Kiss or Kill

Her heart rate doubled and her breath caught in her throat.

The man who entered the weak circle of light registered a barely discernible flicker of surprise, just as she suppressed one of her own. Mark. Instant recognition promised instant death if he blew her cover. Her fingers slipped around the grip of her pistol.

She raised a brow and offered him the ghost of a smile. He returned it, just a small quirk of his lips. Nice lips they were, too. She remembered them well. Their texture, their taste, their hunger that had fuelled hers.

But one kiss, mind-blowing as it had been, did not provide a basis for putting her life in the man’s hands now.

That killer body of his could be just that – the body of a killer.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lyn Stone is a former artist who developed an early and avid interest in criminology while helping her husband study for his degree. His subsequent career in counter-intelligence and contacts in the field provided a built-in source for research in writing suspense. Their long and happy marriage provided first-hand knowledge of happily-ever-afters.

Dear Reader,

What a great time I’ve had working on the MISSION: IMPASSIONED series! I do hope you’ve had the opportunity to read the four books preceding mine and will be as eager as I am to read Kathleen Creighton’s finale next month. It has been a real privilege to participate in this project with such wonderfully talented writers who are terrific characters in their own right!

The plotting was a blast from the first day! One of my Special Ops operatives jumped the big pond to join the fun in Paris. Though Compass agent Renee’s agenda proved different from Mark Alexander’s, our Lazlo agent, she definitely plays well with others in every sense of the word.

Everyone should have at least one wild adventure in Paris and I hope you enjoy this one!

Happy reading!

Lyn Stone

Kiss or Kill

LYN STONE

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This one is for my Hotlanta buddy,

Deb Martin.

Prologue

London, 1991

“Son, put down the book. Get up quietly and do exactly as I say.”

The unusual, low-voiced command grabbed Mark’s attention and he glanced up. The television blared Cagney’s snarling voice in an old American gangster movie his father had been watching. Totally disinterested, Mark had been devouring the last chapter of a current mystery novel. “What?”

His father snatched the book from his hand and threw it on the floor. “Crawl into the cupboard there. Hurry.”

Mark laughed, watching as his dad opened the cabinet and raked out the pillow and blanket kept there for anyone bunking on the couch. “I’m thirteen now, not three! I won’t fit.” His lanky, all-knees-and-elbows build caused enough laughs as it was without the old man making jokes about it.

His dad grasped his arm. “Get in there. Now! Fold yourself up, close the door and don’t move a hair no matter what! Do not come out, do you hear, Mark? Can you follow orders or not?”

Mark started to argue, but noted the alertness in his father’s expression, felt the incredible tension in the strong fingers locked around his arm. This was no joke. “Dad, what’s wrong?” he whispered.

“A break-in, I think,” his father answered, barely audible above the shoot-’em-up on television. He pushed Mark into the enclosure, roughly tucking in one big socked foot that stuck out oddly. “Stay there. I can’t be worried for your safety, too. Do I have your word?”

“Yes! Call the police, Dad!” Mark gasped. His neck was bent at an unnatural angle and he felt like a freaking contortionist.

“I will. Do not move until I come back for you and tell you it’s safe.” His eyes met Mark’s before he shut the door. In them Mark saw fear, something he had never in any way associated with his dad. The man was courage itself, everyone knew that.

Mark waited for what seemed forever, wincing at the jarring volume of the noisy telly just above him. It eclipsed all other sounds. He couldn’t stand not knowing what was happening. It couldn’t hurt to ease the door open a mere crack. Half an inch only, and he wouldn’t even have to move his head to see out.

Immediately he saw a silhouette moving into the lounge from the kitchen. He held his breath. The figure came closer, gun in hand, and into the circle of lamplight. Not his dad. Surely he was hiding, too. Or looking for something to use as a weapon.

