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  “There will be no kissing,” came Tobias’s firm denial. “The British are far more reserved than Americans. I cannot believe the other guests would be comfortable witnessing that sort of intimacy happening with so little discretion.”

  How she managed to stifle her giggling, she didn’t know. “It’s a wedding. The guests are going to be all about the...indiscretion.”

  “Not this guest,” he growled, and she couldn’t contain her laughter, though she sobered quickly. “Tobias.”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t know if you can trust me—if I can trust me—to have my head on straight over this, so soon after the fact.” Beth reached up to cover Vick’s hand where it rested on the side of her throat, swallowing hard. “But I don’t need the vengeance you’re planning.”

  “I do.” His voice was calm, quiet. Cold. It had been a long time since she had heard him so cold. “We failed to protect you, Beth. It’s the kind of failure that reflects poorly on the family business and poorly on the family. But mostly...mostly it means I failed to do what I dedicated my life to doing.”

  It didn’t need stating that what he’d spent his life doing was protecting her, and the rest of their siblings.

  Her heart clenched. “You’ve never failed me, Tobias. Not once, not ever. And if you get hurt chasing down Kedrov on my account, I’ll make you sit through a forty-eight-hour rom-com marathon with me. And force-feed you chocolate.”

  “I don’t like chocolate.” But the ice had left his voice, thank goodness.

  “I know. You’re a weirdo.” She clucked her tongue disapprovingly. “Spend the next week with your party face on, Tobias. If you can survive that, you can survive anything.”

  There was a pause. “What the hell is a ‘party face’?”

  Laughing, she hung up on her brother, knowing there was nothing left to say. Trusting him to know she loved him.

  She and Tobias had only recently mended the silent rift in their relationship. For so long, she’d thought of him as her stuffy older brother—okay, so he was a bit tight-assed, that wasn’t exaggeration—believing he didn’t like her. Maybe even that he judged her for the choices she’d made while working as an assassin. But as she had learned during the attempt on her life last month, Tobias had kept his distance, emotionally and physically, because he cared. Deeply.

  She’d had no idea he felt as he did, wanting to protect her from the career path she had ostensibly chosen but unable to do so, the details of which had all come out when he flew into Chicago on a moment’s notice to protect her from the hit MI6 had placed on her. From then on, everything changed, and Beth couldn’t be more pleased about it.

  But it had taken pain, fear and heartache to get to where they were now, and she would as soon spare him from ever suffering so again in the name of his loved ones. Because she had no doubt Tobias would take a bullet for her, and for the rest of their siblings, too...but who would step in front of a gun for him, out there fighting a war he needn’t wage? Who was watching his back, and vowing to protect him from harm?

  Certainly not Chandler McCallister. Beth scowled at the thought of the scrappy little blonde spy. The woman was out to save her own ass, and thank goodness Tobias at least seemed clued in to that fact. He’d be on his guard, and at this point, it was all she could ask of him, since he was so determined to take down Kedrov all on his lonesome.

  “Love?” Vick’s soft voice and softer touch broke into her thoughts, his fingers petting through her hair. It was a habit he’d picked up over the past few days, unable to stop touching her, and especially the downy-soft shortness of her recently—and unwillingly—shorn hair. Another gift from the extremely dead Nash, but at least the hair would grow back in time. The scars...well. She would deal with the scars; she knew she was strong enough to carry them.

  Shaking off her worry for Tobias, she turned to smile at the only man she’d ever loved, and the only man she ever wanted to love. Her British spy. Her Vick. “Tell me there’s a massive walk-in closet in the master suite with my name on it.”

  “Darling, there’s a massive walk-in closet in the master suite with your name already emblazoned on its doors. Not to mention the balcony.”

  Sliding her hand into his, Beth let Vick pull her to her feet and up the stairs, beaming at him with her heart no doubt shining in her eyes. “Where do we sign?”

  Chapter Four

  She supposed it ought to have been obvious before she saw the car. For some reason, though, it took the Mercedes S-Class, with its ruby-black paint and silver-spoke rims gleaming under the rare London sunshine, pulling up to the curb before Chandler understood.

  Tobias Faraday was fucking loaded.

  Her suitcase sat next to her on the sidewalk, battered and cheap, and another glance at that sexy ride had her feeling the same. Battered from so many years of fighting; cheap from the blood running in her veins that even her nicest pair of boots, which she’d bought on holiday sale from Marks & Spencer for only 30 percent their original price, couldn’t conceal.

