Oh, yeah, the woman definitely had an impact on a man, especially one locked in a cell without a companion. Stefan had endless patience when he was on the job, but seriously, this was a bust. Jean-Claude would make a beeline for the woman and for the microchip he'd stolen from the Russian government--a microchip worth a fortune on the black market. That chip contained information that would set their defense system back fifty years if it got out.
"She any good at painting?" Stefan asked.
Jean-Claude nodded. "She's good at everything she does."
Stefan remained silent, waiting for more. He knew it would come. Jean-Claude wouldn't have said anything at all if he didn't want to talk.
"She's already made a name for herself in the art world. Her kaleidoscopes have won international awards. Her paintings are sold for a fortune, and she's a conservator of old artwork for private collectors. They fly the paintings to her under heavy guard."
Jean-Claude sounded proud of her. Conservators were rare, responsible for restoring the health of paintings hundreds of years old. It was difficult work and a somewhat small community. He doubted if there were many award-winning kaleidoscope artists. The information would be very helpful in uncovering her identity. Stefan had already sent several pictures back to his people in order to start the investigation into just who the mystery woman actually was.
"I have to hand it to you, having a woman like that willing to wait for you."
Jean-Claude didn't say anything, but stared down at the quiet, pensive face. Stefan knew the words would eat at him, the idea that maybe she wasn't waiting for him. La Roux had a better cell than most inmates. He wasn't like the majority, suicidal and depressed with the conditions, which told Stefan guards were smuggling him items and doing their best to curry his favor right along with the prisoners. It hadn't taken long for word to get around that if a guard displeased Jean-Claude, one of his men retaliated against the guard's family.
Stefan had been in this disgusting place long enough. There was nothing more to be gotten from the crime lord. He had told his government to break the man out of prison and either snatch him as he came out or let him lead them to the microchip. Either way, it was better than rotting in the small confines of the cell staring at a woman whose name he didn't even know. Obsessing over her right along with Jean-Claude. He was leaving tonight before he lost his mind staring at a woman who would never look at him twice.
"I hate saying anything nice to you, Rolex, but she's got the face of an angel. I can't imagine that any woman lives up to that." He needed to find a way to keep the man talking. After two months, he still didn't even know her name; Jean-Claude was that tight-lipped.
Jean-Claude glanced at him, and then at the picture. He smiled for the first time since Stefan had been shoved into his cell. "I'm sure you can't. She speaks seven languages. Seven." A snide lip curl told Stefan Jean-Claude was certain he could never learn more than one language.
Stefan spoke French fluently, with a perfect accent, and his undercover persona--John Bastille--certainly didn't appear as if he were an educated man, other than in criminal pursuits. If truth was told, Stefan could match dream woman language for language, which meant she was educated and all the more alluring. He was a bit surprised that Jean-Claude liked intelligent women.
"She's the type that would argue," Stefan pointed out, staying in character. His type of muscle man wouldn't want a lowly woman arguing with him. It said something that Jean-Claude wanted a smart woman.
"She definitely speaks her mind," Jean-Claude agreed, a small half smile creeping into his eyes as if remembering a moment he found particularly amusing. "You wouldn't understand."
Stefan pushed down the 101 crude things his undercover persona would have said, knowing it would end the conversation immediately. Jean-Claude hadn't said more than three or four sentences in the two months they'd shared a cell. Instead he looked down at the floor as if in sad reflection.
"I had a woman once. One worthwhile--not a prostitute. I should have been a little nicer to her, then maybe she would have stuck around." He flashed a quick, envious grin at Jean-Claude. "She didn't look like that one. What's her name?"
Never once in all the months had Jean-Claude referred to the woman by her name, or said where she was. He was very closemouthed when it came to the angel on the wall. It bothered Stefan that he secretly thought of her like that. Angel. Mysterious. Elusive. So out of reach of the ordinary man. Out of reach of a man who lived completely in the shadows. A man without a real identity.
"Judith." Jean-Claude's voice was clipped and warned Stefan not to push any further on the woman's identity.
