Free An Affair of Vengeance by Jamie Michele Page A

me.”
    They stared at each other, as if each were daring the other to break first. Finally, she smiled. “So, are you on for tonight? Don’t make me drink alone.”
    “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, and then turned and exited through the alley door.

CHAPTER FOUR

    M cC REA STALKED THE narrow alley behind the market and wondered what in the hell he was doing.
    This woman—whoever she was, and whomever she worked for—was an unnecessary complication. He’d be best off losing her. It wouldn’t have been hard. He’d been seconds away from disappearing through that back door when she’d entered the market. He could have vanished, but he’d chosen to stay. Worse, he’d chosen to approach. To talk. Hell, to flirt.
    Because when she’d walked through that door, he’d been more intrigued than irritated. It’d been years since he’d been pursued by a woman, and he found himself liking the chase.
    So he’d played with her, let her know that he was on to her game. It was fun.
    He had no time for fun.
    He kicked a broken brick out of his path and continued on. Anger rumbled like sharp-edged stones in his belly. He should know better. Getting close to anyone was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
    Which reminded him to pause and pat his pockets. She’d been close enough to slip any number of items inside, but his were empty, save for what he’d put in them. She hadn’t bugged him again. He guessed that she’d simply wanted to know where hewas going, since she hadn’t been able to listen in on the Ménellier meeting. The white-noise generator he’d activated in the center of his suite would have made electronic amplification impossible.
    Well, at least he’d confirmed that she was a professional. No innocent waitress would fall into his arms and drop a tracker into his pocket one night, only to show up at his hotel and follow him the next morning. He didn’t buy her excuses. She was foreign intelligence, and he was her mark. Any smiles she dealt him would be constructed explicitly to cajole him into doing whatever in the hell she wanted him to do.
    Even if she hadn’t so clearly been following him, he hadn’t met a woman he could safely assume had no ulterior motives since he first went undercover. Too many hard years now separated him from innocence to pretend that she was anything other than what she appeared to be: just another threat to his progress. Whether they were on the same side of the law or not made little difference to him. The more people involved, the greater the chance of someone blowing a hint into the wrong ear. It was hard enough accommodating the Home Office’s growing requirements. The CIA was bound to have a secondary motive that would conflict with SOCA’s. Meddling by another country was the last thing he needed in this final leg of his mission.
    Then why did he find himself looking forward to seeing her again?
    It had to be physical, that’s all. She was pretty, no doubt about that. Most men would want her in bed, if they looked closely enough at her to see what he saw. A man would have to be blind to not want to take her into his arms, tug down her shirt, and kiss her pale, slim shoulder. Unbutton it further, and kiss her breast. Take it full into his mouth, and hear her moan. Feel her hands on his back, pulling him. Wanting him. Calling his name.
    She knew his real name, too, at least his real surname. Being with her would almost be real.
    Except it wouldn’t be, and he couldn’t pretend otherwise.
    He closed his eyes against the fantasy.
    After thirty solid minutes of advancing and retreating through the back doors of the shops in the corner of the first arrondissement, McCrea opened a heavy metal door and entered a quiet, dusty old bookshop. Nodding at the grayhaired man behind the counter, he meandered through rows of leather-bound volumes to a staircase in the corner of the building. He bounded up the stairs and down a dark, wood-paneled hallway. At its end, he slipped a key