Page 44 of The Gentleman

Brock held up a finger, chewed deliberately, then reached for the envelope. Several photographs slid across the table. “Private club in Geneva. Taken five months ago.”

Leo examined the grainy black and white images. Victoria Eldridge, cool as glass, seated across from a man, his back to the camera.

“This is Korolov?”

Brock nodded. “You’ll have to take my word for it. But yes.”

Kat sucked in a sharp breath. “Gage went through her bank records. There were flight tickets to Geneva.”

“Gage?” Brock’s eyebrow arched with interest.

“Her brother,” Leo failed to mask the edge in his voice.

“Ah.” Brock tossed Kat a wink. “Protective bastards, aren’t they?”

Leo ignored him, his gaze on the photos like he could bend the truth to fit what he needed.

“Five months.” He rolled the number around in his head, getting a sense of it. “That’s long before Kat was even in the picture.”

Kat blanched. “This isn’t about revenge.” Her voice dropped. “It’s bigger than me. Way bigger.”

“Oh, it gets better,” Brock said, assembling a tower of sausage and tomato. “It’s not just Geneva. Eldridge has been makinglotsof regular trips abroad. All above-board. MI6-approved.”

He chewed, then swallowed. “Except her meetings with Korolov. Not one logged in official reports.”

Leo’s heartbeat was a fist in his throat. “You know what they’re meeting about?”

Brock thumped a thick blob of ketchup onto his plate. “Project Nightshade. That’s the name. Very hush-hush. All I’ve got is scraps—seems it started right after your crew nabbed that neural chip archive in Iceland.”

He leaned in. “When I cross-referenced chatter on a few…less reputable channels. I found mention of deployment instrategically significant regions.”

“What does that mean?” Leo fought to keep frustration from coloring his voice.

Brock shrugged, his top pockets flapping. “Something digital. Scalable. Contagious, maybe. Whatever it is, it’s big—and the way no one’s talking about it? That’s never good.”

He mopped his plate with a triangle of fried toast, then aimed his fork at them.

“Leave the digging to me. You two? Time to polish your poker faces.” His grin unfurled, laced with trouble. “And practice looking married. Convincingly.”

21

Black hair.

Still jarring—like wearing someone else’s face over her own. She’d dyed it hours earlier, the acrid bite of chemicals still burning her nostrils.

Kat pressed her lips together, studying the transformation. Enough to break the connection to the auburn-haired traitor splashed across every headline in London. At a glance, anyway.

Behind her, draped on the bed, was the midnight-blue gown Leo had purchased for her.

She’d protested when he’d insisted on Harrods, but he’d shut down her objections with a practicality she couldn’t argue against.

“You’re not bluffing billionaires in jeans and a sweater.”

She slipped the dress off its hanger, heavy silk sliding cool against her skin. It hugged her waist, then flared at her hips.Perfect.

She twisted, reaching for the zipper at the base of her spine. Tugged. The damn thing refused to budge.

Her shoulders sagged.

---