“Bonjour, officier,” Jameel greeted.
* * *
Allison looked up when Mark entered the room carrying a bag and two coffees. Her lips twitched. Mark looked like he had been ridden hard…
…and put up wet, she thought with wry amusement.
His disheveled hair, raccoon eyes, and two-day growth of facial hair made it look like he hadn’t slept in a week. It was wildly sexy. Her own body was still tingling. She just hoped she didn’t look as rough as he did!
“I miss American coffees,” he grumbled.
“Why? This is delicious,” she said, taking the cup he offered.
“This… is a sip,” he scoffed.
She snorted. "Too much caffeine is bad for you... though I see you are compensating with a sugar high."
He had placed their breakfast on the round table, sat down across from her, and ripped open several paper containers of sugar, dumping them into his cup. She shuddered at the amount. It would be sweet sludge when he was done with it.
“Andre said the prince’s men haven’t made a move yet.”
“Mm,” she replied.
She spread an unhealthy amount of rich, creamy butter on her croissant and followed it up with a spoonful of strawberry jam. Before she could pick it up, Mark leaned forward, picked it off her plate, and took a huge bite out of it. He grinned at her when she twirled her plastic knife to a menacing position and shot him a murderous glare.
“This… is for keeping me up past my bedtime,” he said around a mouthful of croissant.
“I’ve wiped out bank accounts for less than what you just did,” she growled.
He laughed at her and took another bite of the croissant. Allison rolled her eyes, ineffectively stomped on his shoe with her bare foot, and pulled another croissant out of the bag. She made sure she kept one hand on it while she doctored it.
“You don’t look like the type of person Bronislav usually hires,” he stated.
Allison took a bite of her croissant and mulled over how to answer that question. The best spies throughout history were the ones who didn’t look like they were spies. She had learned a long time ago to embrace her non-threatening appearance.
Hell, isn’t that what most serial killers do? Their friends and families are always the last to know who they really are.
Not that she was a serial killer.
“You do… look like the type,” she replied.
His eyes narrowed. She knew it wasn’t because he felt slighted by her observation. No, his expression was more curious. She smirked. A game of twenty questions sounded like fun.
“I’m the type of person he neededbeforehe dug his own grave,” she stated in a cool tone.
Mark quirked an eyebrow and his curious expression became intensely interested. He leaned forward. She waited and watched as he tore a piece off a fruit pastry.
“Enlighten me as to what type of person that is?”
She chuckled and shook her head. “Only if you answer a question in return.”
He thought about her demand for a few seconds before he relaxed, nodded, and tore off another large piece of pastry. She smiled. She would tell him nothing that he could use against her. While physically, he might be more dangerous, mentally she was superior.
“In case you didn’t get the memo, the world doesn’t require all wars to be physical. Technology is everywhere,” she pointed out.
“Yes, but can your doorbell kill you?” he asked.
Her lips twitched at his grouchy expression. “If programmed correctly,” she cheekily replied.