  The heels of those boots scraped against the concrete as she shifted her weight, crowding her suitcase almost defensively when Faraday unfolded his lean limbs from the driver’s seat, the door clicking closed behind him as he pocketed the key fob. Black leather driving gloves clung to his elegant fingers, the stitching immaculate and fitting over his hands like a second skin. Combined with his three-piece suit in marled gray tweed and the dark-lensed aviators standing guard over his long nose, he looked untouchably smart. Monied. As though he’d stepped from the pages of British GQ and into the real world for the express purpose of making her feel like the dirt that wouldn’t dare scuff his cognac-suede loafers.

  God, the sensation got her hackles up. Always had, always would. She knew precisely what her life story would’ve been without the firm hand of Aunt Ophelia between her shoulders: in jail for drugs, theft, maybe prostitution. As it was, Chandler had never dipped her toe into any of those options—not until joining SIS, that is. Undercover work demanded its fair share of sacrifice, and the first thing to go? Nine times out of ten it was a respect for the law. Nothing said, “I’m one of the bad guys, pinkie swear,” quite like snorting a line of coke and letting some third-level Russian thug fuck you for two minutes in a VIP booth.

  So, yeah. Everything about Faraday, from his car to his coiffure, spoke directly to the deepest of her already-buried-deep insecurities, and she resented him for that.

  Her unease lingered as he silently opened the passenger door for her...and then offered his gloved hand to literally assist her into the luxurious interior. She hesitated for only a fraction of a second, because it would never do for him to know just how unsettled she was in this moment, before lifting her chin, ignoring his hand and sliding as gracefully as humanly possible into the buttery silk-and-leather seat.

  The silence continued as the car door was shut gently at her side, and as he bent to retrieve her suitcase before popping the boot to place it inside. Not a word was said as he climbed in beside her and pressed the snazzy little button next to the steering wheel that had the engine purring to life.

  Chandler glared at the button. “You’re rich.”

  “Yes.”

  “Like, filthy with money.”

  “Yes.” He merged seamlessly into city traffic.

  “How much?”

  “Are you asking how much money I, personally, have, or how much money my family has, or how much Faraday Industries is worth?”

  The sheer number of options overwhelmed her momentarily. “I...hmm. How about all of the above?” Glancing over at him, she took in his cool profile with its lines and angles, and experienced a small niggle of doubt. Doubt over what, she couldn’t say, but it must be Tobias Faraday’s fault. He was too obnoxious for there to be any other explanation as to the itch under her skin.

  The M
ercedes purred through London at a slow but steady pace. “According to Forbes, Faraday Industries is the top-grossing arms manufacturer in the United States, with total sales last year of sixty-two billion. Gross profit of roughly nine billion.” His cheek twitched, as if tempted by a smile he knew he shouldn’t let loose. “It was a good year.”

  Chandler’s stomach knotted. “And the rest?”

  “Faraday Industries is a privately held corporation, with my siblings and I having equal shares, along with my father. Outside of the family business, we have a solid investment portfolio, so individually we’re each worth a substantial amount.”

  The knot in her gut yanked tighter. “I bet that makes paying ransom demands a touch simpler.”

  “Very true.” Something on the dashboard pinged delicately, the split-LED screen with its navigation panel urging Faraday toward a route leading out of central London and into the countryside. “Ransom demands are rare, however.”

  “Because everyone’s scared of you.”

  “Not me, personally, but yes. As a general rule, Faradays don’t get kidnapped.”

  Except for Beth, a month ago, but Chandler didn’t want to remind him. Hell, she didn’t need to—his sister’s torture was all the man thought about, and the reason why she was still straining against the bonds of his custody. Every time he looked at her, she suspected he didn’t see a person at all, but a problem.

  She was his problem, which meant he anticipated her being...problematic. And if that wasn’t license to act out, she didn’t know what was. “Never been good at maths, Toby. Should I guess how much paper you’ve got in your wallet right now?”

  “I prefer plastic.”

  “Of course you do.” All the better to tidily organize his otherwise overflowing billfold. She’d bet he pressed his socks. Or rather, he hired someone to press his socks for him. “Is this your ride?”

  “As of this morning.” A slight tilt of his head toward the rear seats. “There is water and orange juice in the cooler, if you’re thirsty.”

  “I don’t see a cooler.”

  Reaching an arm past the center console, he tapped something, and when Chandler peered back again, the back-facing side of the console had disappeared to reveal a glowing refrigerated nook containing bottles of purified water and small cartons of juice, both with pulp and without. As though he wanted her to have options.

  This oddly solicitous behavior had to stop. “What’s going on with you?”

  His gloved hands flexed on the wheel. “I’m afraid I don’t take your meaning.”

  “You’re being nice. Sort of.” And because her mouth had begun watering the moment he mentioned the juice, she snagged a carton—with pulp—and took a long, satisfying drink. “So I’ll ask again. What’s up with you?”

  “I’m...practicing.” For a split second, he appeared uncomfortable, a faint flush creeping past the crisp white edge of his shirt collar before he cleared his throat, jaw clenched. “I have a role to play this week, as do you. I decided it was best to start when I woke this morning as I meant to continue.”

