An Affair of Vengeance Read online

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious.

  Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2012 Jamie Michele

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN-13: 9781612186047

  ISBN-10: 1612186041

  For Mark, forever.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  PARTITIONED BY INTIMATE banquettes and long red couches, the cavernous space of the old bank lobby danced with the light of flickering candles. As Evangeline Quill wove her way through the crowd of men in suits and women in short dresses, ambient electronica music mingled with rapid flamenco guitar under a steady stream of conversation and clinking glasses.

  She’d just about reached the bar, which was a circular relic set in the center of the room at the site of the old information desk, when she saw two dark-haired men standing stock-still at the back, flanking the entrance to the hallway that led to the private rooms. They weren’t allowing anyone through, which made them one thing: guards.

  The realization kicked her heartbeat up a notch. Guards on the private rooms meant high-value targets were nearby, and high-value targets were exactly what she sought.

  She didn’t alter her route or give the pair a second glance, but every cell in her body was instantly attuned to their presence. She’d seen them around before, although never without a drink in their hands and a woman or two hanging on their arms. They were young cousins of a local gunrunner, a lowlife named Serge Penard whom Langley didn’t give a damn about, as long as his weapons stayed in Europe and didn’t threaten American interests.

  But Evangeline cared very much, for Serge Penard had once, after consuming several tumblers of top-shelf Russian vodka, claimed to work for Lukas Kral.

  Her direct supervisor had scoffed at the notion, noting that every scumbag with a sack of AKs to sell claimed to have gotten them from Kral.

  But when Evangeline heard the name Lukas Kral, she listened closely.

  She choked back a growl and sidestepped a gorgeous Russian girl with impossibly globular breasts.

  Merely thinking Kral’s name made her fingernails bite half-moons into her palms. A billionaire shipping magnate and close personal friend of the French president, Lukas Kral was an utterly indiscriminate supplier of weapons to anyone with the necessary cash. He was suspected of arming both sides of the Second Congo War, in which nearly five and half million people were killed, as well as every militant outfit in the Middle East. But he also ran humanitarian flights of food and medical aid into war-torn regions on behalf of the United Nations, and gave substantial amounts of cash to the reelection campaigns of the leaders of any nation beginning to get ideas about prosecuting him. His planes moved weaponry into the hands of rebels fighting dictators and fascists where the United States wouldn’t dare intervene—not directly, at least. He was the CIA’s lapdog, or they were his, depending on the day. So while he armed America’s enemies, he also kept its hands clean, and by dealing from both sides of the deck equally well, he protected himself from prosecution. The CIA monitored his activity but did nothing to stop him. Any nation that wanted him gone also needed his help, and so far, no one was willing to risk seeing what the world would look like without him around to arm it.

  No one except Evangeline.

  Because no one knew better than she what a murderous madman Kral really was.

  Like any cornered animal, he struck hard and fast against anyone who dared threaten his existence. Her father had done just that and had paid the price in blood. Before he’d run up against Kral, her father had run a nonproliferation advocacy group and had begun a vocal campaign against the flood of black-market weapons into developing nations. He’d sought to dismantle the ancient smuggling routes between Europe, Asia, and Africa, and had named certain wealthy men who he believed facilitated the illicit networks. Kral had been one of those named—one of many—but Kral was the only one to send her father a cease-and-desist letter that contained barely masked physical threats.

  Rather than being frightened into silence, her father had responded to Kral’s threats by holding a press conference in which he’d called Kral the biggest menace to world peace since Hitler. Kral hadn’t taken kindly to the comparison. Just one week after that press conference, her father and mother were dead. An explosion in a crowded French market took them out, along with thirty-two others. Wrong place, wrong time. That’s what the official reports said.

  But Evangeline was no fool. Kral had killed her parents, and she intended to make him pay for it.

  So when she saw Penard’s guards posted at the back of the hip Marseille club, all she could think was that, finally, that scumbag Serge Penard might lead her to Lukas Kral.

  As she slipped past a group of curvy women in animal-print dresses, a short figure flashed on her peripheral vision. It was Stacy, the other American waitress who worked at La Banque de la Chair, exiting the private hallway. The doe-eyed brunette danced around a pat on the butt by one of the guards and headed for the center of the room. Judging from the thin line of her red lips, she was irritated.

  Perfect. Evangeline wanted to go back there but needed it to be someone else’s idea. Stacy looked like she could be manipulated into a section switch.

  Evangeline angled toward the back of the bar to intercept her. After she called her order to the bartender, she rested an elbow on the smooth-as-glass curved oak slab and pressed her thumb and forefinger against the bridge of her nose, faking a headache.

  Stacy arrived a heartbeat later. She asked the bartender to fill an ice water, and then leaned close to Evangeline. “You look awful!”

  “Thanks. My head is killing me.” Evangeline massaged her temples and winced. “I think it’s gonna pop off if I have to fill one more order for pastis.”

  “Pastis? Who would come to La Banque and order pastis?” Stacy asked, her mouth pursed in distaste. “Oh, no. God, no! Don’t tell me we’ve been recommended by a guidebook. I don’t think I can handle a plague of backpackers.”

