Kiss the Killer [From the CIA 2](BookStrand Publishing Romance) Page 2

  Chapter 2

  Victor Grant leaned back on the heavy wooden chair at his kitchen table. If the chair hadn’t been made solely of wood without a cushion, he may have made this his spot for the entire evening. He couldn’t complain, considering he found this apartment in record time after arriving in Stockholm. Driving north to Uppsala, he saw the “to let” sign, pulled over, took the sign down, and then called the number as he drove miscellaneous streets. Always paranoid, no, just careful of followers.

  He’d try not to worry about his agents. They could take care of themselves even if he still hadn’t confirmed their safety, or their lives. Cal Guevin and Mary Reiss had escaped Turkey last he heard, but few other details had come his way. He’d be patient. Vic Grant’s middle name had always been “Patient” according to the CIA agents he sent on missions.

  After he slipped out of his headquarters in the United States, spent a few months gathering information, he targeted a whole list of agents in foreign countries who needed to be relieved of their deadly duties. Originally, Vic had trusted his superiors. He set up his agents on missions he believed to do better for the people of the country the agents stole into, and definitely a plus for US allies.

  He had been so wrong.

  Vic wiped the sweat from his brow. His body’s heat had escalated with the slow burn of anger. The temperature was a chilly twenty degrees Fahrenheit outside. He still didn’t make a habit of using Celsius like the rest of the world. Some American things he didn’t give up. That included the responsibility of his agents.

  The list he’d been working on came to a halt for the day. He’d written down the names of all the agents he’d left in other countries initiated by his own boss, Allen Kreis. After Vic finds his agents, he prayed they were still alive, he’d take Kreis down. He’d expose his boss for the traitor he’d proven to be.

  His next agenda involved figuring out which agents to find first and how he’d get them out of their assignments alive. That would have to wait for tomorrow. After that, he’d work on stopping the future plans not in progress yet, but sure to happen. His mind had grown tired. He forced himself to get up and put his papers in hiding. Each time he moved the evidence of his plan, he picked a different concealed area. A hiding place becomes weak with repeated use. He slid the list underneath a heavy wooden cutting board.

  He looked out the kitchen window. Amazingly, he felt as if he’d been transported back in time. The backyard portrayed clumps of fresh snow nearly covering the yellowed grass. A worn wooden fence surrounded his outdoor space, the same as all his neighbors. The houses constructed from a combination of wood, stone, and brick came straight from a history book. Some of the conveniences such as electric and plumbing had been added after the original construction. He wondered if the United States was the only fast-paced country that regularly destroyed old neighborhoods in preference for maximum usage of modern conveniences.

  If his mission in Sweden didn’t have such high priority, he could almost enjoy the peace and lackadaisical atmosphere. It’d be a while for that to happen.

  He felt the need to get out of the confines of his apartment. Regular journeys in the surrounding area had given him the feel for how life passed for the Swedish. A daily assurance that no one had tracked him to this apartment let alone to Sweden helped him become another resident to the naked eye. He’d always be an American on the inside, but a Swedish life intrigued him for now.

  The low-set sun and empty feeling in his stomach signified time for dinner. At least every other day he visited local and not so local pubs. Again, they were for learning experiences and to make sure he didn’t wilt away from his own lack of interest in creating a healthy meal.

  He smoothed his in-need-of-a-cut hair with one hand as he grabbed his leather bomber jacket from its usual perch on the back of his kitchen chair. Too late to find a barber for a ten-minute haircut for the extra inch of growth, he’d look tomorrow.

  He drove toward the pub he passed repeatedly for the past eight or nine days. He always surveyed a new place of interest before becoming a customer.

  The pub had a casual title, The Dancing Sheep. It would take about twenty minutes to get there, which also gave him too much time to continue his previous plot in his head. He’d rather not think for a while. He attempted to distract himself by watching the landscape and buildings he passed. Incredible architecture, hundreds of years old, rose on either side of the narrow streets. Bricked sidewalks must have something to do with the casual gait of the pedestrians.

