Free The Spy Wore Red by Wendy Rosnau Page B

bloody washcloth floating in the sink. There was blood matted in the hair on his chest. A trail of blood moved over his collarbone.
    He said, “That kind of entrance usually buys a bullet.” He laid the .38 back on the vanity and turned to face the mirror again. “You in a hurry to use the can?”
    “I asked why you didn’t tell me you were hit.”
    “I wasn’t hit.”
    He angled his neck and that’s when she saw it—blood oozing from his torn flesh.
    She tossed the blood-soaked scarf at him. “Partners share everything, Odell….”
    His eyes found hers in the mirror. “Everything?”
    “Everything that matters involving their mission.” She walked up behind him and examined the wound from behind, then she locked eyes with him in the mirror once more. “No, you weren’t hit at all. I’m just seeing things, right? Your neck isn’t really ripped open. And this isn’t real blood.” She swiped at the blood with a slender finger.
    “It’s blood, but—”
    “But you weren’t hit?”
    He turned and let her get a front view of the two-inch wound. “If I’d been hit I’d still be carrying lead,” he said. “Tell me I’ve missed it.”
    “You’re an asshole.”
    “The bullet only tickled me.”
    “Tickled you?”
    “I felt it, that’s all,” he explained. “It touched me.”
    “You’re touched, all right. Are you sure it didn’t touch you in the head, too?” Nadja glanced down at his open duffel. He had an extensive first-aid kit sitting on top, and a number of prescription bottles. “Do you always travel with a drugstore at your disposal?”
    “It can’t hurt. You never know who is hiding in an alley.”
    He had deliberately brought up the alley. He was going to batter her with that memory the entire trip?
    She scowled at him, then squatted to rummage his medical supplies. She located a needle and thread, gauze and a scissors. One by one she took them out and placed them on the vanity.
    “It’s not going to stop bleeding without stitches.”
    “Excited about causing me more pain?”
    Without looking up at him, she said, “You flatter yourself, Odell. Not much excites me these days. Certainly not spending the evening in a hotel bathroom sewing up your neck. You’re supposed to avoid flying bullets, not step in front of them.”
    “If I hadn’t stepped in front of this one, it would have taken the back of your head off.”
    She had been reaching for the needle and thread. She stopped and glanced up, studied his face in the mirror. Was he serious?
    Suddenly a grin parted his lips. “This reminds me of another time and place. How about you? Remind you of anything?”
    “Actually, no. It doesn’t bring back a single memory.” “That’s too bad. My memory is crystal. Should I share?”
    “No, thanks.” She turned away and headed for the door, determined to let him bleed all over himself the entire night.
    She was almost through it when he said, “Six stitches should do it.”
    She stopped, looked over her shoulder. “You’re Mr. Survivor. Sew up yourself.”
    “I would, but the angle’s wrong.”
    “That’s too bad for you, isn’t it.”
    “Weak gut? The smell of blood make you sick? Which is it? Or is it the thought of touching me that’s bothering you? I don’t see why. It didn’t seem to bother you five years ago. In fact—”
    “Shut up.”
    “Come on, Nadja. Help me out. You said partners share everything. Lend a hand, for the sake of the mission.”
    She held his gaze for a moment, then shifted her attention to the wound. He was testing her, and if she didn’t pass the test there would be more coming at her until she proved to him that she wasn’t going to crumble under pressure.
    She glanced at his neck. He was right. It would take six stitches minimum. Eight would be better, and there would be less scarring if she went left to right.
    She wished he needed twenty stitches; his asshole smile was starting to grate on her. She wanted to wipe it off his handsome