  “May the Lord bless us and keep us free from body odor.” Evangeline grinned and thrust her chin toward the public area of the club she’d been tending. “No, I’ve got four tables of American engineers sitting right by the flamenco guitarist. There’s a big conference somewhere in town, and they’re apparently using their per diem to explore Marseille’s finer establishments.”

  “Ugh! Well, that’s nice for them, but there’s more to the south of France than pastis. It’s not like I’d go to Germany and drink nothing but beer.”

  “I would.”

  “Well, me too, but I wouldn’t drink just one kind of beer. I’d try them all, you know? I’d mix it up, see what the country has to offer.”

  “What do you expect?” Evangeline shrugged. “I love Americans, but sometimes we make me cringe. Yesterday I saw a guy wearing a shirt that said, ‘I shaved my balls for this?’”

  Stacy’s perfectly plu
cked eyebrows lifted an inch. “No!”

  “Yup. He was standing by the death camps memorial. I almost died of shame by association.”

  “You’re lying!”

  “I’d never lie about something as serious as shaved genitalia. So how’s your night going?”

  “Fine. Quiet. Boring, except for Dumb and Dumber back there trying to pinch my cheeks every time I walk by.” Stacy tossed her head in the direction of Penard’s cousins, still standing like statues by the hallway.

  “What are they doing over there, anyway, besides giving you a reason to take a self-defense class?”

  Stacy blew her thick brown bangs out of her eyes. “I have no idea. They’re not the ones I’m serving. Jorge stuck me on the back room, and there’s just one guy back there, doing nothing. Keeps sucking down ice water. He’s ridiculously cute and I keep flirting, but he won’t say more than two words to me at a time, so I’m probably screwed for tips.”

  Evangeline’s hopes faltered a fraction.

  Cute? Not Lukas Kral, then. He was in his fifties, which didn’t preclude him being handsome, but she didn’t think Stacy would find him “cute.” Still, somebody interesting was back there. Evangeline wanted to see who he was, and what he was doing drinking water in a club. But she played it cool, merely shrugging. “That sucks. Is he French?”

  “No. I think he’s Irish or something. Speaks English, but with an accent. Sort of like an English guy, but not exactly.” Stacy rolled her blue eyes. “Whatever. I don’t care where he’s from. He’s a dick. That’s all I know.”

  “Sucks to be you,” Evangeline said with a sympathetic smile, and then lied through her teeth. “Irish guys are stingy as hell.”

  Stacy moaned as the bartender slid several cloudy yellow drinks across the bar. Evangeline thanked him and sighed heavily before putting the glasses on her tray and hefting it up on one hand. “Well, I’m off to deliver another round of cliché to the well-paid dork brigade.”

  That last bit might have been a tad overplayed, but Stacy hadn’t yet taken the bait. Already thinking of a plan B for getting into the private rooms, Evangeline gave her a sad smile before turning to leave.

  Stacy put her hand on Evangeline’s wrist to stop her. Evangeline’s cheek twitched as she suppressed a grin.

  Maybe a plan B wouldn’t be necessary.

  Stacy chewed her bottom lip. “Are any of those engineers cute?”

  Evangeline pretended to consider the question. The answer must be yes. “They’re not bad, if you like studious types. Polite, too. They keep thanking me after I bring them stuff.”

  “How sweet!”

  “Totally. How sad is it that it’s become special to be thanked after you bring someone a drink?”

  “Super sad.” Stacy stood on her tiptoes and tried to peer through the sea of bodies toward the front of the house where the engineers were sitting. “You think you could switch sections with me? I’m so dying of boredom, and my hot, weird dude won’t speak to me. But you have a headache and can’t make your table shut up. It’s a win-win. We’ll pool tips.”

  It was so easy, Evangeline almost felt guilty. “That would be awesome. I could use the break.”

  “And I could use a rich engineer husband.” Stacy lifted Evangeline’s tray off her arm and winked. “Wish me luck!”

  “Who needs luck with boobs like yours?”

  “I think I saw that on a T-shirt the other day, too,” Stacy said before walking away.

  The bartender returned with Stacy’s drink order—a tall glass of ice water. Evangeline tucked a stray black curl behind her ear and picked up the tray. She headed toward the dark hallway where the two suited men stood guard. They grinned salaciously when they saw her.

  “Bonjour,” she said.

  The goon on the right gave her a long, debasing appraisal. “Vous êtes ici pour nous servir?”

  Unimaginative jerk. He’d asked if she was coming to service them. She’d like to service his face with a crescent kick. But she simply smiled as patiently as she could and explained that she’d switched sections with Stacy. “J’ai changé les sections avec Stacy. D’accord?”

  The cousins exchanged a glance and shrugged. “Presse-toi!” snapped the one on the left as he clapped his hands together, urging her to hurry.

  She skipped past them into the hallway, though not quickly enough to avoid a pinch on her butt. Continuing down the passageway, she poked her head into every room but saw no one. The last room, though, was the most luxurious and would probably be where Penard had stashed his guest.