Triumph surged through Stefan. Jean-Claude was bored in the cell. And he wanted to talk about his woman. He needed to talk about her. Stefan wanted him to crave her, to take the opportunity to escape when it was presented to him--not by Stefan, of course, but by one of the guards. It wouldn't be that difficult to arrange. Having Jean-Claude La Roux owe a favor would be like hitting the lottery. At the same time, Jean-Claude didn't give anything away for free. What was he after?
"Pretty name. She looks exotic, but that name is American, isn't it?" Actually the name was of Hebrew origin, but Stefan doubted very much if the crime lord was aware of that fact or even cared. It was a stab in the dark, a calculated feeler.
Jean-Claude eyed him warily. "What the hell difference does it make?"
Stefan allowed a surge of anger to show, more triumphant than ever. He'd struck a nerve. The mystery woman could very well be from the United States, not Japan as he'd first thought. "Not a bit. Just makin' conversation. The hell with it." He turned his back on the crime lord--a calculated risk. Showing indifference was the only way Jean-Claude might keep talking. If he thought Stefan was too interested, the man wouldn't say a word.
Turning away from La Roux only had him staring at another wall of photos. He was surrounded by the mysterious woman. She definitely looked of Japanese descent, but not entirely--she appeared tall and her skin tone lighter. It was possible she had an American parent. The coastline in the picture could be in the United States rather than Europe. He hadn't considered that possibility before.
One of the pictures he loved the most was of Judith--he had her name now--walking barefoot in the sand. The wind was blowing hard and her long silky-looking hair streamed behind her. He could see small footprints in the wet sand. For some strange reason, that photograph got to him. She seemed so alone. So sad. Waiting for someone. Jean-Claude? His stomach knotted at the thought.
"You married to her?" He didn't look at Jean-Claude when he asked, preferring to listen to the tone of the voice, rather than the answer.
"Engaged," Jean-Claude replied after a long pause.
"She know it?" he asked slyly. Stefan hadn't seen a ring on her finger in any of the photographs, and he'd looked for one.
Jean-Claude shrugged. "It doesn't much matter what she thinks. She's my fiancee and when the time comes, she'll be with me one way or another." He picked up one of his many books and held it out to Stefan. "You ever hear of this crap?"
Stefan pushed down the little twinge of pleasure in knowing the woman wasn't quite as taken with Jean-Claude as the man was with her. He took the book, one he'd looked at a couple of times, shocked at the subject matter. He feigned ignorance. "Aura? What is that supposed to be? I never heard of it."
"Can you believe this crap? Do you see colors around people's bodies? New Age bullshit, is what it is." There was such anger, such bitterness in Jean-Claude, a suppressed rage that made Stefan worry a little for the first time about Judith.
"Your woman believes this stuff?" Stefan asked, keeping vague puzzlement in his voice.
"Damn right she does. Takes it very seriously. I've read all about it, but I've never met a single person who believes in it or can see colors surrounding people other than her."
"So she's a little bit crazy." Stefan flashed a lecherous grin. "Don't you think her body sort of makes up for all that? Keep her mou
th busy and you don't have a problem." His stomach knotted tighter. His gut actually hurt.
Jean-Claude shot him a furious look. He snatched the book out of Stefan's hand and threw it against the wall of the cell. "I don't know why I would expect someone like you to understand."
Stefan didn't want to understand. He wanted out of this stinking cell, away from the man whose soul was rotten. There was no mercy in his world. No soft skin. No dark eyes a man could get lost in. He wasn't even real, no more than a dark shadow sliding in and out of places others called home and leaving behind death and chaos. He didn't know what a home was and he no longer cared. He had lost his humanity long ago in places like this, surrounded by corrupt men who traded in human flesh and wreaked havoc on the world for money.
He'd been in the business too long when he started to fixate on a woman just because she was the only thing that remotely resembled innocence in a stinking prison cell.
"You know, Bastille," Jean-Claude began.
