Linda Howard - Kiss Me While I Sleep

He was staying at the Bristol, in the Champs-Élysées. On impulse she went into a café and ordered a cup of coffee, then asked to look up a number in their telephone directory. She scribbled down the Bristol’s number, then finished her coffee and left.

She could have called and had him meet her somewhere, but instead she took the train, and was just up the street from the hotel when she stopped at a public phone and used her Télécarte phone card to call the hotel. If he was CIA and had all of his incoming calls traced, this would deny him not only her cell phone number but any hint of where she was staying.

She gave his room number to the clerk who answered, and Swain answered on the third ring—a sleepy “Yeah,” followed by a yawn. She felt a glow of pleasure at his accent, the pure American informality of his greeting.

“Can you meet me at Palais de l’Élysée in fifteen minutes?” she asked without identifying herself.

“Wha—? Where? Wait a minute.” She heard another jaw-cracking yawn; then he said unnecessarily, “I’ve been asleep. Is this who I think it is? Are you blond and blue-eyed?”

“And I tote a peashooter.”

“I’ll be there. Wait a minute. Where in hell is this place?” he asked.

“Just down the street. Ask the doorman.” She hung up, and positioned herself so she could watch the front door of the hotel. The palace was close enough that only a fool would drive instead of walk, but just distant enough that he wouldn’t be able to tarry and still make the fifteen-minute deadline. When he came out of the hotel, he would turn in the opposite direction from where she was positioned, and she could fall in behind him.

He was out the door in five minutes; if he’d made any calls, they had been on his cell phone as he walked down the hall, because otherwise he hadn’t had time. He stopped to speak to the doorman, nodded, then set off down the street. Or rather, he ambled down the street, a loose-hipped gait that made her wish she could see his butt while he walked. Unfortunately he was wearing that great leather blazer again, and it covered his rear.

Lily walked swiftly, the sound of her soft-soled boots covered by the traffic. No one was with Swain, and he wasn’t talking on the phone as he walked, so that was good. Maybe he really was on his own. She closed the distance between them, and with one long stride fell into step beside him. “Swain.”

He glanced at her. “Hi, there. I spotted you when I came out of the hotel. Any reason why we’re going to the Palais?”

Caught, she had to smile and shrug. “None at all. Let’s walk and talk.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the weather’s cold and the sun has almost set. Remember I told you I’ve been in South America? That means I’m used to warmth.” He shivered. “Let’s find a café and you can tell me what’s going on over a nice cup of hot coffee.”

She hesitated. Though she knew she was being paranoid, that Rodrigo couldn’t possibly have someone on his payroll in every shop and café in Paris, his influence was broad enough that she didn’t want to take the chance. “I don’t want to talk in public.”

“Okay, let’s go back to the hotel. My room is private, and it’s warm. And there’s room service. Or, if you’re afraid you can’t control yourself if you’re in the same room with me and a bed, we can get the car and drive aimlessly around Paris, burning gas that costs forty bucks a gallon.”

She rolled her eyes. “It does not. And it’s liters, not gallons.”

“I notice you didn’t deny the part about controlling yourself.” He wasn’t smirking, but it was close.

“I’ll manage,” she said drily. “The hotel it is.” If she was going to trust him, she might as well start now. Besides, seeing his hotel room without him having time to neaten it and put away things he didn’t want to be seen might be enlightening—not that he would have asked her back to his room if there was anything incriminating lying about anyway.

They retraced their steps, and when they reached the hotel, the impassive doorman opened the door for them. Swain led the way to the elevators, stepping aside to let her enter first.

He unlocked his door, and she stepped into a bright, cheerful room with two floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a courtyard. The walls were cream colored, the bed had a soft-blue-and-yellow spread, and to her relief there was a fairly spacious sitting area, with two chairs and a sofa arranged around a coffee table. The bed was made, but one of the pillows bore the imprint of his head and the spread was wrinkled where he’d been napping. His suitcase wasn’t in sight, so she assumed it was tucked away in the closet. Other than a water glass on the bedside table and the rumpled condition of the spread, the room was as neat as if no one was staying there.

“May I see your passport?” she asked as soon as he’d closed the door behind him.

He gave her a quizzical glance, but reached inside his coat. Lily tensed; she barely moved, but he caught her sudden tension and froze in the act of pulling out his hand. Very deliberately he reached up with his left hand and pulled his coat open so she could see that his right hand was filled with nothing more than his blue passport.

“Why do you want to see my passport?” he asked as he handed it over. “I thought you were going to check me out.”

She flipped open the cover, not bothering to check the photo, but instead looking at the entry stamps. He had indeed been in South America—all over it, in fact—and had returned to the States about a month ago. He’d been in France four days. “I didn’t bother,” she said briefly.

“Why the hell not?” He sounded indignant, as if she’d said he wasn’t worth checking out.

“Because I made a mistake in letting you go yesterday.”

“ You let me go?” he asked, lifting his brows.

“Who had the gun on whom?” She mirrored his expression as she gave the passport back to him.

“You have a point.” He tucked the folder in his inside coat pocket, then shrugged out of the coat and tossed it across the bed. “Have a seat. How was letting me go a mistake?”

Lily sat on the sofa, which put a wall at her back. “Because if you’re CIA, or were hired by the CIA, that gave you time to have them sanitize whatever information on you is out there.”

He put his hands on his hips and glared at her. “If you know that, then what in hell are you doing here in my hotel room? My God, woman, I could be anyone!”

For some reason, his scolding struck her as funny, and she began to smile. If he’d been hired to kill her, would he be fussing about her not being careful enough?

“It’s not funny,” he groused. “If the CIA’s after you, you have to be on your toes. Are you a spy or something?”

She shook her head. “No. I killed someone they didn’t want killed.”

He didn’t blink an eye at the fact that she’d killed someone. Instead he picked up the room menu and tossed it into her lap. “Let’s order some food,” he said. “My stomach hasn’t adjusted to this time zone, either.”

Though it was very early for supper, Lily briefly glanced through the menu and made her choice, then listened as Swain phoned in the order. His French was passable, but no one would ever mistake him for a native speaker. He hung up the phone, then came to sit down in one of the blue-patterned chairs. Pulling up his right leg to prop his ankle on top of his left knee, he asked, “Who did you kill?”

“An Italian businessman-slash-hoodlum named Salvatore Nervi.”

“Did he need killing?”

“Oh, yes,” she said softly.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“It wasn’t a sanctioned hit.”