data to follow his movements throughout the museum. He checked his watch often. So, yes, everything was timed to the second.

What does all of this have to do with me? Why do I need a guard?

The second in command focused his dark eyes on her. You saw enough of him to give a good description and sketch his face. If he took your passport and your hotel keycard, he did so for a reason. That reason being you two made eye contact. He’ll want to find you and neutralize your threat to him and his organization.

A chill galloped up her spine like a runaway horse. Neutralize? You mean— she swallowed and fiddled with the hem of her top. This terrorist wants to kill me? Her eyes darted around the interrogation room searching for a safe anchoring point. Oh, good Lord!

She willed herself to sit still, to refrain from screaming, to keep her breathing even so she wouldn’t go batshit crazy. Mostly she willed herself to make logical steps. Her life was ruled by logic and schedules. Safety resided in routine.

The older man opened the door. "Niko will escort you to your hotel when his duties allow and then to a safe house for the weekend. You have an appointment at ten on Tuesday morning. Niko will take you to the American embassy where they’ve been apprised of your situation.

Although the embassy is open all weekend, the officer—the only officer, it seems—who issues replacement documents for stolen passports won’t be in his office until Tuesday. His face twisted into a self-satisfied smirk. Another one of your government’s budget cutbacks, it would seem. He sniffed in superiority.

She glared back. Arrogant bastard.

"Your government’s employee is in Norway on vacation. When he returns, the embassy will have all the necessary information required to issue you a new passport. Then you’ll be able to return to the United States.

You’ll be safe enough in Niko’s care. My apologies to you from the French government for this inconvenience. We value our tourism and our guests. The man sounded like an insincere infomercial. He jammed his hand into his pants pocket, jingled his change, and strode out.

Alyson popped out of her chair. Wait, this is Thursday. You mean to tell me I’ll have to hide until Tuesday morning? I came to see Paris, to walk the streets, and see as much as I could.

Macho Male pushed away from the wall. Ms. Moore, would you follow me? I’ll explain our plan, then I have some intelligence to review.

Yes, but… She watched the door close behind the field supervisor and then pivoted to stare at the slender-faced man assigned as her protector. I’ve read about terrorists. Watched documentaries about them. I just never thought I’d come within a foot of one. Now I’m being told…

She shook her head and exhaled a slow breath. Someone wanted her dead. She was being put into protective custody. She cleared her throat, a nervous habit. This is bizarre. So utterly bizarre. I’m so… She shrugged and lifted upturned palms in a helpless gesture.

He stepped closer. The scent of his cologne, understated yet powerful, made her want to lean closer to inhale deeper. Her stomach fluttered and her breathing hitched.

So…what? His head tilted to the side as if he were truly interested in her response. That one little movement touched her, temporarily putting her at ease.

"Insignificant. I’m an insignificant tourist, Monsieur…? Sorry, I’m not retaining names very well at this moment."

Niko is fine.

Niko. She wrapped her arms around her waist and glanced away. Look, all I saw was the terrorist’s face. I didn’t see any secret plans or overhear anything confidential. Just a face. Maybe he wore a disguise. She thought of the sketch she drew shortly after arriving at police headquarters. Maybe he really doesn’t look anything like my sketch.

Maybe I’m trying to discount the obvious. I’m in very real danger here.

Based on your sketch, Interpol made a match. Believe me, he’s lethal. Very lethal. Until today we thought him dead. You’ve exposed him. He’ll be out for revenge.

Alyson swallowed. Revenge? Just for seeing his face? Look, how extreme is that?

The young man sat on the corner of the table and crossed his arms. That’s what terrorists are, Ms. Moore: Extreme. Unreasonably extreme. Ziyad Dembri, the man you saw today, went to great lengths to fake his death two years ago. A burned body and phony dental records were involved. He evidently had plastic surgery on his nose to further complete his new identity. Because no one at Interpol was on the lookout for him, he was able to fly under their radar.