Stefan went on alert. For the first time Jean-Claude sounded different. They were getting to the business of why the crime lord had deigned to speak to him about his woman. Jean-Claude had been steadfastly silent and it just wasn't in him to have a friendly conversation, no matter how much he might want to talk to someone about Judith and the photographs. He'd given to get something.
Stefan turned around, leaned one hip lazily against the cot and raised an eyebrow.
"Why didn't you kill me? You knew I ordered the beatings and the hits."
Stefan kept his expression carefully blank. He shrugged. "No money in it. I want out of here. I came to do a job, and once it's done I'll get out."
Jean-Claude's eyebrow shot up. "A job?" he echoed.
"Relax, Rolex, you aren't the mark." Stefan allowed a small smile to creep into his eyes. "I won't say it didn't cross my mind a time or two, but there's no percentage in it."
"But you would kill me if someone paid you to do it."
"We're not exactly friends." This time amusement reached his voice.
"I underestimated you," Jean-Claude admitted.
Stefan noted with satisfaction that the crime lord realized just how close he had been to death. All those nights with Stefan lurking like a lethal viper just feet from him. "Everyone does." Again, Stefan showed no malice.
Jean-Claude studied the scarred face. "I could use a man like you."
"I'm not sticking around. I'll be out of here by tomorrow." Stefan spoke with supreme confidence.
"How?"
Stefan shrugged again and stayed mysteriously silent.
"You have a way to escape?"
Oh yeah, there was interest in La Roux's voice. He wanted out. Once out, he'd have the money to buy a new identity and face. Stefan did it all the time.
Stefan turned away from the man and sank down onto his cot, silently declaring the conversation was over. When they went to dinner, a man would be found dead in his cell. As the prison locked down, John Bastille would be absent and Jean-Claude La Roux would know there was a way out. When he was approached by a guard to help him escape in a couple of weeks, he would jump at the chance.
The prisoner, already dead in his cell, was a Russian traitor, one in for arms' dealing, but he was guilty of so much more than that. He worked for Jean-Claude and was responsible for giving the crime lord the location of one of their top engineers, Theodotus Solovyov, who had designed their current defense system. The attack on Solovyov had left Stefan's brother, Gavriil, with a permanent injury, placing his life in danger.
Gavriil, undoubtedly one of the government's top agents, had been appointed bodyguard to Solovyov. He had managed, in spite of superior forces and being outgunned, in spite of being stabbed seven times, to keep Solovyov from being kidnapped and to drive off the kidnappers, but the microchip Solovyov had sewn into his coat had been taken. Only Solovyov and his wife had known the microchip had been placed there. Solovyov had been sold out by his own wife, and Gavriil's mission had been considered a failure.
A man like Gavriil Prakenskii was not forgiven failures, nor was he retired gracefully. He was simply retired. Gavriil managed to escape from the hospital and had disappeared. He would never be safe again, not bearing the Prakenskii name. The only Prakenskii truly safe was their youngest brother Ilya, who had been groomed to be an Interpol agent. He had worked for the secret assassination squad for a short time, and his services had been required on and off, but he hadn't been given the life of living in the shadows the way his older brothers had.
Stefan had helped Gavriil escape, carrying him through the darkened streets to a waiting car where he smuggled him out of Russia. It had been a very narrow escape, and without a doctor, Gavriil would have died, but he was gone now, using another identity, and Stefan doubted if he'd be lucky enough to ever see his brother again. Once he'd learned from Gavriil that only Theodotus Solovyov and his wife, Elena, had known about the microchip sewn into the coat, they both had known Elena had to have been the one to sell out their country.
As soon as Gavriil was out of danger, Stefan followed the money trail, found not only Elena's guilt, but the tie back to Jean-Claude La Roux. Elena died after providing the name of her lover. Her lover had given up the rest of the hit squad before he had died. One by one Stefan had hunted every participant who had destroyed his brother's career and put his life in jeopardy, killing them all except for the one in the French prison. That last detail had been attended to earlier in the evening.