Mark wanted to ease the door shut, but knew that even the slightest movement might be seen. He froze, watching as the man approached and reached out to turn off the TV set. Silence dropped like a bomb. Mark’s lungs were nearly bursting. Silently, slowly, he released the breath he was holding and drew in another. Through the narrow crack, he clearly saw the face of the intruder.

This could be helpful, he thought. If the man escaped, Mark could identify him later. He took careful note of the features as the man examined something on the shelves above the television, probably his dad’s trophies or grandad’s gold pocket watch mounted under a little glass dome. The man’s back turned as he headed for the desk on the other side of the room. Then he whirled around quickly, alerted by car doors slamming outside. There were voices. The cavalry had arrived! Good for Dad!

The man cursed and disappeared from view. Mark remained where he was. The police were here and everything would be fine now. A bit of excitement, having a burglar. His mates had never had anything like this happen in their houses. He smiled with anticipation. Tom and Hugh would turn absolutely green when he told them about it.

He almost came out of the cabinet then so as not to miss a minute of the arrest, but remembered his father’s orders. Mark had been working hard on his impulses since he’d turned thirteen last month. Self-control was imperative now that he was no longer a kid. His dad would be proud that he’d followed instructions to the letter. A good soldier, my lad, he would say. And one day Mark would be.

Doors slammed again and shouting commenced. Shots were fired! Crikey, he wished he could be out there to see the arrest. Maybe he would be asked to appear in court later to identify the chap who broke in.

His leg cramped horribly and his neck began to hurt, but he held steady. Dad would come soon.

“Where is the son?” a deep voice demanded. Mark peeked out of the crack in the door. Mr. Lazlo, who worked with his dad.

“No sign of anyone else here, sir,” A uniformed policeman said. “Only the body in the kitchen.”

Body? Mark burst out of the cabinet and scrambled to his feet. He dashed, arms flailing, legs half numbed, right past Lazlo and the copper. His socks slid on the tiles when he hit the kitchen and he tumbled forward to his knees. “Daddy!” he screamed, voice breaking, heart breaking.

Strong arms clasped him from behind, lifted him forcefully and pulled him away. “Come with me now, Mark. He’s gone. You don’t need to see—”

Mark stopped struggling and stood stock-still. He was no match for a grown man’s strength. Not yet anyway, even though every vestige of boyhood drained out of him then and there. He took a deep breath, inhaling the metallic scent of his beloved father’s lifeblood now puddled uselessly on the kitchen floor.

“I do need to see,” he said, staring down at the body. “I’m going to kill the man who did this, Mr. Lazlo. On my honor, I swear before God, I will kill him,” he muttered through his teeth.

Lazlo rested his hands on Mark’s shoulders as they stood together. His voice was deathly quiet as he promised, “Come with me, Mark. I’ll help you.”

Chapter 1

Paris—Present Day

Mark felt pretty naked without his favorite sidearm, especially when everyone else he’d met was sporting fully automatics. He was seriously underdressed for the occasion.

“Sonny is making a few calls,” the woman at his side told him. “If you check out, we can use you, Alexander. If not…well, let us say you need not worry about future employment,” she added with a catlike smile.

His cover was solid thanks to Corbett Lazlo, Mark’s mentor and employer. He understood why the woman didn’t trust him. Hell, she had excellent reasons, better ones than she knew.

He had wormed his way into this nest of snakes with a few phone calls and by dropping the names of a couple of very recently deceased criminals who were probably well known to her and thought to still be alive. Identity theft in its highest form worked wonders, or so he hoped.

“Come along, darling. You might as well meet the rest of the merry band while we wait,” the woman said, ushering him up the steps ahead of her. She wore unrelieved black. Probably matched the loaded accessory she carried in her pocket with her finger on its trigger.

This infiltration seemed the best method of discovering the whereabouts of the man who had murdered Mark’s father sixteen years ago, an assassin called Trip. Mark’s job, as well as his lifelong ambition, was to capture Trip and determine who had hired him. The killer’s trail—an exhaustive list of murders stretching over almost two decades using the same MO—had led Mark to this woman’s address.