She closed her eyes briefly. Until I identified him today.

You got it. Now Interpol believes Dembri was the mastermind and perpetrator of several attacks here in Europe and in the Middle East. Those attacks carried his MO, but with his reported death, authorities didn’t know who to blame. Now, with your sketch, they do.

Oh, dear Lord. She’d stuck her nose in it now.

Many innocents have died because of him. Now that he’s been identified, his ability to move about undetected has been removed. He’ll be very angry with you and, yes, out for revenge.

She shook her head in disbelief. Leave it to me to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. To be the one to see his face.

"The French have an expression. ‘Vengeance est un plat mieux carne froid.’ Revenge is a dish best savored cold. As with all terrorists, Ziyad Dembri is a very coldhearted, vengeful executioner. He’s part of a larger terrorist ring called the Red Hand. The red in their name pertains to the large quantity of blood on their hands. No member of their group hesitates to murder. Their leader, whoever the shadowy figure is, goes by the nickname ‘the Architect,’ as in the Architect of Death." He stood and walked toward the door.

Alyson followed, stopped as he opened the door, and glanced at him. The Red Hand? Architect of Death? She gave an involuntary shudder. What nationality are they? I’ve never heard of them.

Niko cupped her elbow and escorted her from the room. Iraqi, Syrian, Turkish and Iranian. Even some Korean and Chinese. Radical, as all these types of groups are. The huge difference is they shun publicity. No interviews, no video tapes sent to television stations, and no YouTube videos. Instead they leave a macabre calling card.

What do you mean?

They leave a handprint of the victim’s blood.

Oh, dear Lord. Her hand flew to her mouth and then dropped to her stomach as it flipped and flopped. She was going to be sick. Don’t they leave fingerprints when they do that?

Latex gloves.

What manner of hornets’ nest had she stirred up? A terrorist faking his death. Bloody handprints left at the scenes of crimes. Could this vacation get any worse?

Niko stopped to glare at a male coworker—disheveled, early thirties with a massive neck and shaved head. A weary expression on his face, he was slouched in his chair with his feet crossed on top of a cluttered desk.

Niko shoved the man’s shoes down. Any updates I should be aware of?

The man, intimidating with a hairline scar running the length of his cheek, handed Niko a sheaf of papers. These faxes just came in. Most important ones are on the top. I also printed out some intel emails. He ran his hands over his face in a scrubbing motion. Man, I need sleep.

Niko nodded as he scanned the pages. Ms. Moore, this slovenly person is Jean-Luc LeFèvre, a unit field agent. Surprisingly, one of our best.

Jean-Luc tucked in his blue shirt as he stood. "Enchantẻ, Madame. Please, forgive my appearance. He extended his hand and she shook it. I had a night flight from Korea and made the mistake of answering my phone once my plane landed. He jerked his head in Niko’s direction. Seems this little shit can’t make a move without me. So, of course, I came straight from the airport to offer my assistance."

A slender, older man with closely cropped gray hair and sunken eyes approached. Ms. Moore, fancy a soda from the machine? An Orangina, perhaps? I know you’ve had a long day. He tipped his head slightly. Pardon me cheeky Australian manners. The name is Lionelle Evers. He extended his hand.

Grateful for his thoughtfulness, Alyson smiled. Orangina would be wonderful. Thank you.

Yes, your kindness is appreciated, Lionelle. I should have thought of that, myself. Is your computer fixed?

Lionelle nodded. Right as rain, now, mate.

Good. Jean-Luc, as for your needless remark about my capabilities, you can kiss my ass. Niko shuffled through the papers never once sparing his best agent a glance. Ms. Moore is neither interested in your life’s history, nor your inflated opinion of yourself.

Jean-Luc laughed, obviously pleased he’d irritated his superior. The beam of affection in his eyes for Niko, along with the smile, softened his hardened features.