Stefan lay down on his cot, ignoring Jean-Claude's puzzled look. The man wanted more information and was probably regretting that he'd set the tone for their rocky relationship. There was immense satisfaction in knowing Jean-Claude was going to regret a lot of things--ending Gavriil's career not the least of those regrets.
FOUR days later, Stefan took his time in the hot shower, grateful for a decent room, clean bathroom and comfortable bed. He wrapped a towel around his hips and stepped out onto the cool tiles. Setting his gun down on the sink, he dried his hair, staring at the fogged image in the mirror. John Bastille was no more, and Stefan Prakenskii was back. He wasn't any better looking than Bastille had been, even cleaned up. His body was in shape, every muscle loose and ready, his waist tapered, hips narrow and his core strength absolutely solid. He was like a machine, trained for any possibility. He knew a thousand ways to kill someone. He could seduce any woman out of her clothes, her sensibilities and her secrets--and had done so more times than he could count. He could hit a target a mile away in a high wind without a problem. He could deliver a needle as he brushed past his target without them feeling anything more than an annoying insect bite. He had no idea how to be anything else.
Picking up his gun, he went into the small room, his home for the night. He had the door primed--he wasn't a trusting man and never would be. The windows looked out over the river, his last resort should he be attacked and there was no other way out. He had set an escape route over the roof and one through the hotel as well. He had four exit strategies and his room was an arsenal. Still, he never felt safe.
There was a restless feeling in him that hadn't been there before. Maybe it was time to get out. He'd lost too much humanity. His senses were going numb, or maybe they had been gone all along and he hadn't noticed--or cared.
In spite of his determination not to look, he found himself standing in front of the dresser where the photograph he'd lifted from the wall, his favorite of Judith on the beach, lay right where he'd put it. He'd tossed it there, trying to tell himself he would turn it over to his handler in order to better help with finding her identity. A little mistake like that could blow everything. Blow the entire two months of living in a dirty cell with a monster. What was he thinking? He didn't make mistakes.
He picked up the photograph and stared down at that pensive face. His thumb slid over the band of soft skin revealed between her jeans and tee, as he had done in the cell. What was it about her that got to him? She was a mistake, and yet, knowing it, he'd taken the photograph
anyway. It wasn't her striking looks--and he did think she was beautiful; he was inexplicably drawn to something inside her that had shone through in this picture.
He forced himself to toss the photograph back onto the dresser. He would never see her, never know what happened to her, but if he was making mistakes, regretting who he was, then it was time to employ his exit strategy. Every man in his business had one because in the end, they all knew too much about the secret project that had developed them in the first place.
He dressed carefully, slipping into his weapons as easily as the suit that had a casual elegance when his wide shoulders filled it out. His face was subtly different, his eye color a striking blue, a few of the scars gone. He'd trimmed his dark blond hair into a much neater style and shaved all facial hair. His watch was in place, an equally elegant piece without being too showy. He looked like a wealthy businessman, but the kind who had fought his way to the top. He stood there for a long moment, his fingers running over the woman's face. Cursing his own stupidity, he tapped the photograph once in a kind of frustration.
"You're going to get yourself killed over a woman," he said aloud.
As if on cue, his pager buzzed. Puzzled, he opened his computer and signed in. At once text spread across the screen. The woman had been identified with the clues he'd given them. Judith Henderson--an artist on the rise. She'd made quite a name for herself as an expert conservator restoring damaged paintings. Private collectors sought her out and entrusted paintings worth millions to her care. In addition to her restoration work, she was an acclaimed artist in her own right, both as the creator of international award-winning kaleidoscopes and as a painter whose original works commanded hefty sums. She lived in a small village on the Northern California coast called Sea Haven.
Everything in him stilled. Sea Haven. How often would that little village touch his family? His youngest brother, Ilya, had settled there. Another younger brother, Lev, had disappeared there, declared dead, going down with a yacht in the ocean. He didn't believe Lev could be killed so easily. Was this a trap of some kind--a trap for him? Or maybe for Lev? Was it possible he was being used to try to find his brother? A man like Lev, with all his abilities, didn't die easily. He didn't panic, not in the worst of circumstances.