The Saghred had wanted to take him back, and it’d come way too close to making me do the taking.
I’d resisted that time—with Mychael’s help.
The suite Madam Camille had given us was clearly meant for activities other than eavesdropping on the man in the next room, though I imagine it’d been used for that purpose before, too.
Red satin and black leather pretty much summed up the decor. Most of the leather covered the room’s furniture, but there was a table with leather . . . accoutrements. I only recognized a few of them, and didn’t want to know about the others.
Rache Kai was most definitely in the next room.
Mago knew Rache, so he could identify Rache if he were talking.
I knew Rache in an entirely different way. I could identify him based on what he was doing right now.
Mago and I were sitting on the bed, facing the wall our room shared with Rache’s, waiting for him to finish.
It was taking much longer than I remembered.
It was damned awkward and borderline embarrassing. Especially with Mago sitting on the bed next to me—the man who’d introduced me to Rache and had regretted it ever since.
I’d debated just barging in, but seeing that the goal was to persuade Rache not to kill Mychael, Chigaru, or me—interrupting him at that particular moment would go beyond rude straight into suicidal. But sitting there listening while my ex-fiancé did what he used to do with me with another woman who looked like me, while I was sitting on a bed with my cousin next to a tableful of accoutrements?
Definitely awkward and embarrassing.
In addition to being rather homely and ill equipped, Symon Wiggs was short. This left me sitting on the edge of the bed, swinging my legs, and trying to look anywhere but at my cousin while the headboard thumped against the wall in the next room. There were other sounds as well, but I was doing my best to ignore them.
“And just how do you propose to keep Rache from putting a nice, neat hole through both of us?” I asked, desperate to change the subject, careful to keep my voice down.
“Actually, I’ve done this sort of thing before.”
“Busting into a room in a cathouse to have a heart-to-heart talk with an assassin in the midst of postcoital glow? Cause I can guarantee you, the moment we step into that room Rache’s glow is gone—and we’re next.”
“One, I don’t ‘bust in’ anywhere. Two, this isn’t a cathouse; it’s a bordello.”
“Same thing.”
“No, it’s not; I don’t patronize cathouses.” A corner of his mouth turned up in a quick grin. “Though I don’t believe I’ve ever walked in on an assassin before.”
“Which is why we need a plan so our first time isn’t our last. We want Rache reasonable, not raging.” I thought of something, something that could put a serious crimp in an already questionable plan. “What happened between you and Rache the last time you saw him?”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning what terms are you on—speaking or killing?”
Mago had to think about that one; and I saw a flicker of doubt in his eyes.
I grunted. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Why don’t you let your puny—and completely harmless-looking—banker buddy handle this one?”
“Need I remind you that you’re wearing a puny banker body? A dagger in his chest is a dagger in your—”
I waved my hand dismissively. “Trust me; I know all about feeling pain while wearing a man’s body.” I carefully slid off the bed until my feet silently touched the floor. “Got any lock picks on you?”
“Of course, but—”
“Give them to me. Rache will have that door locked. If I was wearing my body, I could shield myself with magic.” I grinned. “Symon’s going to shield himself with stupidity.”
No one was in the hall. Good. Two men at a door to a room not their own, one picking the lock while another stood watch would look suspicious even in a cathou—excuse me, bordello. It would be beyond embarrassing to get kicked out of a bordello before we got what we came for, which wasn’t even sex.
I glanced at Mago, pointed to the wall on the left side of Rache’s room, then pointed emphatically to the floor. I was telling Mago to stay. My cousin didn’t like it, but he did as told. I’d told Mago my plan. He didn’t like that, either. But it was a lot safer than his idea. Rache knew Mago, and if their last encounter was anything less than friendly, chances were good that Rache’s reaction would be bad.
Symon Wiggs was the personification of harmless and helpless—at least physically. The man’s mind was that of a scheming little rodent. Rache wouldn’t put a hole in him, at least not immediately. One, he hadn’t been paid to; and two, a professional assassin just didn’t go around killing random people. It was bad for business. Those rich enough to hire someone of Rache’s caliber wanted to retain the professional services of an assassin, not turn loose a nutcase.
And if there was anything I’d learned over the years of keeping tabs on Rache Kai, it was that he was the consummate professional.
The door opened with the softest of clicks. Dammit. Rache knew I was there; better start the show.
“Patrice,” Symon slurred in a singsong voice. “Patrice?” I opened the door.
“Wrong room,” Rache barked loud enough to shake the rafters.
I jumped. Not because he’d scared the crap out of me. It’s what Symon would have done. Just staying in character. Yeah. And the knife glittering in Rache’s hand, ready to throw, didn’t bother me, either.
I squinted and peered into the room. Rache and the girl were sitting up in the bed. Neither one made any move to cover themselves. Rache Kai had the tall, dark, and handsome thing down to an art, complete with a body that still looked like it belonged on a pedestal in a museum somewhere. The woman had long red hair, pale skin, and I couldn’t tell what color her eyes were. She looked a lot like me. Though what didn’t look like me were a pair of large breasts that didn’t quite go with her tiny waist. Apparently Rache had decided to enhance his memory of me.
“You’re not Patrice.” Symon’s voice cracked.
“Wrong room,” Rache repeated in a still, deadly voice. “She’s not here, and unless you close that door, you’re not going to be here, either.”
I did as told. I closed the door.
With me on the inside.
I kept my hands in clear view, and dropped the drunk act. But I kept the glamour. I wanted Rache to know who I was, but not the girl in bed with him.
“Long time, no see, sweetie pie,” I told Rache. I glanced at the girl. “It’s like looking in a mirror.”
Rache sat frozen for a moment, then his eyes widened in recognition. The corner of his lips turned up in that crooked grin that used to get me every time. Now it just pissed me off.
“You’re not here to talk about old times,” Rache said.
“The past should stay where it belongs.” I lowered my voice further. “So should you.”
“A man’s got to work.”
“Do it somewhere else.”
“I go where the money is. Because you know I’m nothing but a low-life bastard who murders for pay, with no conscience and no regret. Wasn’t that what you said?”
Damn, over a dozen years ago and Rache remembered it word for word. He wasn’t just carrying a grudge; he was nursing it like a newborn. Great, just what I never needed.
“Meant it then, mean it now,” I said. “You lied to me. Nothing you ever said was the truth. You probably even lied when you said you loved me.”
The girl froze, eyes wide, sheet now clutched to her ample chest, looking from me to Rache and back again. “Uh, I don’t want to get in the middle of . . . whatever this is.”
Rache’s shoulders shook in silent laughter. “And now you’re here to ruin my reputation,” he told me.
“You’ve missed twice since you got here. I think you’re doing a fine job by yourself.”
“Twice? I missed once, and that was your fault.”
“Mine?”
“Try nailing someone who—”
The redhead jumped out of bed and pulled on a robe. “I’ll just step outside until you two . . . ah . . . settle things.”