  Before he knew it, The Dancing Sheep appeared. He found a parking spot down the street. Leaving his sunglasses on, he walked away from the pub, down another block, then turned around, and returned on the opposite side of the street. Checking his periphery, he crossed the road. Contrary to the United States, pedestrians did not have the right-of-way and had to watch out for vehicles and the few bicyclists still on the roads. The door to the pub needed an extra tug to move the solid planks of pitted oak.

  Low, orange lighting forced Vic to remove his glasses. He stepped to the side of the entrance to let his eyes adjust. As the scattered tables and chairs came into view, he sidestepped a couple standing near the bar to find a corner he could literally hide from any probing eyes. Thursday must be a popular night to skip cooking as most tables had couples and groups of people laughing, downing large mugs of Guinness, and eating from mounded plates and baskets of food. The smell of the steaming meals made the first table available the best.

  As he slid into the booth with high enough backs to block most side viewers, a startled yelp came from the opposite corner of the sanctuary.

  “Pardon me.” Vic looked at the customer he’d apparently offended by invading her space. He immediately noticed her push back in her seat. The quick look she gave him before turning her face to let her chestnut hair create a barrier told him she wanted to be hidden from someone. He never missed the obvious. He would’ve darted away from her immediately only he could tell she had more fear in her actions than a simple slip-up on his part warranted. Curiosity overrode good sense by a mile. A brief calculation told Vic enough. “I thought this booth was empty.”

  “Not exactly.” She wouldn’t look at him, but talked as if he sat at her side.

  Vic surveyed the rest of the pub, noting little room left for a newcomer. “Since I’m not the one trying to find you, I’m going to invite myself to keep you company.”

  She snapped her face his way, letting her luscious, full lips part in disbelief. “Excuse me?”

  Vic bent his knees and waist as he scooted into the booth opposite the first woman he’d spoken to other than as a customer for a clerk since he’d arrived in the country. “Don’t worry, we don’t have to talk or anything if you’d rather not.” Vic looked around for a waitress. “Have you ordered, yet?”

  Her mouth snapped shut as he snuggled into his own corner of the booth. “I didn’t order— I think you should leave.”

  He watched her eyes dart into the crowded establishment, then back to him. “I’m trying to be pleasant about this predicament, dear.”

  “Don’t call me—”

  “What’s your name?” She didn’t answer. “Okay. I’m sorry I broke up your party.” He looked around the booth that held just the two of them. “But there’re no other tables left, I didn’t see you hidden, I’m really hungry, and I’ll compensate by buying your dinner.”

  She let out a heavy sigh and pursed her lips. He began to notice what a pretty picture she made. Her slender shoulders slumped under a weight he continued to calculate. She probably hid from a boyfriend. Obvious to him, she feared a select person or persons, not the whole world, or she would’ve been gone already.

  He had invaded her space, so he could at least not be an ass about it. His voice softened and he offered, “I can go, if you really want to sit here by yourself.” He paused and watched her flick her stare at him before returning it to the table as she hesitantly wrapped her hands around a nearly empty mug of coffee.
“I promise I’ll guard your space from anyone else, if you—”

  “Okay.” Her voice was soft, yet it forced confidence, which was undeniably a new trait she played with.

  Vic swung his leg, bent at the knee, onto the bench, and swiveled his body at an angle to the rest of the room. He’d be able to keep an eye out for his table-mate’s mysterious stalker and his own enemies. In his business you quickly learn to always be on the lookout.

  A waitress appeared at the end of the table. She slapped her hands down and shifted her hip to the side. “What can I get ya today? A stout to start with?” Oblivious to the interrupted one-sided conversation, she smiled brightly.

  “Yeah, we’ll each have a…” He looked at his new companion. “A Guinness, and could we get a few menus?”

  “I’ll take a stout, please.” Vic liked her feisty comeback. She’ll order anything that’s opposite of what he suggests. He had to love a woman with strength in her own mind.

