I huff. "I have a lot of honorary aunts and uncles, and they're all fluent in like half a dozen languages, and here's me who can only speak English. I feel stupid, sometimes."
"What's an honorary uncle?" he asks.
"Someone your parents are so close to you grew up calling them Uncle or whatever, even though they’re not actually related to you."
"Oh. And you’ve a lot of them, 'ave you?"
I nod. "Yeah, I do."
He glances behind us again, briefly. "Not knowing a language doesn't mean you're stupid. It just means you didn't have a reason to need it. My best mates from the streets growin' up were lads who spoke French and German and not much English, so I learned them that way. Then, when I joined up, I had reason to keep current on it, professionally. Trainin' exercises, joint operations, shit like that. Now I'm out, I do work in France in Germany and use both a lot."
"This may be an insensitive question, but—"
He laughs, cutting me off. "Nah, love, I can't read or write in either language. Shit, I'm barely literate in English. I speak and understand, but put a newspaper in front of me or whatever? Nah. Not a word. May's well be Swahili."
"Did that affect your career in the military at all?"
He shrugs, nods. "A bit, yeah. My best mate in my unit, Reg, found out I was dyslexic and he'd cover for me. Help me with paperwork, sit near me in briefin's and tell me what was on the board, shit like that. I'd do anything for him, I would."
"Good to have friends like that. Rin is that for me."
"Rin?"
"Yup. Short for Corinna. She's basically my sister."
Rush leans forward and says something to the driver—we make a sudden turn, accelerate, make another turn, and then pull off to the side. Rush watches our backtrail for a few moments, and then tells the driver we can go.
"Someone's following us?" I ask.
He nods. "Think so. Not a hundred percent sure, but best not to take any risks." He growls wordlessly—a sound of irritation. "Best not approach my friend, yet. Not till I'm sure we’ve lost our tail."
A funny thing I've noticed: he refers to friends from his youth as mates, and his teammates from his unit in the SAS as mates, but this contact here in Lyon is always his "friend." I wonder what that's about.
He gives the driver more instructions, and we pull onto the road. A few minutes later, we're braking to halt under the portico of an upscale hotel in what Rush informs me is the 6th arrondissement, one of the wealthiest areas of Lyon.
In the lobby, he approaches the clerk and strikes up a friendly conversation, keeping me tucked against his side with an arm slung low around my waist, one hand casually resting on my hip. I figure I'd better play along, so I lean into him and gaze at him like he hung the moon. I don't follow the conversation, obviously, but it ends up with Rush forking over a stack of euros and receiving a single keycard.
Which, it turns out, is for a suite near the top of the building. It's not a penthouse, but it's close. There's a big seating area furnished with white leather couches on three sides around a glass coffee table decorated with a bowl of wicker balls and giant candles on antique wooden candleholders. A print of a famous Degas painting occupies the space over the electric fireplace, and floor-to-ceiling curtains frame acres of massive windows.
The bedroom is huge, with a king bed draped in high-thread-count linens and a luxuriously appointed bathroom.
"You sprang for a nice place," I remark, taking it all in.
He grins. "No point slumming it. Plus, we're close to where we need to go tomorrow." His eyes morph to green as he glances at the windows. "I've not forgotten what I said, Bryn. You can't get windows like that in a pay-by-the-hour motel in the red-light district."
"No, I don't suppose you can." I glance at the window as well, trying to imagine being pressed up against it, Rush behind me…
His eyes blaze, his grin widening. "Yeah, you're thinkin' about it, aren't you?"
"About what?" I ask, eyes wide and innocent.
His grin shifts, becomes that cocky, heated smirk—full of teasing promise and arrogance. "Oh, I dunno." He moves into my space, and even though he's only got four or so inches on me, he seems to tower over me, all broad shoulders and hard chest. "Didja forget what I said I'd do to you once I had you alone?"
"I've got a terrible memory," I lie, my voice unintentionally breathy.
God, this man affects me. My pulse pounds, hammering in my veins, roaring in my ears. My thighs press together as he occludes the world around us until there’s nothing but him. His eyes are fiercely green, now, sparking fire.
He takes a step, forcing me backward. "You're a shit liar, Bryn."
