Ultimate Weapon (McClouds & Friends #6)(89)

She got up, and turned her back to him. “And thrilled to be thousands of miles away from it, right?”

He wisely left her alone to think and got dressed. She did not watch him clothe his spectacular nakedness. The bathed, shaved, combed, scented, designer-clothing-draped, mind-blowing finished product was enough for her nerves to take. Naked, he blew her circuits.

He took her to a restaurant that he knew well, judging from the authoritative way that he led her through the steep, twisting streets, and from the deferential way that they were treated once they arrived. The place was small and out of the way, but quietly beautiful. The food and wine were superb, although Val regarded her choice of green salad, roasted vegetables and grilled fish with dark disapproval.

“Not enough,” he growled. He tried to load her up with some of his tagliolini alla boscaiola, and a slice of his enormous, bloody tagliata di manzo.

Nice try, she thought, staring at the snarl of oily, garlicky fresh pasta and the hot pink slab of tender meat he had dumped on her plate. He couldn’t make her eat it, though. He had better luck with the wine, making it his business to keep her glass very full.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I am hoping to relax you. Would it work?”

“No,” she informed him. “I never relax. And by the way. I might as well tell you right now so you can wrap your mind around the concept. There will be no more sex tonight. Zero sex. So forget it. OK? Don’t even give me that look. I don’t want to see it on your face.”

But he didn’t obey. That sexy, devastating smile showed no signs of fading. He sawed off a chunk of his tagliata, chewed it as he studied her thoughtfully from beneath those hooded eyes, and wiped his mouth with the napkin. “Ah. No?”

“No,” she repeated firmly, fending off the urge to repeat herself. Bleating like a fluffy lamb, losing credibility with each repetition.

He sipped his wine. “You seemed to like it,” he observed.

“Whether I liked it or not is beside the point. I’m exhausted. I can’t face another blitzkrieg. I want sleep. Peace, quiet, and privacy.”

“It does not have to be that way,” he remarked, his voice bland. “I can be gentle. I can be playful. I can do it any way you want it.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she blurted.

He gazed at her. “You’re afraid to find out what you really want?”

That suave, superior air irritated her. “Stop with the f*cking psychoanalysis, Val. You’re a hit man. Not a shrink.”

“I am not a hit man,” he said mildly. “But all this talk of sex reminds me of something that I meant to ask you.”

She braced herself. “Ask,” she said.

“Why no contraception? I would have thought a woman like you would be prepared for anything.”

Her hackles rose. “A woman like me?” she repeated slowly. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”

He waved his arm in that eloquent way that only Latin men could without seeming effeminate. “Professional, pragmatic. A risk taker.”

She dangled her wineglass between her fingers and considered the novel concept of telling him the flat, unbeautiful truth. She was too tired, too wired, too jet-lagged to sidestep the question.

“I’ve been celibate for years,” she said. “I had every intention of staying that way for the rest of my life. And as such, I didn’t see the point in loading my body up with useless artificial hormones.”

He looked discreetly shocked. “Really? You? What a waste. It is criminal, the very idea. Why, for the love of God?”

She was about to tell him to piss off and mind his own goddamn business. The words stopped somewhere along the pipeline and petered out into a long silence. “Did you know Kurt Novak?” she asked.

His mouth tightened in disgust. “Unfortunately, yes,” he said. “He was vile.”

“Yes, he was. And Georg?”

“No better,” he said. “Kurt’s slobbering lap dog.”

“Exactly. I should never have gotten mixed up with them, but I did. I was trying to get revenge for someone Kurt had killed. It blew up in my face.”

“I see,” he murmured.”

She was unable to meet his eyes. “Those two clinched it for me. I was done with men. I thought they were both dead that day that Kurt got killed. I wish I’d checked Georg more closely. I would have been happy to do the honors myself after what he…well. Whatever.”

“I’m sorry.” Val’s voice was careful and neutral. “It is terrible.”

She stared down at the blank white tablecloth and forced herself to endure silence. If he had oozed practiced sympathy, she’d have thrown it back in his face, but his plain, matter-of-fact comprehension was bearable. She breathed and bore it. For a minute or so. Then the intense, significant silence started driving her mad.

Time to break it and introduce an extreme change of subject.

“My turn to ask the invasive questions,” she said crisply. “So tell me, Val. How did you get to be the way you are? I’m dying of curiosity.”

He slanted her an amused look. “And how am I?”

“Slick, urbane, charming, well spoken,” she said. “The languages, the crazy mind control. Your background doesn’t explain any of that. You don’t fit the profile of a punch drunk mafiya thug at all.”