“So I read.” I bite the inside of my lip, willing myself to keep my mouth shut, but the words come blurting out, “And how long were you married? Fourteen months?”
“Sixteen,” she says pleasantly. “But I doubt a lack of forest-destroying invitations and RSVP cards were the cause of our marriage’s demise. Gerg’s dick would have wandered even if we’d had a big wedding with all the trimmings. Wandering appeared to have been his dick’s core feature.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Sorry. That was shitty of him. And shitty of me to pry.”
Her shoulder lifts. “It’s fine. It’s the truth. My marriage failed. I have no issue with admitting failure and making adjustments when needed.” She sniffs and lifts her chin. “Just another reason I would have been a superior regional director.”
“That was listed as one of your strengths, actually.” I resist pointing out she shouldn’t feel obligated to take responsibility for the failure of her marriage.
It wasn’t like her body parts were wandering.
Reminding myself never to think of Zan’s parts—or how lovely they are, no doubt—I clear my throat and continue. “You scored higher than I did on nearly every evaluation metric, in fact…except one.”
She stiffens, and her nostrils flare. “You read my application review? You shouldn’t have access to that. Those files are sealed.”
“Yeah, well, I might have taken a peek while I was helping Blaire clean her office last week.”
“Helping her…” Zan stands up straighter. “Are you sleeping with Blaire? Is that how you got the job?”
“No,” I say, wincing in distaste. “Of course not. I wouldn’t sleep with my boss.”
“Have you ever had a boss?” she challenges. “A real boss? Not a handler who makes contact every few weeks while you’re traipsing all over the world, surfing and lounging by fancy pools and dancing all night with supermodels?”
“Regina wasn’t a supermodel. She was an influencer. And she was cover to help me get closer to the people in her circle. Bad people who I helped put out of business, if you’ll recall.”
Zan rolls her eyes. “What a sacrifice. Someone should give you a medal.”
I frown harder. “I’m not asking for a medal. And I’m not sleeping with Blaire. I didn’t sleep with Regina, either. I just made it look like I was. I made everyone who saw us together believe I was a lovesick fool. Just like I made Stefano believe I’m a fucked-up royal with a drinking problem and a gambling addiction. I do an excellent job of helping people underestimate me, which is where I outscored you. By such a margin that it led to me being offered the position.”
Her jaw drops. “But people underestimate me all the time!” She gestures to her chest and then flutters her hands down toward her toes. “I mean, look at me. I’m about as threatening as a house cat.”
“For about ten seconds.” I point two fingers at my face before rotating my hand to point them toward hers. “Until you take a good look into those serial killer eyes of yours.”
She glares at me with enough heat to make sweat break out in the valley of my spine. “I do not have serial killer eyes.”
“Fine,” I admit. “Sociopath eyes.”
“My eyes are just fine. My eyes have seen me safely through a hundred successful operations in the past decade.”
“Could have been a hundred and fifty, though, maybe. If you’d learned to play to your weaknesses as well as you play to your strengths.” I hold up a hand, cutting her off before she can protest again. “This isn’t just my opinion. Blaire and Neville both agreed you have a hard time letting your guard down—or even faking vulnerability convincingly. And that’s a liability for higher-level operative work as well as coordinating large operations and people with different personalities and communication styles. You’re drawing unnecessary attention to yourself and creating interpersonal problems with this ‘little girl, big attitude’ thing.”
Her eyes are slits now.
Slits that smoke at the edges as she whispers, “Call me a little girl again. I dare you.”
I resist the urge to reach for the doorknob behind me—to be sure I’m ready to run if necessary. “I’m not saying these things to piss you off, Alexandra. I’m trying to help you. Not only help but also offer you a chance to prove Blaire and Neville wrong.”
She remains still and dangerously quiet.
I remain poised to flee for my life.
I’ve seen video of Zan in combat training. She’s a double black belt in Krav Maga. Her body is a loaded weapon, and I’m presently defenseless against her.
Because I refuse to lay a hand on her.
No matter what. Not even to defend myself.
I have never struck a member of my family—or family-by-marriage—and I don’t intend to start now. I’d like to believe Zan feels the same way, but I’ve learned that what I’d like to believe and what I should believe aren’t always the same thing.
My father taught me that when he abandoned our family when I was just a boy. I wanted to believe he was coming back; that one morning, I’d wake up, and Dad would be crouched by my bed with a big smile on his face, asking if I want to go for one of our sunrise bike rides around the castle grounds. But he never did.
My father stayed away, and I grew up knowing the only promises I can count on are the ones I make myself.
And I’ve promised myself I won’t hurt Zan.
Not even if she hurts me first.
Thankfully, however, she doesn’t lash out, and when she says, “All right, tell me more,” her voice is soft and controlled.
I take a deep breath and spill it all—every detail of my master plan to prove our bosses wrong, bring down Stefano DeLuca, and put Zan in the perfect position to be promoted this spring.
When I’m finished, I expect a barrage of questions.
Challenges to my strategy.
Holes poked in my hope balloon that I’ll have to patch up before the air leaks out.
Instead, she says, “Aren’t you throwing yourself a party in early January? In Baden-Bergen?”
“Yes, but we’ll be back in Gallantia long before the sixth.”
Her brows lift. “We’re taking down a crime ring in ten days? Just the two of us?”
“Absolutely.” I bob a shoulder. “Unless we finish early and want to pop home sooner. But Bali is lovely this time of year. We should enjoy some R and R on the beach afterward if we have time. I could teach you how to surf.”
“Thanks, but I’ll need to get back to Zurich by then,” she says, followed by a curt nod. “Fine. I’m in. On one condition.”
“What’s that?” I brace myself for a potentially deal-breaking demand.
So far, this has been easier than expected. Zan’s being almost…reasonable, which isn’t something I’ve seen much of in my personal experience with her.
“We keep our families out of it,” she says. “They don’t see us leave together, and we make sure my sisters never find out we spent time alone in an island paradise. If they do, they’ll jump to the wrong conclusions, and I’ll never be able to convince them I didn’t bang you on the beach.” She rolls her eyes. “And I don’t even want to imagine the fallout from that.”