Linda Howard - Kiss Me While I Sleep

“I am,” he said. “Nobody makes a motor like the Germans. But the Jag was cool, too. And the Mégane handled good.”

Lily wondered how they had segued from a discussion about being in love into one about cars. She looped her arms around his neck and nestled against him. Where did they go from here? And was there any point in worrying about the future until they were sure they had one?

“Stay in the—” Swain began.

“Don’t even start,” Lily interrupted. “There’s no way I’m staying in the car.”

“You’ll be safer,” he pointed out with impeccable logic.

“But you won’t,” she returned just as logically. He scowled at her. He hated that her logic was as impeccable as his. She scowled back, twisting her face into an exaggerated expression to mock him.

“I don’t need anyone to cover me.”

“Fine. Then I’ll do it, since there’s no danger.”

“Shit.” He scrubbed his hand over his face, then drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. At least the steering wheel belonged to a real car, a black Mercedes S-Class; that was the only comfort he could find at the moment.

This buy had him as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. He had a prickling feeling on the back of his neck, from all his instincts screaming at him that this could get nasty. If he had been the only one involved, he could have handled it better, looked at it more as a challenge to his talents, but Lily was involved and that changed everything.

It had taken him three days to find a supplier for as much plastique as they needed, and the guy had insisted they meet in a bad section of Paris, where the explosives and money were supposed to change hands. As far as bad sections went, Swain supposed this was the pits. Slums were slums, and he’d been in a lot of them, but there was a bad smell here that put his back up.

The supplier’s name was, supposedly, Bernard. It was a common enough name, so maybe it was his. Swain doubted it, but he didn’t care if that was the guy’s real name or not. All he cared about was making sure the plastique was usable, handing over the money, then getting out of there alive. Some unsavory characters made a very good living selling the same illegal merchandise over and over again; just kill the purchaser, then keep the merchandise and take the money.

Very probably some purchasers showed up with the reverse idea in mind: kill the seller, keep the money, and take the merchandise. Profit went both ways. That meant this Bernard would likely be as edgy as Swain. That was not good.

“I can’t guard your back from here in the car,” Lily said, checking what she could see of her reflection in the visor mirror. She was practicing her disguises. Tonight she was wearing black from head to foot under a black leather coat that had a boxy fit and disguised her lean but definitely female figure. Instead of her usual stylish boots she was wearing motorcycle boots with two-inch heels, which increased her height and were also clunky enough to obscure the size of her feet. She had bought skin-colored latex from a specialty store and was learning how to build up the lines of her jaw and brow to look more masculine. She was also wearing the brown contact lenses, and her blond hair was covered by a black knit cap that was pulled down almost to her eyebrows, which had been blackened to match the medium-size fake mustache she had glued under her nose.

He’d burst out laughing when he first saw her, but now that the only light was from the car’s dash lights, the getup looked much more genuine. She looked masculine and scary. She had started to trim her eyelashes shorter so they wouldn’t look so feminine after she put mascara on them to darken them, but Swain had stopped her. If anyone looked at her closely enough to notice her eyelashes, they were in trouble anyway.

She was holding her pistol in her hand. If she needed to use it, the seconds it took to pull it from her boot or from a pocket could be too long.

Swain was in a sweat about her stepping foot outside the car. If he’d had his way, he’d have had her encased in body armor, and maybe worn a vest himself. Unfortunately, he’d lost the argument about whether she should come with him or stay in the hotel, and now he’d lost the one about her staying in the car. It seemed as if he was losing every argument with her lately, and he didn’t know what to do about it. He’d thought about tying her to the bed at the hotel, but he’d have to untie her eventually—and this was Lily Mansfield, not some soccer mom on vacation. He didn’t know what she’d do, but he was sure he’d be in pain because of it.

A cold front had rolled in during the day, and what had been cool but pleasant had turned cloudy and downright cold as the sun set. Nevertheless, Swain had the windows partially down so they could hear anyone approaching the car, and he had angled the outside mirrors down, to catch anyone coming in low. As for the rest of the area, he and Lily just had to keep watch. The only direction from which he didn’t expect attack was straight up, but that was only because he’d parked far enough away from the derelict buildings that no one could jump the distance.

He turned off the dash lights so there was complete darkness in the car, and reached for Lily’s hand. She was wearing gloves, because her hands were another giveaway that she was a woman—and that was a problem they’d have to solve if she entered the laboratory as a man. He squeezed her fingers. She was steady as a rock, not showing a hint of nerves. When it came down to it, he’d rather have her at his back than anyone else who came to mind.

A car turned a corner, moving slowly toward them. The headlights were on bright, and he heard a familiar high-pitched whining noise. Bernard, the son of a bitch, was driving a Fiat.

Swain immediately started the engine and turned his headlights on bright, too. If Bernard didn’t want them to see how many others were in the car with him, Swain returned the sentiment.

Since he had turned off the car’s interior lights, too, there was no telltale light when Lily opened her door just enough for her to slide out; she sort of slithered, rather than getting out and standing up the way she normally would. With his brights blinding the occupants of the Fiat to that slight movement, they didn’t see her leave the car and, still crouching down, move around to the rear.

Swain slipped low behind the steering wheel, positioning it so it blocked the top part of the headlights shining in his eyes. With that small difference in the glare, he could see the shapes of three heads in the Fiat.

The Fiat crept closer. When twenty feet separated the two cars, it stopped. To see if he could get Bernard to follow suit, he killed the brights on the Mercedes. The bright headlights had played a part, but now that part was finished. A few seconds later, the lights on the Fiat dimmed.

Well, thank God. At least now they weren’t all blinded. He checked his rearview mirrors, but couldn’t spot Lily anywhere.

The passenger door of the Fiat opened and a tall, heavyset man with a short dark beard got out. “Who are you?”

Swain stepped out of the Mercedes, George Blanc’s briefcase in his left hand. He didn’t like not having the engine block for cover, but took some comfort in the fact that the other guy had only a car door between him and a bullet, too—which wasn’t saying much. A bullet went through a car door like a hot knife through butter. The only part of a car that provided much protection was the motor. “Swain. Who are you?”

“Bernard.”

Swain said, “I have the money.”

Bernard said, “I have the merchandise.”

Jesus. It was all Swain could do not to roll his eyes. They sounded like a bad spy movie.