Page 48 of The Bachelor Spy
He shook off the bewitching pull and embraced cold reason.
Was she attempting to draw him in? Weaken his defenses with that look he’d seen only a few times before?
Because, blast it all, it nearly worked.
“You disappeared. Why?” Blake pressed, edging nearer.
She only raised her chin, refusing to answer.
“I’ve done some checking, Evie.” Another step. His throat squeezed at the memories flooding his mind. “Oh yes, every possible place to find out if you survived. But nothing. You left the service. No explanation, no word to Director Lark, just … gone. That’s not the behavior of an agent in good standing.”
“It’s the behavior of someone who’s done.” The confession came out sharp, and they both froze, listening for any sign they’d been heard. When no sound came, she continued in a fierce whisper. “With all of it.”
“Done with what? The war? The service? Or done pretending you’re not working for the other side?”
Her eyes flashed, a humorless laugh puffing from her lips. “You think I’ve turned.”
“I think you disappeared with your traitor brother five months ago after shooting me on a ship that was conveniently torpedoed by Germans.” Blake’s voice was deadly quiet. “And I think military intelligence is leaking from this house. So yes, Evie. I think you might have turned.”
The slightest divot pierced her brow. “You’re wrong.”
“Then prove it.” Blake took another step forward. “Tell me why you’re here. Tell me what you’re looking for.” Each demand was a probe, testing her reaction. “Tell me something that makes me believe you’ve not turned against your country.” His voice dropped to a breath. “Against me.”
Her hesitation was merely a second, but it was there. His words had gotten to her in some way.
“You understand nothing,” she murmured in clear warning.
“Then make me understand!” Blake’s control finally cracked. “Because right now, all I know is that you’re here under a false name, skulking about in the dark, and I have wounded soldiers in this house who are vulnerable. And a country at war. So either tell me the truth or—”
“Or what?” Evie’s voice turned steely. “You’ll turn me in? Kill me?”
“If I have to.” The words raked from his soul.
“Well then.” Evie’s smile was bitter. “I suppose we know where we stand.”
She moved first with the sudden speed of someone who’d been trained by the same instructors he had—a feint toward his injured shoulder that he barely blocked, followed immediately by a real strike aimed at his solar plexus. Blake twisted, catching her wrist and using her momentum to pull her off-balance.
But she recovered quickly, pivoting low and sweeping his legs. Or trying to. Blake jumped back, releasing his grip on her arm, but she was already following through with a strike aimed at his neck.
He blocked with his forearm, the impact sending a jolt of pain through his wounded shoulder that he ruthlessly ignored. No time to coddle injuries during a fight.
They moved through the shadowed hallway like dancers performing the new Tango, yet this was a more violent version—each strike and counter perfectly controlled, precisely placed, and utterly silent. Years of training screamed at them both to stay quiet. Something in the uncertainty of their assignments led them toward restraint.
A proper fight would wake the household.
This was something else. A conversation conducted in blocks and diversions.
Blake caught her next strike and used her own force to spin her toward the wall. She planted her foot and reversed the motion, nearly getting him into an arm lock that may have ended the encounter, especially with his weaker shoulder. He twisted free at the last second, breathing hard.
“Still graceful as ever,” he murmured, blocking her follow-up attack. “Though I seem to recall you being faster in Paris.”
“And I recall you being smarter than this,” she shot back, ducking under his counter and driving an elbow toward his ribs. He deflected it, barely. “Confronting me alone, in a dark hallway of a servants’ wing? What if I were here to killyou?”
“Are you?” He caught her wrist again, but this time she was ready. She used his grip as leverage, stepping in close and attempting to hook his ankle. Very much like a dance move they’d completed before. In Paris, in fact.
“If I were, you’d already be dead.”
“Charming.” Blake shifted his weight, managing to keep his feet while pulling her off-balance. “You always did have such a way with flattery.”