  The club had originally been a bank constructed during the great rebuilding of Marseille after World War II, and the quarters at the end of the hallway had been the branch manager’s office. These days, wealthy adulterers were its most common inhabitants, but tonight no low titters of flirtatious amusement echoed down the corridor. Tonight, as she stepped quickly down the carpeted path, a thick, velvety silence pressed heavily around her.

  She reached the final door and slipped inside the dark den, where a man in a black suit sat on a couch, one long leg crossed over the other. Shadows masked his face. She smiled, squinting, hoping her eyes would soon adjust to the poor lighting. She hated not knowing whom she faced. But whoever he was, he wasn’t Serge Penard. Penard was a gym rat, with a rugby player’s neck and thick tree-trunk legs, but this guy was tall and lanky.

  “Good evening.” She lifted the glass off the tray. “Ice water?”

  Only the fingers of his right hand moved, playing continuously with a small wooden toothpick. “Who are you?”

  That voice wasn’t Irish. Definitely Scottish, and not posh. “I’m your new waitress, sir. The other waitress—”

  “Put it down and go.”

  She placed the sweating tumbler on the low glass table in front of him. As he adjusted his legs and shifted forward to grab the drink, the red light of a wall sconce highlighted the hard angles of his clean-shaven face. She didn’t recognize him, but he was handsome and young, somewhere in his thirties.

  No diamonds studded his ears or fingers, and no gold chain demarcated his neck. His lack of ornamentation wouldn’t be remarkable elsewhere, but in this particular realm of the underworld, most men she encountered were like peacocks, and festooned themselves with as much vigor as the women. This man, with his austere black suit, plain gray shirt, and complete lack of flash, was an anomaly. From his buzz-cut hair to his unrelenting jaw, every feature was severe, straight, and unforgiving.

  He looked up and caught her eye. It was just a brief glance, but when his pupils locked with hers, the fine hair on her arms lifted, electrified. For a long, breathless second, his eyes—which were unnervingly yellow, like the unblinking eyes of a cat—fixed her in place. Her feet rooted to the ground, she froze under his steady, piercing scrutiny.

  Ridiculous. She was a professional, and she wouldn’t be cowed by some ice-veined bad boy with the face of a Roman statue. These types of people were a means to an end, and she’d use him for all he was worth. He wasn’t Kral, which only meant that he might lead her to Kral.

  She lifted her mouth in what she knew was her cutest half smile. How would he respond to her charms? With a little nod, or a softening at the outer corners of his eyes? Like so many operatives, her ability to charm was her greatest asset. Men—hell, even women—rarely failed to respond favorably when she tried to beguile them.

  But not this one. Not even close. He scoured her from head to toe and back again before he looked away and brought his hand to his mouth to stifle a yawn, as though he’d seen nothing of importance.

  “Bread,” he said, and she knew it was an order.

  “Right away.” She narrowed her eyes in the Scotsman’s direction before she turned on her toe and strode out the door. She didn’t care that he thought her worthless—it was a boon for her mission if he thought her undeserving of suspicion—but a very tiny, very petty part of her rebelled against the notion that a handsome man would not return her smile.

 
Vanity, that’s what his dismissal tweaked. Her silly girlish pride.

  As she brushed past the two guards at the end of the hall, someone’s sweaty hand clutched at her bottom. She slapped it away without a backward glance and was happy to hear a surprised gasp as she stalked to the kitchen to grab a plate of bread for the mysterious man who thought her so unworthy of his attention.

  Oliver McCrea shifted on the low couch, pissed at the wait, wishing he’d been able to meet Penard somewhere else. He couldn’t stand bars. He hated the scandalous behavior of the women and the salacious eyes of the men. When he’d first gotten this job and was forced to do most of his business in bars and clubs, he’d been nauseated by the sweet smell of alcohol on everyone’s breath. It reminded him of his mother, and he preferred not to think about her.

  But the job had certain requirements, and one of them was that business was often conducted in objectionable establishments. So he’d grown used to it, five years in. He hardly noticed the smell anymore. He now recognized male salaciousness as fear and insecurity.

  And the women?

  McCrea didn’t look very hard at them these days. He didn’t want to run the risk of one of them looking back. He wished to hell that they’d stay away from him and everyone like him, but they kept coming like midges on a Highland summer day.

  Like that waitress. She was a short, fair-skinned lamb with a mountain of dark hair and a solemn mouth that tugged down at the corners. Pretty, if a bit sharp in the nose. He couldn’t help but notice that she’d had the narrow hips and muscular thighs of a dancer, which were the same sort of legs he’d seen on skilled female martial artists. The sight of a strong, physically capable woman who looked like she could defend herself against attack usually comforted him—he liked not having to worry about the safety of every innocent bystander—but tonight, he didn’t like thinking that this attractive girl could be a highly trained fighter. She’d switched with the other waitress, and it put him on edge, thinking that she might have done it to get closer to him. What did she want from him?