Something about Deborah Martine seemed familiar to Mark. Not so much her looks as her mannerisms, the way she moved, a fleeting expression. Something. Martine was not her real name, he was sure. But none of that mattered at the moment. This fortyish, unnatural blonde with bedroom eyes, a commanding attitude and an evil sense of humor, was his ticket in. Sooner or later, she would lead him to Trip.

She could use more hands and another gun, she had told him when he introduced himself earlier that afternoon. Apparently she was also looking for someone adept at bypassing the newer security systems on the market. He couldn’t believe his luck there. He assured her he’d been sent by a trusted mutual acquaintance. The woman was no fool. She had verified his identity. No problem. Lazlo had expected he would be checked out and had prepared for it.

At the top of the stairs, she reached past him, opened a door and entered, standing aside for him to follow. Mark glanced around the dimly lit room. They were in an office in the upstairs of a run-down warehouse south of Paris near the Seine. He could smell the river, feel its dampness, even inside the building. Two men were seated on the dusty chairs and a woman stood against the wall in the shadows.

She looked up as he approached the table. The dim glow of the lamp illuminated her face. Mark’s heart nearly stopped. There was not merely something familiar about this woman. He knew her! Worse than that, she knew him. One word from her about their former connection and he’d be dead in the water. Literally. His body adding to the river’s pollution.

He saw the flicker of apprehension in her eyes. And a question. Should she take him out? She was asking herself. She was armed and it wasn’t apparent that he was. But for some reason, she didn’t act.

He suddenly realized she was as vulnerable as he was. If she killed him, she would have to explain why. And if she declared who he was, the others would suspect her, too. Takes one to know one, he thought with an inner grimace.

Had she turned? Her looks had changed radically. Maybe her allegiance had, too. Or had she been a subversive even when he had known her during their training op in the States? She could be working undercover, of course. God, but he wanted to believe that. He had a soft spot for her, but he couldn’t let that distort his reasoning or affect his decisions.

He could kill her, right now during her hesitation. He still had his knife, which he could bury in her throat before anyone blinked. But then he would have to deal with the fallout. If he used the hidden blade, he would be weaponless except for hands-on. That would be patently ineffective against bullets.

Even in the unlikely event that he managed to kill everyone in the room and survive, his ultimate goal would be impossible. Deborah Martine was his only lead to John Trip, the assassin he had spent over half his life tracking, the man he meant to destroy no matter the cost. He might never get this close again. No, he couldn’t compromise that goal as long as there was the slightest chance to see it met.

And he had to acknowledge that the woman feigning nonchalance in the shadows might possibly be here for a legitimate reason, just as he was, and didn’t really deserve to die.

He had a feeling that fate had another of those unfunny life-altering jokes in store for him, like the sudden gut-twisting attraction that had driven him crazy when he had known her before. She had damn near caused him to lose control and break his steadfast rule concerning personal involvement. Even so, he had little choice now but to let fate rule in this instance. He would have to allow Renee Leblanc to live and see what happened.

Renee leaned against the rat-infested wall, one booted foot propped on an old crate. In her right hand, she held an unlit French cigarette. Her left rested on the unsnapped holster of her nine millimeter.

The man who entered the weak circle of light thrown by the antique gas lantern registered a barely discernible flicker of surprise, just as she suppressed one of her own. My God. It was Mark! What the hell was he doing here? Her heart rate doubled and her breath caught in her throat. Instant recognition promised instant death if he blew her cover.

Her fingers slid around the grip of her H&K pistol, its coolness and texture her only comfort.

“This is Mark Alexander, everyone,” Deborah Martine announced as she took a seat at the head of the scarred table.

He was actually using the name she had known him by. Not a good sign that he was undercover. But then, she was using hers, too, though it was necessary in her case.

Deborah inclined her head at Renee. “Meet Renee, our explosives expert.”