Niko looked up from the papers he studied. Was everything okay with your computer when you logged on? I caught Lionelle trying to use it. Claimed his wasn’t working, his voice was low, discreet.

Jean-Luc scoffed. I’ve got too many layers of security on this baby for anyone to log on to my good stuff. The best he can do is play Solitaire and Angry Birds.

Knowing you, I figured as much. Did Desiree give you Ms. Moore’s bag?

She locked it in the bottom drawer of your desk. I’m surprised she had a key. Jean-Luc crossed his arms and glared at Niko. Still.

Lionelle handed Alyson a bottled orange soda and a clean glass. Once again she thanked him. He smiled shyly and returned to his desk. She poured the soda eager for something liquid to soothe her fear-parched throat.

Tell Desiree I want the key returned, Niko ordered.

Jean-Luc scowled and swung his chair around to his computer, his fingers flying over the keyboard. Do your own dirty work where Desiree’s concerned. I’ve got a good fifty emails from the ladies who missed me while I was gone. I’ll try to knock out a few replies before more intel comes in for me to analyze.

Alyson sipped her drink and watched the two men. Well, now, what was all this about with a desk key and a woman named Desiree? An office romance gone bad, perhaps? She glanced at Niko, wondering how he’d treat a woman. She pegged him for a user and a leaver. Granted, she could be wrong; she’d been wrong about her ex-husband.

She glanced around, her bladder about to burst now that she’d had the soda. Is there a ladies’ restroom nearby. Niko gave her directions and she hurried off. By the time she returned, Niko and Jean-Luc had their heads together pointing to large screens on the wall. She collapsed on the brown leather sofa nearby and rested her head against its back. The room spun and she closed her eyes against its affects. All the stresses of the day had gotten to her.

Buzzsaw snoring woke Alyson. Bringing things into focus took a few minutes. Where was she? Who was sleeping nearby? Why was there a man’s coat covering her? She rolled her head to the side. Jean-Luc was asleep with one leg over the top of another sofa positioned near the one she was on so that they created an L shaped arrangement.

She looked around what Niko had called the control room. He studyied two computers, flicking the tip of his pen from one screen to the other and making notes. When she stood and yawned, he swung around in his leather chair.

How was your nap, Ms.Moore? You were out for almost three hours.

She had a banger of a headache, but she wasn’t about to complain. There were bigger things to worry about. I’m fine, thanks.

Now that you’re awake, give me two minutes to close things down and we’ll get out of here. Niko clicked out of various programs and locked his notes in a desk drawer. He motioned Alyson to his orderly desk and signed a form on a clipboard before extending it to her. Sign please for the return of your shoulder bag. It was searched, of course.

Of course. Alyson signed and snapped the clipboard onto the desk. Seems my whole life was searched. I’d hate to see how French authorities would have treated me had I done something wrong.

Niko unplugged his laptop and slipped it into his briefcase along with the papers Jean-Luc had given him earlier. He rolled down his shirt sleeves and inserted cufflinks lying in a tiny brass bowl. We have to take terrorist threats seriously. France has lost too many lives already. In your case, we were wrong to suspect you.

After removing her purse from a locked drawer, he stood and stretched his neck and shoulder muscles. Unfortunately, Parisians have learned lives can be snuffed out in an instant. We’re always on alert now. He grabbed his revolver from a drawer, slipped it into a holster at the back waist of his pants and then strode to the sofa to retrieve the navy suit coat that had covered her during her nap.

Alyson did a quick finger fluff of her hair while he grabbed his briefcase. This way please. He led her to the elevator. I’ll take you to your hotel. I believe you’re staying at the Madison on Boulevard Saint Germain.

She stared at him, trying hard not to be surprised that he knew. Yes, that’s right. Interrogations, bombs, terrorists out for revenge, bloody handprints. This is a nightmare.

