Page 42 of Lone Spy

My body zings at that memory, flickering at the sensation of his big arm draped over me, leaning on me. How solid his back felt against my forearm. The sensation of his big hand on my hip, pushing me behind him. Protecting me. Still stunned from the explosion, but fearless nonetheless.

The streets turn residential, stately townhouses four and five stories tall crowd the narrow streets. We slow to turn down a cobblestone alleyway barely wide enough for a car and much cleaner than the one I recently escaped. The air is sweeter here—fresher, scented of wet earth as much as wet cement.

We purr to a stop in front of a three-story brick townhouse. The black garage door slides up and we roll into darkness, our single headlight illuminating a bare cement space. The door closes behind us and Temperance puts his foot down, tipping the bike. I grip him harder. The engine cuts and silence cocoons us.

I unclench my hands and sit up. Every muscle in my body protests. The burn on my arm rages. The pain slowly consumes my consciousness. Temperance dismounts and pulls off his helmet.

I'm still on the back of the bike when his eyes find mine. The headlight bouncing off the wall in front of us illuminates his one side, throwing the rest of his face into shadow.

His eyes are as intense as ever. There is no humor in his gaze, no teasing, and no testing. Without a word he grabs me around the waist, lifting me like a child, and sets me down on the floor, my aching feet taking my weight. Temperance keeps his hands on my waist for a long moment, waiting to make sure I can stand.

I can.

"We don't have much time," he says.

The hysterical laugh that's been caught in my chest since Martin tried to tell me I had to be lying down for us to be driving when we were already driving and I was sitting tumbles out of me. The force of it doubling me over. I have to lean against the bike to keep from falling to the garage floor.

Tears blur my vision. My stomach aches from laughing. When I look up at Temperance, he's watching me with a disapproving frown. His eyes are molten gold in the strange light. Then it clicks off, sinking us into pitch black. My laugh echoes in the darkness.

Temperance's feet scrape on the floor, and I sense him moving away. I lean on the bike, catching my breath, my laugh winding itself down to hiccups of giggles. Light floods the space from a fixture in the ceiling. I close my eyes against the brightness.

Temperance returns, his warm hand landing on my back. "Come on," he says. "Let's get you inside."

"Oh yes," I say, doing a posh British accent. "Let's!"

Temperance half carries me up the steps through the garage door into a small room with a washer-dryer and empty hooks on the walls. A mud room. Empty of mud. The place smells like cleaning products.

We continue into a darkened kitchen. The cabinets are hulking shadows, the only light spilling in from the wall of glass leading to a manicured backyard—topiaries trapped in a brick square.

Temperance flicks on a light, bringing the kitchen into focus. He directs me to an attractively worn wooden farm table that fits in with the traditional cabinets. He leaves me for a moment to grab a first-aid kit and then returns.

He gently pulls my arm toward him, laying it on a clean towel. Temperance spills a solution over the burn that wipes any traces of humor away. I try to pull my arm back, but his grip is stronger than my resistance.

"Trust me," he says.

"Trust you?" The humor-turned-pain alchemizes into rage. "Trust you!" He lifts his attention to my face, still holding my wrist tight. "Are you fucking kidding me? I just—" I wave desperately with my free arm toward the garage in an attempt to encompass the shitshow of the last however many hours. But really, it goes back further than that. This man. This man!

"You," I sputter. "Trust you!"

"I understand?—"

I cut him off because I cannot for one second hear him tell me anything. "You," I seethe.

His frown is condescending, as if I'm missing the point.

"Where the fuck have you been?" is what comes out. It's not what I was trying to say. I have no words for what I'm trying to say.

"I'm here now. I'm sorry. But we need to get you cleaned up and to the hospital." I blink at him, my brain unable to catch up with the words. "The paparazzi know you were in the building during the explosion. They saw the ambulance carry you off. We need you to be at a hospital so that no one questions where you've been. This can't be linked to you."

"This. Can't." My tongue isn't working.

"They were not going to kill you," he says it quietly.

"Seemed like it to me." My voice is shrill.

“Linda was trying to scare you. Show you her strength." His voice is a low murmur of disapproval.

"Oh, my new handler had me kidnapped to show me how strong she is and how weak I am?" Disbelief infuses my words, but that explanation actually makes sense when I think about that insecure woman and the way I treated her.

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