Deborah’s lazy gaze swept on to the slender, shifty-eyed thug on her right. “Piers, provisions.” Then to the beefy Neanderthal at the far end of the table. “Etienne, muscle.” She offered a secret smile before turning her attention to the rest of the group. “Mark will handle the security systems for us.” Her left eyebrow rose as she addressed him. “That is, if your credentials are in order.”

Renee’s eyes again locked on the newcomer. Her first instinct had been to shoot him where he stood before he could say a word. Protect the mission was a mantra she lived by. Self-preservation was an even stronger motive. She figured he probably entertained similar thoughts of eliminating her as a threat, but had no weapon.

Either he had flipped at some time during the past two years, or he was working an op for SIS, the old MI-6. Problem was, she knew nothing about an ongoing operation in Paris involving the Brits. However, given the dearth of official information exchanged by intel agencies who worked for the same government, it was reasonable that she’d be in the dark about a foreign one. Why would the Brits inform the U.S. when infiltrating a terrorist cell in France?

Since Alexander hadn’t yet opened his mouth, she would give him the benefit of the doubt. If he revealed who she was, he would expose himself. Same with her. She raised a brow and offered him the ghost of a smile. He returned it, just a small quirk of his lips. Nice lips they were, too. She remembered them well. Their texture. Their taste. Their hunger that had fueled her own. A spike of warmth shot through her. Make that heat.

One kiss, mind-blowing as it had been, did not provide a basis for putting her life in the man’s hands. That killer body of his could be just that, the body of a killer. The memory of how her wayward mind had wandered directly to him the morning after that kiss, as she hovered between sleep and wakefulness, disturbed her even now. She had clearly visualized him, standing in the shower, soaping himself, his head thrown back, exposing his strong, corded neck as if he invited her to put her mouth there and feel his quickening pulse. Her own body had hummed.

Renee shook her head. The vision firmly engraved on her mind might have been buried, but hadn’t lost its clarity.

Renee straightened and pushed off the wall, taking a seat on one of the overturned boxes that served as extra chairs. “Where are the others?” she asked, ignoring Alexander as best she could.

“Checking the perimeter. Sonny and Beguin will be up in a few moments. Tonight’s the night we get down to business,” Deborah announced.

Finally. Renee kept her expression bland. She knew the job, in general anyway, and hoped to find out where the strike would occur so she could get people in place to prevent it. This was yet another planning session. Deborah seemed to get off on having rendezvous in secret locations, the seedier the better.

Sonny’s last job had been an attempt to abduct a

U.S. senator’s son. It had been foiled by the Secret Service and Renee’s team, COMPASS, one of the civilian special ops teams formed under Homeland Security. The giant, more commonly known as Sonnegut, had escaped capture and fled here to France, doing a bang-up job of covering his tracks. But Renee had located him.

Her stated mission was to identify Sonnegut’s affiliation, find out who was behind the kidnapping attempt and determine what they had been after. Indications were that the motive had been political. So far, she had tailed him until she could befriend one of his cohorts and work her way into this little gang.

It was a start. Deborah Martine was Sonnegut’s lover. Renee had begun to suspect she might also be the person in charge. The question was whether or not she reported to someone else, higher up. Unfortunately Renee thought she might have to abandon her primary mission in order to throw a monkey wrench into the strike the cell was planning. But first she needed to discover how the group was financed, and, most important, the target and timing of their strike.

Renee had struck up an association with Martine, gaining her trust in the guise of a French-Canadian expatriate whose father owned a demolitions business based in Calgary and who had taught his only child everything he knew about explosives, hoping she would carry on.

Her cover contained a great deal of truth, but there were no records available to prove or disprove it. She had told Deborah at the outset that her father had disowned her and she had intentionally “erased” herself. Martine had professed to admire her precautions and apparently accepted her story.

Demolition was a handy skill in the underworld, much in demand. Credentials weren’t required. The proof was in the execution, so to speak.

Renee glanced again at Mark and saw that he was assessing her, no doubt wondering if she had switched loyalties. Neither of them had any option but to play this out, at least until they could talk in private. And even then, would either dare admit why they were really here? As far as he knew, she could be exactly what she appeared to be. And so could he.

