Page 50 of Lone Spy

I shrug. "Have it your way." I go to turn but he's holding me too tight—I can't move. I raise one brow at him. His fingers loosen, and I turn in them so that I'm facing the mirror again. Ash's eyes drop. Get caught on my ass and stay there.

The hunger in his gaze steals my breath. Fuck. I'm playing a very dangerous game. A thrill runs through me. I may have a thing for dangerous games.

It's still warm,the nights in Rome at this time of year cooler than the scorching days but pleasant enough that the light jacket I'm wearing is plenty of coverage.

I choose chunky-heeled thigh-high boots and a pale yellow linen short suit—leather-covered legs served me well last time I almost died. I think they are going to be my uniform moving forward. Practical in a way I never expected.

The ones I have on now are buttery soft, a deep aubergine, and were a gift from the designer whose name I can't remember. But boy will they blow up if my body is found wearing them…assuming I'm not burned to a crisp or swimming with the fishes.

My purse is a cross-body bag—one that if I was blasted across a room would still stay on. Inside is my new phone and hotel key. No compass full ofkompromat. Temperance still has that. No weapons. I should have kept one of those scalpels.

"I appreciate you taking the time," Temperance says as we walk through the hotel's garden, our footsteps crunching on the stone pathway. The lighting is subtle, illuminating the sand-colored pebbles but keeping the topiary’s black green and the flower beds waving in shadows.

"I wasn't sure if I should trust you," I admit.

"You shouldn't." Temperance's voice edges on teasing but not enough for me to believe he's joking.

"You sound like Ash."

Temperance glances over at me. "He told you not to trust me?"

"He gave me the age-old advice to trust no one." I wink.

Temperance huffs a laugh. We reach a gate hidden in one of the walls behind a drape of ivy, and he pulls out a key. I shake my head as he unlocks it. "You have all the toys, don't you?"

Temperance looks down at me as he holds the door open, allowing me to pass through first. "Keys are not toys, Angela, they are tools."

"Thanks for the clarification." Sarcasm drips off each word.

We exit onto a quiet street lined with parked cars and darkened residences. Temperance locks the door behind us and then leads me to a motorcycle. Not the same one he had in London, this one is all black, less speed demon and more cruising the Amalfi coast.

He hands me a helmet. Cocooned in its padded embrace, my body wrapped around Temperance’s, we zip through the city, avoiding main roads, sticking to sleepy side streets, passing under shuttered windows. Another ancient European capital he seems to know by heart. My exhaustion has turned into a nervous energy.

The air chills as we get further from the center of the city. Soon we are in a quiet residential neighborhood, the road bracketed by thick walls topped with broken glass.

We slow, turning up a stone drive to a large black gate that slides aside as we rumble in front of it. The long drive leads to a modern villa, all stark white and harsh lines.

Temperance parks in front of the large front doors. He helps me off the bike as one of the massive doors eases open. A woman wearing dark slacks and a silk blouse in blood red smiles at me, her eyes friendly.

"Good evening," she says, her accent slight, just the right inflections of Italian gracing the words. She's probably in her fifties with streaks of silver running through her night-black hair. "Please, come in."

I glance around but don't see any obvious security. Which means they are really good because there is no way this place isn't secured with more than broken glass and an elegant hostess.

"Thank you," Temperance says, leading the way into the house. The entryway is large and echoey—marble floors and high ceilings extend into a sitting room with clusters of modern furniture that looks radically uncomfortable. Designed to perch on during a cocktail party.

A wall of glass reflects the room back at us. My hair is in a slicked-back ponytail that the helmet turned into something much less slick. I run my hands over it, trying to settle the fly-aways. Temperance slides back one of the doors, exposing a terrace and darkened swimming pool overlooking a garden smudged in charcoal.

Clusters of furniture dot the deck, more inviting than the sleek pieces inside but still stiff looking. A woman stands from one of the high-backed chairs.

She's hard to see in the low light but vaguely familiar. Her smile broadens the closer we get. "Angela, I'd like to introduce you to Rebecca Levi, the next President of the United States," Temperance says.

ChapterTwenty-One

Rebecca Levi isin her early sixties with curly hair floating just above her shoulders. Her brown eyes sparkle with intelligence warmed by kindness.

I recognize her robin’s egg blue pantsuit as Carolina Herrera. A gold watch sparkles on her wrist. A string of pearls circles her neck.

She's smiling at me like we were introduced by a mutual girlfriend rather than Temperance Johnson—whose occupation at this point is unknown. Though I suspect once a spy, always a spy.

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