Chapter 2

      It was an old trick, using information to stop a bullet. Ronan sat back in his chair, relishing the victory. La Mariposa was his for the moment. He was safe from her little gun as long as he knew something she valued. “As you can see, I am very much alive and well, as are you. I am here to see we both remain that way.” His last sentence was a tantalizing carrot, the temptation of secret information to be imparted with the call to self-preservation. Another old trick and just as hard to resist.

      She watched him warily through narrowed, sharp green eyes, not daring to sit down and join him or lower her weapon. He had caught her at unawares once. She would not give him the chance to do so again.

      “I mean you no harm. I do wish you’d put down the gun.” All bravado aside, he wasn’t sure she wouldn’t shoot. He rather hoped she didn’t.

      “So you can take me as easily as you took the others?” she challenged.

      He was not stunned by her hypothesis regarding the reason for his sudden appearance. “I once thought the same of you.” He answered honestly. In spite of his efforts to protect her, there had been moments in the dark when he’d wondered if such protection was folly. Death had exonerated the others. Survival had condemned the two of them, although his survival had had the good taste to be in question for several months afterward. He’d been left for dead, but she couldn’t have known.

      She shrugged. “Much has been thought of me. Not all of it true.”

      Ronan smiled. “Most of it is, though.” Like the rumors of her beauty, the raven hair that felt like ebon silk sifting through a man’s fingers, the clear green eyes resembling so perfectly twin glacier ponds, the porcelain skin so fair as to give her an air of misleading fragility.

      “Yes, most of it is,” she conceded, gun unwavering. She was indeed the rare beauty of a butterfly brought to life, and far more dangerous, as she demonstrated now: a vision of loveliness with a gun pointed at his chest. Even acutely aware of his exposure, Ronan’s groin had tightened, aroused by the decadence and danger of the situation. He understood well the wanting of her and the futility of it too.

      He would not be the first to be so inspired by her. Europe’s most powerful men had coveted the exotic dichotomy she offered of pleasure amid peril. None of them—ambassadors, politicians, generals or princes—had held her. She’d flown away from each of them in turn. If she were his, he would never let her go. After five years of waiting and hunting, it was time to finish his mission and claim her, if she would have him.

      She was right to be wary of him. To her, he was nothing more than the spymaster. In Vienna he’d not dared act on his feelings, for fear of putting her at risk. Even now, he did not come free of danger, indeed, he might have brought danger right to her doorstep at a time when she was used to living in the safety of obscurity. She would not thank him for it. But he could protect her, could offer her a new security.

      But first she had to trust him. She was stalking him now, moving in a half circle about his chair, showing off her excellent silhouette in a summer organdy afternoon gown of pale blue. A band of white ribbon showcased high breasts; the tight fit of the bodice highlighted the flat of her stomach where it tapered snugly into the flare of her skirts. Some small part of him, the part still thinking like a spymaster and not solely as a man in the presence of a stunning woman, knew she was playing with him as if he were another of her randy, balding ambassadors.

      “Stop it. I’m not an aging statesman impressed by your charms,” he growled.

      She gave him a coy look, moving close to him, her eyes giving his crotch a moment’s consideration. “Not aging, but still impressed, I’d wager, judging by the current fit of your trousers.”

      His breath caught. His pulse ratcheted. She meant to caress him with her free hand. What an erotic prospect to have one hand on him while the other held a gun. What he wouldn’t give to feel both those hands on him. There’d been gossip she’d coaxed a secret location out of the Venetian diplomat once in just such a way. It took all Ronan’s willpower to seize her wrist as if he meant it. “Not now. We have business.”

      She stepped back, eyes narrowed, gun at the ready once more, the prospect of her hand on him now removed. “There is no business, St. Simon. What you ask is strictly against the rules. We are never to talk about the contents of the envelopes. Indeed, we were never to even know the contents.”

      “I know the rules,” Ronan said drily. He was the spymaster, dammit. He’d made the rules. “But the game is over, Lucia.” Lu-chee-ah. He used the Italian pronunciation, letting his tongue caress the sound of it, savoring the intimate luxury of her name. In their line of work, names were death warrants and he’d protected hers with his very life, whether she knew it or believed it or not. Maybe someday he’d tell her what he’d endured on her behalf, but not today, not when such a disclosure would only serve to raise her suspicions further.

      “Rule number two,” Lucia quoted, eyes flashing. “The game is never really over.”

      Lord, he’d taught her well. Too well, it would seem. She was not simply going to hand over her envelope, but it was reassuring to know that after all these years she still had it and it would be sealed, untouched. Still, reassurances were not enough. They never were. He needed that envelope. It had been a quest, a personal mission. For his own sense of closure and perhaps even for hers, they needed to open the last envelope and put the ghosts of the past to rest. He’d promised Jonathon’s family nothing less.

      He also needed it for her safety. That was the other reason he was here. Danger was on his heels. He had only tonight and tomorrow to protect her and lead the