Every tenet of her training demanded that she erase any threat to her mission. So would his. They had trained together in the life-or-death black ops field, after all.

Two years ago, the FBI had hosted an international working seminar on nontraditional methods of dealing with terrorists. Fifty elite agents from as many organizations had attended. No operative had been identified other than by name, no countries or organizations revealed.

At the time, Renee had figured Mark represented the U.K. because of his accent and surname. And that polite reserve of his had seemed distinctly British to her. Maybe her assumption had been wrong. Ordinarily she knew better than to assume anything, but it hadn’t really mattered back then.

Even at first glance, just as it did now, her heart had raced with both fear and fascination. Aside from the wide shoulders set on a body that wouldn’t quit and a face that boasted intriguing features, her attraction to him surpassed the physical. There was something dark about Alexander that went deeper than the fathomless eyes that seemed to peer right into the very soul of her. He made her feel exposed…vulnerable…hot. What’s more, he made her like it. Dangerous, indeed.

When she’d known him then, just as now, she had needed her entire focus to remain on the job. Renee had staunchly kept her distance. But she’d sensed a definite reciprocal interest, proved beyond doubt when he had impulsively acted on it. And kissed her. Afterward, they had avoided each other and only spoken in passing when paired off in a shooting match.

Even so, she’d hardly been able to concentrate whenever he was in the vicinity. And the vision of him naked that she hadn’t consciously sought, yet couldn’t seem to dismiss hadn’t helped. Renee had vowed early on that until her career was well established and she had proved her worth, a personal life would be out of the question. Apparently Mark’s goal hadn’t been any different.

Avoidance had become a game until their schooling was over and they parted company with merely a couple of satisfied nods, wordlessly acknowledging their shared battle and mutual success.

In retrospect, maybe she shouldn’t have been so hell-bent to deny any interaction. At least then she might be able to guess something about his mindset now.

Sonnegut slammed into the room, his great height and boisterous energy almost comical considering the secretive nature of the meeting. He was a good-looking fellow of German extraction, cocky as hell, larger than life, auburn-haired, blue-eyed, built like a monster truck. There was simply too much of him to be believed.

Beguin followed him, a pale shadow in Sonnegut’s wake. Thin, dirty blond hair hung like fringe over his craggy features. Darting close-set eyes peered from behind the sparse strands. He moved like a wraith and always gave Renee the creeps. She prided herself on her uncanny recognition of accents, but she hadn’t figured yet where Beguin had hatched. He never had a word to say.

Deborah Martine’s eyes lit up and a smile curved her generous lips whenever Sonnegut appeared. “Everything as it should be, Sonny?” she asked, her voice rife with authority. Her attitude had become increasingly bossy lately, Renee had noticed.

The big man nodded and shot her a merry grin. “I had to get rid of a vagrant. He was getting too curious.”

Martine’s smile slipped at that. She probably worried about the eventual discovery of an errant body mucking up this new meeting place, but she said nothing more about it. “I meant the phone calls you were to make regarding Alexander. Results?”

Sonnegut brushed his hands together and nodded vigorously. “He’s solid. Brugel said he does good work, so did Hamish. Best they know of for providing surreptitious entry. Both vouched.”

Martine reached inside her pocket and retrieved a cell phone that must have been set on vibrate. She clicked it on, listened, nodded and answered briefly and affirmatively in Italian. It was the third language Renee had heard her speak fluently.

They all conversed in French, of course, except when Martine encouraged her to use English. That was Martine’s native tongue, though she was as proficient in French as anyone born to it. Apparently she was pretty good in Italian as well. She was speaking with the man called Brugel, whom Sonnegut had just mentioned.

After she put the phone away, Martine promptly handed over a nine-millimeter pistol to Mark. “Here’s your toy back, darling. You’re hired. Same rate as Brugel gave you, agreed?”