Blood and Fire (McClouds & Friends #8)(22)

“One girl, alone,” King mused. “No weapons but a can of Mace. And she evaded two of my agents, with their incredible training, their bottomless budget, their limitless resources. For forty-two days. Do not expect a pat on the back for fixing this. Be grateful to stay alive.”

King closed the connection, remembering Zoe’s presence. Her eyes were speculative over the rim of her wineglass.

“So they found her,” she said softly. “At last.”

“At last,” he said. “In Portland, at Ranieri’s diner. Unbelievable incompetence. After decades of intensive training. So disappointing.”

Zoe preened, perceiving the criticism of her peers, by reverse association, as a compliment to her. He decided to encourage the impression. Ias a delicate balancing act, the application of carrot and stick. His elite cadre of operatives were spectacular specimens, but they required deft handling. Zoe had been a good girl. This time.

“I told them that Lily Parr was unusual,” Zoe mused. “She struck me as extremely capable. Perhaps I didn’t state it strongly enough. It was in the file. I made a report after every one of her visits.”

“I should have sent you after her,” he said. “Not those idiots.”

Zoe’s bare shoulders twitched in a modest shrug. “Reggie isn’t an idiot,” she murmured. “And I could only be in one place at one time.”

“Pity,” he said. “Your performance was truly exceptional.”

Her face glowed. He became aware of a pleasant tingling sensation. He hadn’t been consciously planning sexual indulgence in this debriefing session—in fact, he very rarely indulged, being naturally ascetic. But Zoe deserved a treat. He could exert himself for her.

He took pains not to consider his agents as sexual objects. It seemed extravagant to utilize an instrument in which he had invested tens of millions, decades of his life, for what amounted to a plumbing task that could be performed by a call girl for a few hundred dollars.

But Zoe’s eyes were dilated. Her bosom heaved. She had emotional and physiological control issues, his critical diagnostic eye could not help but note. But now wasn’t the time to scold her for them.

Zoe was as skilled as any courtesan, and he’d worked all his life to inculcate her fervid desire to please him. No call girl could provide that, no matter what she was paid. Since toddlerhood Zoe had been immersed in Deep Weave programming, a virtual world that was a product of his own psychological and pharmacological genius. Designed to augment and develop certain characteristics, and suppress others. Entirely free of any inconvenient ethical or moral oversight.

His experiments hadn’t always worked out, but they had worked often enough for the project as a whole to be considered a resounding success. He had a winning recipe, now. After much trial and error.

Zoe’s lashes fluttered. “May I ask a question?”

He chuckled. “I may not answer, but you can always ask.”

“Why did you wait so long, sir?” she asked, eyes wide. “To finish Howard and the girl, and Bruno Ranieri?”

The question was not an unreasonable one, since Zoe might well end up replacing Reginald as team leader, tonight’s results pending.

But she was not yet entitled to the whole truth. He lifted his glass, smiling. “Let us talk about you, my dear.”

She flushed in embarrassment at her overstep. “Yes, of course. Please excuse me. I just wanted to be up to date, so that I’ll be—”

“Ready to serve?” he supplied silkily. “Oh, but I have no doubt that you will be, my dear.”

His throaty tone made her brown eyes dilate to pools of black.

Julian served their panna cotta, set out tiny cups of espresso.

“You may go,” Neil told him.

Julian vanished. Zoe stirred a spoonful of sugar into her coffee. He listened to the sputter of the candles while Zoe’s heavy lashes swept low over her flushed cheeks, fluttering, shadowing the perfect curve.

“Shall I, ah, lock the door?” She sounded hesitant, girlish.

The glow upped to a throb. “No one here is stupid enough to open that door. And if they are, their death will be no great loss to us.”

She giggled and rose to her feet, stumbling. Performance anxiety. She peeked, to see if he’d caught it. He smiled, letting her know that, of course, he had. But it was all right. No one was perfect. And with his help, she’d come closer to perfection than any other human creature.

But there was always room for improvement. Effort. Striving.

Her breath sped up. Her excitement was very real. He was an attractive man, youthful for his late fifties. Trim, fit, and strong. Aware of how attractive the mantle of immense wealth and power he wore was to women. Men, too, of course, but he’d never been so inclined, aside from some insignificant adventures involving drugs and group sex, back in his wild youth. The idea of using drugs in such a haphazard way now filled him with disgust. Drugs were an instrument of such power, such precision. Not to be flailed around like berserker idiots with a battle ax.

She took an unsteady step in his direction.

“The dress,” he said.

She glanced down, artful locks of hair dangling around her face as she reached to struggle with her zipper. Bosom straining. The dress dropped, slowed by the lush curve of her hips, then fell around her ankles. She was naked beneath it, clad only in stiletto-heeled sandals and diamond drop earrings. The earrings were a gift given to all his female agents upon the occasion of their first outside assignment. The girls all treasured their earrings. Her breasts were full, high, and perfect. Her pubis was trimmed to a delicate swatch, as carefully shaped as an eyebrow. Her musculature was almost overly defined. Lean, taut.