  The waitress didn’t notice the purposeful exchange and continued talking. “The menu’s simple.” She listed half a dozen sandwiches and soups available and left to get their drinks.

  Not uncomfortable with silence, Vic still made an effort to have the pretty woman across from him relax. If the man causing her to act this skittish shows up, he’ll break the guy’s neck. His protective instinct surged. He’d hold back on pulling out his new toy, the SIG SAUER subcompact .45, strapped to his back. He chose this gun with the feeling he needed to blend in with the local gun carriers. He leaned a couple inches into the table, smiled, and made eye contact. “I suggest a good beer along with a hot bowl of that bean or whatever type of soup she said first and a sandwich to dunk in it on the side.”

  Her lips moved slightly upward.

  * * * *

  Alina’s nerves didn’t stand a chance of recovery no matter how charming this hulk of a man pretended to be. If he wasn’t pretending and really sat with her by chance, he’d have to excuse her for her stiff reaction. Unknown people, especially men twice her size, didn’t have a place on her dance card.

  Taking one hand from her cold coffee cup, she chanced another glance. Against her wishes, he hadn’t vanished and neither had his smile. A straight row of white teeth surrounded by a day or two’s worth of black-and-gray stubble lined his jaw. His hair, a matching mix, stopped short of his flat ears. She disturbed herself by noting that his bulk had to be muscle beneath the brown leather jacket.

  She frowned. It’d been a while, a long while since and undeniably gorgeous man had been anywhere near herself. She doubted the Iraqis had sent him. He didn’t fit their type and his accent certainly didn’t resemble any Middle Eastern lingo. They’d only be after her when they discovered she’s not the prisoner they currently had confined in their walls. She’d also never seen an Iraqi smile.

  Alina shook her head and took the frosted mug as the waitress interrupted her internal analysis. Vic made a quick order for them. She didn’t disagree this time.

  “Where are you from?” She needed to qualify letting him anywhere near her before it was too late.

  He smiled again. She wouldn’t let her quiz be altered no matter how “normal” he appeared to be. She stared at him, waiting.

  “Guess you’re serious about getting to know me fast.” Another flash of white, and then he said, “I’m sure you can tell I’m not a native.”

  He spoke in circles, so he had to be hiding something. She could fill in the blanks. “I’m familiar with many accents. You’re an American, aren’t you?”

  His expression told her nothing. She didn’t expect the secretiveness. That was her game.

  “I don’t think it’s important where I came from unless you have an aversion to certain cultures.” He tipped his head to the side. “How ’bout your name?”

  “I’m asking the questions.” She paused, not ready to completely give up her guard. “Call me Gerty.”

  He pulled his head back, and she thought he would laugh. “Okay, Gerty.” His expression returned to contemplative.

  “Why are you here?”

  His brows furrowed. “I’m hungry, and it’s—”

  “No, why this pub? Why not another?”

  He folded his hands on the roughhewn table. “By chance. I went by and wondered what it would be like to eat here.” She stared him down and wanted, but didn’t expect, a further explanation. His lips twitched before he continued. “And I thought it would be nice to make a friend, Gerty.” He said her name with a hint of mockery.

  Her eyelids tensed, forcing her to squint when he used her name, the one she’d almost forgotten she’d told him. “Well, I didn’t come to make friends.” He pulled his head back, putting a serious look on his face. “Just to eat.”

  “Then we’re nearly on the same page, I guess.” His eyes roved around the room again.

  “Where do you live, and I don’t mean in America, but here?”

  “Well, if I told you that, we wouldn’t be on an even scale, would we?” His voice held knowledge, and a certain power when handling a discussion with a stranger.

  “You’re right. We’ll leave it alone.” She paused long enough to sip her headed stout. “What should I call you?”

  “Call me whatever you like.” Her lips pursed again. “Vic.”

  “Okay, Vic, we’ll have dinner, you can pay for it, and then we’ll part ways and I don’t owe you anything.”

  “I guess that’s the offer I made.”

