His laugh was utterly mirthless and should have chilled her, but right then nothing he said or did could horrify her. “No. We don’t discriminate, and evil comes in all genders.”
“All?”
“Claude,” he said simply.
He was trying to distract her, but it wouldn’t work. “What rules would he have broken if he’d killed me? You yourself said that collateral damage was an unfortunate necessity. Why wasn’t I an unfortunate necessity?”
“Because the Committee has an iron rule that you leave family members alone. If a family member manages to infiltrate the organization, then it’s up to the agent himself to terminate that person.”
“What are you talking about?”
She could feel his eyes on her, even in the darkness. “That’s why I married you. Because it meant that Claude couldn’t come after you.”
The silence in the room seemed almost like a living thing, and it took her a while to speak. “You mean that marriage was actually legal?”
“Yes.”
“And my marriage to Pete?”
“Bigamous and totally fake. If you’d looked happy I would have done something about it, pulled a few strings and gotten a backdated annulment so you could have your perfect little happily ever after, but one look at that slimy bastard and I knew you’d be done with him in less time than it would take me to get the annulment.”
“One look at him?” She felt her breath catch in her throat. “When did you see him? When did I look unhappy?”
“On your so-called wedding day, Angel. You don’t think I’d miss an occasion like that?” he said lazily. “It’s not every day your wife gets married.”
“You were there? I didn’t see you.” What would she have done if she had seen him? Thrown her bouquet over her shoulder and run after him like something out of a screwball comedy from the 1930s?
“It’s my business not to be seen.”
She digested this. She heard him take a sip of the Scotch. “Could I have some?”
“Some what?” He sounded almost irritable.
“Some Scotch. You don’t need to hog it all to yourself.”
“I only brought one glass.”
“I think I’ll survive the germs,” she said, irony thick in her voice.
&nb
sp; He moved, a looming shadow in the darkness, and the mattress dipped beneath his weight as he handed her the glass. “Drink it slowly,” he said. “You’re not used to it.”
Irritation flared, not the least because he was so damned close and she couldn’t, wouldn’t touch him. “How do you know what I’m used to? I had a bottle in my trailer, didn’t I?” she shot back, wrapping her fingers around the glass. Her hand brushing his. Did his linger for a moment?
“It was opened but untouched, and you bought it in Wisconsin. You’ve been on the road for months—that’s a long time to carry around a full bottle of Scotch, and I’m pretty sure you weren’t expecting guests.”
“I got them, though, didn’t I? What makes you think I bought it in Wisconsin?”
“Tax stamp on the bottle,” he said briefly. “It’s the same rare single malt that I like, and I’m surprised you can even get it in the Midwest.”
She’d special ordered it, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. No, she didn’t drink it. But every now and then she’d uncap the bottle and breathe it in, pretending he was there. A brazen lie was the best. “I bought it to prove to myself that I was over you.”
“Sure you did.” His voice was low, hypnotic, and she wanted him to touch her, she wanted him to get the hell away from her.
She took a tentative sip of the Scotch, letting it burn pleasantly, the rich, peaty taste of it filling her senses. She remembered the burn of the chili in his kiss. What would a whiskey kiss taste like?
She started to edge away from him on the bed, but his hand shot out and caught hers, holding her in place. “Where do you think you’re going?”