Kate Cross - Touch of Steel

“Thank you.”

The earl seemed to understand how difficult those words were for her to say. He gave a curt nod and pulled the chair she’d abandoned closer to the bed so that he might sit. He could have remained standing to intimidate her, but he didn’t. She would not assume it was out of chivalry. The Earl of Wolfred didn’t need to stand to be intimidating. The man was built like a prizefighter, albeit a rangy one, and he had a gaze as cold and hard as steel.

He braced his forearms on his thighs and leaned toward her. His black greatcoat pulled across his back, the fine wool stretching to accommodate the movement. Normally she would love that he put himself so close, as it would make it all the easier for her to strike him in the throat or crotch, but right now she was painfully aware of just how little of a threat to his safety she was in her current condition. He was no doubt aware of it as well.

“Are you going to tell me why you are here, or are you going to stare at me all night?”

He didn’t so much as blink at her words. “It m Cordht?ust be difficult for you to be locked up.”

“Yes, because these are such spartan conditions,” she replied drily. As if she would ever confide just how confined she truly felt. How vulnerable. Were the room any smaller or the ceiling any lower, she’d be sitting in a corner, foaming at the mouth, mindless.

He arched a brow. “Indeed. Still, it must wound your pride as the Dove to have been so easily delivered into Warden custody. That’s an absolutely rubbish code name, by the way.”

Claire drew back. It hurt, and she winced. That would teach her to react. “I didn’t choose it,” she informed him—why, she had no idea. It wasn’t any of his business. “Will you tell me what they call you?”

“Reynard.”

She frowned. “As in the trickster fox?”

He looked impressed. What, did he think because she was female she was ignorant? Or perhaps it was because she was American. “That’s somewhat insipid, isn’t it?” She might have put more sarcasm behind it, but she had heard stories of Reynard, and being in the same room as him—within striking distance—bothered her. The man was augmented with metal “bones” and supposedly incredibly sharp eyes that . . . glowed when they caught the light.

Good God. It was true . He had the eyesight of a cat.

“No more than calling a dangerous woman ‘Dove.’”

Whatever her reputation, this man’s was just as formidable—or worse. The last woman to cross him—a sympathizer sleeping with a Company agent—had left him for dead beneath an overturned carriage. He not only survived; he was part of the team that tracked down the woman and her lover.

No one knew what happened to the pair after he captured them.

“You came here for a reason,” she said, all bravado. “Either tell me what it is, or leave.”

Something flickered in his eyes—something would have made her squirm were it not that it would hurt too much. “You’re hardly in the position to order me about.”

“Where’s Five? Huntley?” She’d never get used to calling him by that name.

“At home with his beautiful wife.”

Ah. Claire smirked. “She must be quite the woman if her jealousy was enough to send you here in his stead.”

“The countess is not the least bit jealous of you.” He couldn’t have sounded any more disdainful if he’d stepped in dog dung as he said it. “Lord Huntley no longer works for the W.O.R, and therefore is in no position to hear or answer any demands or requests you might have.”

“Then I have nothing to say. You may as well kill me now.”

“We don’t kill people, Miss Brooks.”

“Of course you do.”

That eerily glowing gaze of his met hers. “Sometimes we leave them to rot until the entire world forgets they ever existed.”

That struck real fear in her heart. She wasn’t afraid to die. Hell, she had embraced the notion the day she set off after Howard. No, dying held no sway over her, but living out the rest of her days in this box with no windows or sunshine . . .

“And here I thought you English gentlemen were supposed to be so very charming.”

He let out a short breath. “Either you work with me or you don’t work at all. That’s the only choice you have at the moment.”

She didn’t know this man. She certainly didn’t trust him, but when she looked at him, she knew he might be the one person who wanted Howard as much as she did. Not because he had a personal stake, but because it was his duty. She might not be able to trust him with her life, but she could trust him to hunt the blackguard to the ends of the earth once she put him on the right trail.

And she was running out of time.

“Fine.” The word left a bad taste in her mouth. She wanted Howard’s blood more than anything, but agreeing to work with the Wardens went against everything she and Robert believed in.

She’d joined the Company with her brother shortly after their parents’ death. They fought against enemies of the United States before journeying to Europe for missions on that continent. The Company didn’t pledge allegiance to any one country, though it had cells all around the globe. No, the Company was everywhere, fighting against dictatorships, monarchies—any system that kept the common man in the dirt while the wealthy made yet more gold off his back.

The man sitting across from her embodied everything the Company stood against, such as monarchy, class systems and oppression of the people. And she—for lack of a better term—was about to sell her soul to him. The real kick in the arse was that she found him terribly attractive. In other circumstances she might have seduced him, or allowed him to think he was seducing her.

Instead, she was left with an odd respect for him.

“Do we have an understanding?” he asked. “You work with me, and I speak to the director on your behalf once we have Howard and the Doctor in custody.”

Claire shrugged. “Why not?” The lie rolled off her tongue with practiced ease. It didn’t matter if she liked him, or wondered for a brief second what it would be like to rub her naked skin all over his. It didn’t matter because she had no illusions about surviving this. If Howard didn’t kill her, the Company or the W.O.R. would once they knew she’d betrayed them. Howard wasn’t going to be anyone’s prisoner or bargaining chip.

Stanton Howard was going to die—by her hand. And if Payne got in her way, she’d have to kill him, too.

On street level, number 13 Downing Street did not exist. It was merely a door absorbed into other buildings near the “official” residence of the prime minister. Of course, the PM lived in a much grander residence than the rather nondescript brick town house tucked behind a wrought-iron gate. Alastair wasn’t there to see Salisbury, however. He was there at the request of the director.

Last evening he’d unlocked the same door, crossed to the same gated lift and entered the correct punch card that would operate the lift and, after dropping it a couple of floors like a discarded toy, pushed it backward, deep below the street. There was a slight variation in this series of events, as he was here to see an entirely different sort of woman than he had the night before when he’d been there to see Claire Brooks.

He had gone to his club after that meeting, where he’d hoped to meet up with Luke, but his friend hadn’t made an appearance. Probably he was with Arden—and that was a drama Alastair wanted no more part of. It was bad enough he was being forced to work with that woman Claire Brooks . Better him than Luke, though. Luke was too easily convinced of her honor, whereas Alastair was certain she had none.