Ultimate Weapon (McClouds & Friends #6)(90)

He twirled tagliolini around his fork, his eyes averted. “I was given intensive training from PSS,” he said finally. “They invested a fortune in me. But the important things…that was all Imre’s doing.”

She was the one this time to use the silence to refill his glass and prod him to continue. “Your friend? The one who…” She stopped, unwilling to invoke the monster and let him take over the conversation.

“Yes,” Val said. “The one that I want to save. He welcomed me into his home. Che Cristo, he must have had nerves of steel. An illiterate, violent, thieving, louse-ridden, twelve-year-old rent boy. He fed me, played me music, let me sleep in his apartment. I would never risk it myself.”

“He must be an unusual person,” she said.

“Yes.” A faraway smile flashed over his face. “He taught me to use my mind. And about the world outside. He taught me that I might have some value, other than just a…” He stopped, shook his head sharply. “Something besides picking pockets, selling cigarettes, dealing drugs. Or sucking cocks in the backseat of a car under a bridge.”

Tam was startled. That was the first glimpse of bitterness about the past that he had ever let her see, but that one glimpse hinted at a hidden ocean of it. “So he was the reason that you didn’t go under.”

“Yes.” He stared intently into the bulb of his wineglass as if it were a crystal ball. “He was my refuge. He was…” His face contracted. He looked away from her, Adam’s apple bobbing.

Tam dropped her gaze to give him privacy. She gazed at the wobbling candle flame and waited for him to break the silence himself.

“I was fortunate to have Imre.” His voice sounded halting and forced, as if he was convincing himself. “But for all his efforts, I drag it behind me, like a ten-ton anchor. If he dies, because of me…”

And me, Tam thought, but she shoved the thought away. She could not carry Imre on her shoulders, too. She had enough burdens.

“I know what you mean about the anchor,” she said.

Val’s hand had been inches from hers on the snowy tablecloth, but it had drifted closer. The tip of his finger made contact with hers, the faintest touch possible, yet a shock ran through her. Without any conscious volition on her part, one finger after another made contact with his corresponding ones, lifting until they were palm to palm.

The delicate connection shimmered and glowed. Neither of them acknowledged it with word or glance. It was a tiny miracle that would hide its face in embarrassment if looked at too closely.

“And you?” His eyes met hers, full of somber challenge. “I could ask the same question of you, knowing what I know about your past. About Zetrinja. What made you the way you are?”

She laughed and echoed his own words back to him. “What am I? Besides being a monster pain in the ass, you mean?”

He ignored her teasing. “Brilliant, creative, rich, successful. And powerful. You didn’t go under, either.”

Not yet, she thought bleakly, thinking of Novak, Georg, Stengl. She shoved the thoughts away and gave his question the consideration it deserved after his own naked honesty.

“I got my strength from what I had before,” she said. “My family. Not perfect but…wonderful. I knew I had value because they had thought so, even if they were all gone. So I clung to that. And I survived.”

They weren’t looking at each other at all, now. It was too much. But his fingers slid down between hers and closed, clasping hers. A rush of heat. Exquisite, understated intimacy.

“You are fortunate,” he said.

She realized that it was true. Amazingly. Everything was relative. She’d once had something precious. Something he had never known.

“As for the rest of it…” She shook her head. “It was random. I didn’t care about the scams I ran, the banks I robbed, the men I slept with. I didn’t care about getting rich. It just happened. It was like a video game. Robot Bitch, looking for a thrill. So I’m bored? Fine. Depose a dictator or steal twenty million euro, just for laughs. It gets old, though. I got really bored. I just…didn’t care.”

“What do you care about?” he asked.

She thought about it. “Rachel,” she said. “My friends. My freedom. My privacy. And my work. I care very much about my work.”

“The jewelry? A strange craft for you to choose.”

“Not really,” she replied. “My father was a metalsmith. I was his apprentice. He was an artist. He should have been a world-renowned designer for the talent he had, but he didn’t care about being famous. He just loved the craft. He didn’t even care about being paid. Which drove my mother crazy.” She smiled at the memory.

“Beauty for beauty’s sake alone?” Val offered gently.

“I suppose so,” she said.

Val leaned over their clasped hands and dropped a kiss on her knuckle. “Your family was Muslim, then?”

She shrugged. “A mixed marriage. My mother was an Orthodox Christian from Ukraina. She was the one who cared about religion. We celebrated Easter, Christmas. My father just worshipped beauty. And his wife. He adored her.”

He kissed her hand again and waited patiently for more.

“They met in Paris.” She found herself continuing, for some unknown reason. “He was an adventurer, a wandering rebel. She was an illegal immigrant, working in a garment sweatshop, dreaming of studying someday at the Sorbonne. He was twenty-two, she was nineteen. He was beautiful, she was beautiful—”