Once they were in the small lift, he punched the button labeled Garage sous-sol and ran a hand down his necktie. Our world is manipulated by terrorists, Ms. Moore. It’s our job to hunt them down, kick the rock they’re hiding under and kill them when they scatter like the cockroaches they are.

She looked at him from the corner of her eyes. He sounded cold and menacing. She gave an involuntary shudder.

Do I frighten you, Ms. Moore? She nodded just as he shoved the elevator’s steel gate open. He took her arm and led her to the cars parked on the right. Good. His gaze scanned the parking area. Stay afraid. Maybe that will keep you alive.

CHAPTER TWO

The woman was going to be trouble.

Ms. Moore was obviously clueless as to the impetus she’d set in motion. Terrorists’ activities would increase in response to her identifying Ziyad Dembri and preventing the bomb from going off. The Red Hand was ruthless when provoked.

He shot her a sideways glance. Imagine, coming to Paris and unwittingly foiling a terrorist’s attack. What were the chances? For that matter, what were his chances of getting stuck with the ice queen here? He sighed in irritation.

Niko resented the hell out of this assignment—babysitting an uptight American. He’d done his fair share of this type of work early on in his career with Interpol. When he was handpicked and recruited for the revamped French counterterrorism unit, he hoped this new position would be a move up. Now he had his doubts. His job title, second in command, should have precluded this mundane type of assignment.

He’d rather be in the control room at headquarters, in the thick of things, pounding computer keys, analyzing data, and shouting out commands. Just his freaking luck to be saddled with Ms. Uptight American.

This was undoubtedly his superior’s way of showing displeasure. He sensed his boss resented something about him, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. His age, perhaps? His fierce ambition? His past employment with Interpol? Or was it that Henri Moreau felt threatened by his uncanny ability to zero in on how terrorists thought and planned their next move. He walked a fine line between aggressively advancing his career and making sure he credited his supervisor with every solved case. This babysitting assignment indicated Moreau was not impressed with his efforts.

With his hand pressed to the small of the American’s back, Niko led her to his Porsche 911 Carrera. The car of his dreams chirped when he pressed his key fob, opening his trunk. Once he’d placed his briefcase inside, he opened the passenger door, and helped her into the tan leather-wrapped interior. He lovingly wiped a speck of dust off the roof of the Carrera’s high-gloss black exterior.

I’m a little old to be babysat, Niko.

Hell, had the woman read his mind? She swung her feet from his car onto the concrete garage floor as if she were planning to get back out.

I’m used to taking care of myself. Have since I was in grad school. Look, this is silly, really. I’ll just hail a taxi back to my hotel, pack up, and get a hotel room somewhere else. I’ll lay low until Tuesday when I can get my passport.

Niko rested one arm on the roof of the car and leaned toward her, taking in her blue eyes tensed with worry. She’d been treated rudely by his superior who had a strong dislike for Americans. He was sorry for the manner in which Henri flaunted her personal information. For his boss, it was a power strategy. According to Ms. Moore’s pained expression and stiff body language, it had been quite humiliating for her. Damn Henri, anyhow.

My job is to take care of you. He flashed a smile, hoping to put her at ease. You wouldn’t want to get me in trouble for dereliction of duty, would you? My superior can be difficult to handle when he’s provoked.

She heaved a sigh, shook her head, and placed her feet back into the car. He quickly closed the door before she changed her mind.

Settling into his bucket seat, Niko clicked his seat belt and focused on not noticing Ms. Moore’s delicate floral perfume which had enveloped him in the elevator. Everything about the woman was soft—her fragrance, her voice with its southern drawl, and most certainly her eyes. Even her shade of red lipstick was soft, not flashy or brash, but inviting.

He had a job to do, which would mean ignoring her very soft and feminine appeal. Every assignment he performed garnered one hundred and twenty percent of his wide-ranging skills. This one would be no different.

Give me your cell. He gave a beckoning motion with his fingers. She turned those fascinating eyes on him in obvious question. "Give