Page 136 of While You Were Spying

Thirty-three

Ethan threaded hishands through her long, thick hair, bent his mouth to hers, and plunged into her sweet, inviting depths. She overwhelmed his senses, and when her body clenched, hot and wet, around him, he lost all coherent thought. In the swirl of sensuality surrounding him, restraint vanished. His willpower had never been any match for the charms of this enchantress.

He gazed down into her face. Though they were cloudy with passion, her dark, misty eyes locked on him. He drove into her again, and her mouth parted, lips forming an O as her body arched to meet his. With a final cry, Ethan took hold of her hips and surged into her, lost in her sleek body, lost in the staggering experience of making love to her.

“Ethan?”

The voice came from far away. He tried to ignore it.

“Ethan.” It was more insistent now.

Ethan gritted his teeth and tried to focus on the memory. The silky skin at the curve of Francesca’s thigh had felt so real this time. Even better, he was certain he’d recalled the exact shade of her cocoa eyes.

“Ethan!” There was the sound of a fist making contact with a table and Ethan opened his eyes. Alex’s steely gray gaze, not Francesca’s warm brown one, was fixed on him.

“What?” Ethan sat back in his chair, crossed his arms, and scowled at his brother.

“Are you even listening? I’m trying to fill you in on my meeting with Camille Villiers.”

Alex spoke in French, and for a moment Ethan felt a vague sense of disorientation. Then it all came back in a rush, and he reached instinctively for his drink. He put the glass to his mouth, an action that had become all too familiar of late, and was surprised when no more than a trickle of brandy teased his tongue.

Swearing under his breath, he motioned to the tavern owner to bring him another. Alex’s lips twisted in disapproval, and Ethan looked away, his eyes scanning the smoky room filled with thieves, whores, and cutthroats. It could have been a replica of a dozen or so taverns in Paris, where it seemed he’d spent the better part of half his life, searching for answers and finding none.

The tavern owner refilled the glass and when he turned to go Ethan put a hand on the beefy man’s arm. “Leave it.” Ethan nodded at the bottle.

When he’d slaked his thirst, or rather renewed the feeling of numbness he now maintained at all costs, he eyed his brother through slitted lids.

“He’s not coming,” he told Alex in French.

“Yes, he is.”

“Well, I’ve had enough.” It was late, and Ethan was tired, impatient, and ready to go. He had a quarter-bottle of brandy left and the means to buy more. That was all he wanted tonight. Anything to wipe away the last vestiges of Francesca from his memory.

It wasn’t working. Paris. Immersing himself in his work. He hadn’t forgotten her as he’d intended. What was worse, she was beginning to affect his performance. Once a man of infinite persistence and determination, Ethan now couldn’t bear to be still. Watching and waiting gave him too much time to think. And his thoughts these days and nights inevitably turned to Francesca.

“Relax. You look anxious,” Alex said in a low voice. He arched his eyebrows at Ethan’s fingers, which were tapping an allegro rhythm on the table.

“Iamanxious.” But Ethan ceased the rhythmic drumming. “I don’t trust this Citizen Gagnon.”

“Camille Villiers trusts him. You’ve never doubted her before.”

Alex was right—an annoying habit his brother had picked up of late. Ethan made no response; instead, he surveyed the murky tavern in the heart of France’s Montmartre district for what he guessed was the tenth time. He’d been in France almost three weeks and the man he and Alex were meeting tonight was their best hope for finding the identity of the smuggler’s leader. According to Camille Villiers, a trusted French contact and longtime friend, Gagnon had been part of the smuggling operation. But, for whatever reason, the man had decided the work was too dangerous and bowed out.

Ethan and Alex hoped a few drinks and a little gold would loosen Gagnon’s tongue enough to persuade the man to reveal his former employer’s identity. But they’d waited for at least an hour, and Gagnon had yet to make an appearance.

Ethan frowned at his glass. It was almost empty again. He fumbled for the bottle of brandy and poured, misjudging the distance so that a good quantity of the alcohol sloshed over the side.

Alex slanted him a dark look. “How many is that tonight?”

Ethan bent to slurp the brandy so it wouldn’t spill when he lifted the glass. If only Pocket could see him now, he thought bitterly. His cravat dangled in the brandy pooling on the table, and he knew he looked drunk and disheveled. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d bathed or had a decent meal.

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