Kiss Or Kill
Lyn Stone
Series: Mission: Impassioned!
Silhouette Romantic Suspense
November 2007
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British agent Mark Alexander’s undercover op, joining a Parisian terrorist cell, gets really interesting the second he recognizes Renee LeBlanc, an American operative with whom he trained a few years ago. Has she turned since he knew her?
If she blows his cover, he’s a dead man. Should he beat her to the punch? The powerful attraction between them is still there. So is the question in her eyes, the same one he’s busy asking himself: kiss or kill?
Read and Excerpt from Kiss or Kill
Martine could use more hands and another gun, she had told him when he introduced himself earlier that afternoon. Lazlo had provided the necessary background. Mark was in. He couldn’t believe his luck. Apparently she was also looking for someone adept at bypassing the newer security systems on the market, his field of expertise.
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 rundown warehouse south of Paris near the Seine. He could smell the river, feel its dampness, even inside the building. There were two men seated and another woman, one who stood against the wall in the shadows.
She looked up as he approached the table where the others sat. 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 and soon, 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 that. 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. So, for the moment, they had a standoff.
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, but what were the chances of that? Slim to none, but still remotely possible. God, but he wanted to believe it. He had a soft spot for her, always had, but he couldn’t let that distort his reasoning or affect his decision.
He could kill her, of course, 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 which would likely result in his own death before he could explain his actions. 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 them all and survive, his ultimate goal would then 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 take into account that she 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. Maybe 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 discernable flicker of surprise, just as she suppressed one of her own. My God. It was Mark Alexander! 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.
