“Who is Harlem?” he murmured.
She sighed. “Harlem was the closest I ever came to having a father. My mother loved him. I think he loved my mom, too—and Midnight. We lived with him for a few years… until....”
He pressed his lips against her temple. “You said you thought he loved your mother and sister. Don’t you think he loved you as well?”
She wiggled against him. He tightened his arms around her, afraid that she was trying to slip away, but she actually moved closer. Heat rose inside him when she slid her bare leg up his.
“Harlem was a complicated man. His life was full of very serious children and lots of celebrated death. He liked calm, organized, quiet people. Five minutes in a room with me and he was ready to— well, I would say ready to kill me, but notreally. He was an assassin, you know? Like the best one ever. Let’s just say if he made it a full five minutes in my company it was a miracle. He collected children he could train, but I was just sort of a package deal with my mom and my sister. He took the best of the best and turned them into kill— into another version of him. Midnight is herself, though. She's way snarkier than he could ever hope to be. She had her family to keep her intact. Mom and I were not part of that world. Mom didn't even know at first that he was training Midnight. I thought she knew, 'cause I was young enough that I still thought she knew everything— and then when I found out that she didn't know, Midnight swore me to secrecy. I got obsessed with hacking to make sure that Midnightwasn'tone of those kids who never came back from a mission. I don't know exactly how much Mom knew about Harlem, but she knew he was dangerous, and she knew what he would do if he found out I had a gift for programming. She swore Midnight to secrecy and kept me hidden, but... I think I’m the reason she finally left him,” she said, her voice holding a far-away quietness.
“How many kids did he train?” he asked.
“I don't know. Their numbers fluctuated a lot…. I’m guessing you already know about Idella,” she said.
“All I knew was she's a super badass. She saved my brothers.”
“Super badass. That is an excellent description of her. I’ve been helping her for years, you know,” she said, tilting her head to study his face.
“Yeah, I know. Tell me more about Harlem.”
She snuggled into him and sighed. “This isn’t the best after-sex conversation to have,” she complained.
He chuckled. “I could think of worse ones.”
She tilted her head back against his shoulder and scowled. “Like?”
“I don’t know. Maybe telling knock-knock jokes?” he teased.
She rolled over until she was lying breasts-to-chest against him. “What is wrong with knock-knock jokes?” she demanded.
He wound his arms around her, pulling her over him until she was tucked between his spread legs. A devilish smile curved his lips. Satisfaction swept through him when her pupils dilated with desire.
“Not a damn thing as long as it gets you in this position,” he said, meeting her lips when she lowered her head to his.
* * *
Allison sat at a table for two outside the quaint café waiting for Mark Hammer. The mercenary had requested a meeting. While she would have preferred to skip any close encounters with the man, she knew snubbing him wouldn’t be in her best interests. She chose the café because of the crowds—not that it would stop Mark from killing her if that was what he intended to do.
She sipped on a rich expresso and moodily stared at the image on her phone: the smiling faces of her mom and sister before their accident. If anyone were to see this, they would have the misguided thought that her life had been normal.
Tourists milled around, taking photos and sipping coffee. Along the foot bridge leading over the Seine, a musician played a romantic melody, hoping to earn a few dollars.
She pressed the display button on her phone and turned it over when Mark pulled out the iron chair across from her. She gritted her teeth at the screech of metal against stone and steeled herself for whatever sarcastic comment that was bound to erupt from his feeble, tormented little brain.
“Bronislav isn’t happy,” Mark announced.
She lifted a shoulder and shrugged. That was an understatement. Even if Bronislav had the entire Jawahir family’s heads on a platter, the man wouldn’t be happy. He should have left well enough alone while he was still a billionaire. It was the man’s own fault that he was in this quandary.
“Of course, Bronislav is never happy,” Mark continued.
Their unexpected agreement caused her to stiffen and focus on the man’s face, trying to decide if he was baiting her to say something he could use against her. He motioned for the server, ordered a coffee, and sat back in the chair.
“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s going on?” she finally asked, breaking the silence.
This time it was Mark who shrugged. He said nothing as the server returned with his order. She impatiently tapped her fingers on the table while he took a sip.
“You were right. The Jawahir prince and the woman used decoys. Two of the attendants from the train switched clothes with them. I’d love to slit the throat of the idiot who called in the fake bomb threat. It really screwed things up,” he said.
Allison remained silent. She certainly wasn’t about to admit she was the reason for the call. She curled her fingers into a fist and counted to ten before she forced her stiff fingers to relax. Picking up her coffee cup, she drained the remaining brew.