  The surrounding chatter and bursts of laughter filled the silence brewing at their table. Alina didn’t like her inability to have a normal conversation. She hadn’t convinced herself that the fault was in her new distrust of everyone, or whether Vic’s incredible form and low voice made her melt in her panties. She didn’t need friends or any man in her life for at least a year or ever. Any man who could make her squirm without a touch and who oozed confidence and stability she needed to stay away from.

  In her dangerous position, he’d end up saving her life and killing himself. That’s what all good men did in her existence. She didn’t need to feel responsible for another loss. She didn’t need a relationship, and she didn’t need a thoughtful, gorgeous man. She’d do without.

  Why had she come to this pub, in a town known for meeting people, if she hadn’t wanted some contact?

  “Gerty…Gerty, you with me?”

  “Huh?”

  “The food’s here.” He indicated her hands lay on the table, leaving no place for the plate in the waitress’s hand.

  “Sorry.” She leaned back.

  The waitress placed their meals down, grabbed his empty mug, and nodded to Alina’s. “I’ll get you another, too. Enjoy.”

  The waitress sailed off to the bar before Alina could refuse another stout. Indulging in spirits wasn’t a habit she’d practiced much before. She had a short drive to the house, to home, so one more wouldn’t kill her.

  She forgot her concerns as she faced the magnificent soup steaming inches away. Vic had started his. Half his sandwich disappeared in two bites. If she could practice eating fast, the night would end quickly and she could motor home to her llama. Gerty. The name she stole for the evening.

  “Gerty, how’s your food?” Vic swallowed from the newly filled mug, not letting it gather dust after it arrived. “I may have to come here again.”

  She relaxed as the flavorful soup slid down her throat. “It’s great.” She hadn’t realized how hungry she was and kept eating. Steam rose from the soup as she plunged the thick spoon down, still chewing on her last bite of sandwich.

  She forgot her surroundings as the warmth and taste of the “homemade” food settled deep in her stomach. Sinking into her seat, she looked up. Back in the present, she noticed Vic had slowed his devouring and stared at her.

  “What?” Insecurity flooded back as she allowed herself a second of peace with her meal. She had almost liked eating with someone again, as long as he didn’t talk and would disappear soon.

  The waitress brough
t another round. “I haven’t eaten this good in a while,” he commented.

  Alina eyed the third beer set beside her plate. Trying to talk herself out of enjoying the barely cool beer slide down her throat, she avoided the first sip.

  He’d be disappointed if he thought she’d enter into idle conversation. She forgot her rationalization and drank her stout, attempting to be uninterested. “It’s good.”

  “You have pretty hair.”

  She rubbed her fingers on the sweat of her mug. “Is that how you try to get a woman into your bed?”

  His eyes popped, then mellowed. “That wasn’t my intention.” He leaned back while pushing his empty bowl away. “I like the way the light changes the colors, that’s all. Can’t I give a compliment?”

  She pushed her nearly empty dishes away in response and took another drink. The amber liquid left a tingle and loose feeling throughout her body. She couldn’t deny it felt, well, relaxing. “Thank you.” She didn’t have to be rude. “By the way, you didn’t tell me your name.”

  “I did. I’m Vic, remember?” His lips lifted in amusement at her expense.

  “Right.” She better not finish this ale. Her light head indicated she’d indulged more than she intended. “Vic, I should probably go.”

  “Right. Me, too.”

  Could she be disappointed he hadn’t disagreed to ending the evening? “Well, thanks for the dinner.”

  He motioned the waitress over for the bill as he pulled his wallet out. He studied her face. “I could give you a ride.”

  “I’m fine. I didn’t drink too much.” That would cross the line, letting a strange, handsome, delectable man give her a ride home. “Besides, you can stay and find some other woman who needs a ride.” She slid out of her side of the booth, held onto the edge of the table, and made sure the alcohol hadn’t impaired her balance. She’d hate to embarrass herself in front of the perfect type of man to stay away from. Thinking like this made her core heat. Fortunately her thick sweater hid any signs of her body’s uncalled for reaction.