Sonata (North Security 3)

I gave Samantha hell for putting down her violin, even for a few months. I berated her for it, resented her, but I can’t deny it was effective. Hiding kept her safe. Safe even though I was weakened. Safe enough that it tempted me to stay there forever. Only minutes into Paris there are a thousand eyes upon us. There’s a target on her back. Perhaps not this very second, in a crowded train station. Soon. The soldier’s instincts tell me that much. It will only take two well-placed bullets to accomplish their tasks. One to take me down, the second for her. They can only touch her over my dead body, but the lingering ache in my side proves that it’s possible.

Samantha and I exit the train without my brother, leaving him without a word like the strangers we were when we stepped on board. A mercenary who’s done work for North Security meets us with a black SUV. A car leads the way and follows behind.

I lift my wrist to do a security check. “Report. Webb.”

“Clear.”

“Rogers.”

“Clear.”

“North.”

“Clear,” Josh says. I pretend not to notice the sarcasm in his voice. He thinks this is overkill. There are six more checks. All clear. Yes, there are diplomats who don’t have such protection. We may have given up anonymity, but at least now I can deploy my full resources. There has to be some compensation.

The place we’re going isn’t my safe house. Not specifically, but it’s as safe as any place we’ve ever fortified. Frans has been a friend for years. His two-hundred-year-old chateau is outfitted with the latest technology, thanks to North Security. I contacted him when we first crossed from Germany. We could have stayed in the servants’ quarters, the grounds large enough that he wouldn’t even know we were there, but he extended a formal invitation instead.

He greets us in the foyer with a young woman I’ve never met. “Fransisco,” I say, clasping his hand. “I heard congratulations were in order, but I didn’t believe it.”

A slight smile. “Thank you. My bride, Isabella Marie Castille.”

Mischievous lights twinkle in her dark eyes. Despite her very Spanish name, her manner and accent marks her as American. “Nice to meet you, Mr. North. Fransisco has told me nothing about you. I think he likes to be mysterious.”

It’s hard to reconcile the playfulness of this Isabella with the strict formality of Frans. He comes from an old aristocratic family. His ancestor was exiled from Spain due to a gentleman’s disagreement over a lady a hundred years ago. The title passed to Frans’s grandfather during the Spanish civil war. He refuses to take residence in the family property in Catalonia for reasons he’s never shared with me. Instead he maintains this home in France, a little bit of irony that a nobleman has found refuge in the land that once beheaded everyone with a title.

“You must be Samantha Brooks,” Frans says, bowing over her hand.

Samantha doesn’t quite swoon, but it’s close. I think it’s the suit. Who wears a suit on a Saturday morning? I wear them during certain assignments and formal meetings with our clients, out of necessity more than preference. It’s a uniform—the same way fatigues would be during a battle.

Is that a blush staining her cheeks? On the drive she seemed exhausted from the travel. Her eyes are still a little glassy, proving she needs rest more than anything. “Thank you for having us in your home,” she says, sounding a little shy. “It’s beautiful.”

More beautiful than the cold, utilitarian compound I keep in the Texas Hill Country.

Hell, she’s turning me into an ass. I’m not the kind of bastard to get jealous because someone pays her attention. It’s always been like this, her presence turning me into someone else. And it’s getting worse. I have the urge to brush the pink from her cheeks, to shield her from Frans’s eyes, despite the fact that he clearly has a pretty young bride. I want to hide her away, as if we’re wolves, as if I can drag her by her nape into a cave where only I get to see her, smell her, taste her.

Isabella drops a curtsey that seems to mock the politeness more than respect it. Her smile implies we’re in on the joke with her. “You must be tired from the trip. Call me Isa.” She glances at me. “Let me show Samantha her rooms.”

Samantha starts to follow her, and I put my hand on her arm. “I’ll come with you.”

“Do you think I’m going to spirit her away?” Isabella asks with fake severity.

Samantha looks back at me, her beautiful brown eyes soft. She’s asking me to let her go, and I realize she wants to be alone with Isabella. Because she hasn’t had anyone but me for company for two months. And I’ve been a surly bastard. The realization makes my chest squeeze. Of course she wants to spend time with someone her own age. Someone who doesn’t blame her for giving up the violin for a short while. She only did it for me, but that made it worse.

It takes effort to remove my hand and give a curt nod. Permission.

The two women practically skip off, looking so young and innocent that my throat clenches. What the hell am I doing with her? I’m dragging her around the world to slake my lust.

“I know,” Frans says, his voice dry. “I must appear the same way when I look at Isa walking away. Like I’ve been hit over the head with something very heavy.”

“Marriage?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow. I’m not the only one slaking my lust.

“It was time. Responsibilities to the title.”

“You don’t give a fuck about your responsibility to the title.”

“Oh yes,” he says blandly. “You’re right. I’d forgotten about that. How about you and I drink a gl

ass of port while the women talk about us? You can tell me how you almost died and I can tell you how I got married, and we can compare battle scars.”