  “Did you, now,” she murmured, bemused. “So this is you practicing at being—”

  “Your boyfriend. Yes.” The words seemed ripped from his firm lips. “Perhaps you require some practice, as well.”

  She shrugged unconcernedly. “Probably.” That was the sad truth of things, for certain. While Chandler had logged her fair share of one-night stands, hookups and marks, an actual boyfriend who behaved in all the ways a long-term romantic partner was meant to behave had never been a possibility. She’d gone from the military to MI6, with no stops in between to attempt any sort of personal life.

  Frankly, she had always believed it was enough that one of them lived a normal life, and she was glad it was Pippa. Her twin had gone to university, gotten a job in a prestigious London design firm, enjoyed all of the pleasures being a young woman in a big city had to offer—including tumbling head over heels for future viscount and investment banker Cameron Nolte. Chandler wasn’t Cameron’s biggest fan, as no man could ever possibly be good enough for her sister, but Pippa was crazy about him.

  Chandler had never been crazy about a man, not once, and she was grateful for it. “How many times have you played boyfriend, Toby?”

  “My position in the company doesn’t provide me with many opportunities to work undercover.”

  “Not really an answer, is it?”

  “Not really a question I need to answer, is it?”

  The city started to fall away as they drove, and Chandler peered at the passing buildings through the window, wondering at her own curiosity about the man next to her. The same curiosity had plagued her during their visit with Yang, and in the long weeks held in the Underground. Perhaps her curiosity had been piqued from the very first, when she had stared at him across the abandoned office in St. Mary Axe while he negotiated for his sister’s life.

  Tobias Faraday impressed. Even handcuffed and furious, as Chandler had been that night, she would admit to being unwillingly awed at his coldly efficient set-down of Yang and the woman’s bloody stupid idea to blackmail the Faradays into providing their weapons and services to Britain. His coolly modulated voice still flirted in her memory.

  We will not be blackmailed. We will not be bought. And we most certainly will not be bullied.

  A shiver chased its way through her. Yeah, the man fucking impressed, all right. Maybe her fascination—no, no, curiosity—wasn’t as unfounded as it might otherwise seem. Too bad he had tormented her for the past month and been a general dick, else her curiosity might rush straight past fascination and deep into “obsession” territory.

  Chandler didn’t enjoy obsessions, as a rule. Too many people in her line of work were eventually destroyed by them.

  She sipped her orange juice, keeping her gaze trained through the window. A deep breath drew his scent into her lungs, and what a mistake that was. Panicked and unable to discern why, she stopped breathing, but it was too late. Clean and fresh, with undertones of citrus and sandalwood, her senses drowned in him for a split second before she tensed, scowling at the urban landscape outside. “Apart from treating me more like a human being and less like a criminal, how do you foresee this week playing out?”

  “Perhaps you ought to tell me what’s expected of you, instead, as a member of the wedding party.”

  And may it be the first and last wedding party of which she ever was a member. “Pip’s got a couple of girls from university who are bridesmaids, as well as her fiancé’s younger sister, Irene. I’m the maid of honor. I missed the official hen party, but this entire week might as well constitute. There will be dinners, events, entertainment, likely divided by gender, so you may find yourself spending time with Cameron.”

  “Your sister’s fiancé.”

  “Yeah.” A final swallow, and her juice was gone. The empty carton rested atop her thigh, her fingers curled over the label. “We need a backstory.” The cursory details she’d provided Pippa two days ago on the phone would not stand up under scrutiny. Or even a casual conversation. “I said you were a tall American barrister.”

  For the first time since starting out on their drive, he looked directly at her, tilting his head down to peer at her over the rims of his sunglasses. “Really? My height, my nationality and my job?” His wry tone spoke volumes, somewhere between amusement and disdain. “Is this why you were interested in my net worth—so you’d have more to share?”

  Chandler shifted uncomfortably. “What else should I have said? I didn’t know if you planned to use a false identity, and I assumed it would be simpler for us both if you chose the person you wanted to be yourself.”

  “I choose to be me.” When she snorted, he shook his head. “I’m a public figure, Ms. McCallister. My face is recognizable, even without my name attached. Pictures will be taken at this event. T
he likelihood I can stay out of range of all cameras for an entire week, professional or mobile, is extremely low.”

  The man had a point. “Then we had better come up with one helluva good story as to how a fancy gent like you got caught up with trash like me.”

  “Don’t do that.”

  She glanced at him, confused. “Don’t do what?”

  “Don’t call yourself trash,” he said harshly, the leather of his gloves creaking and stretching as he fisted the steering wheel with both hands. “I read your file. You have served your country for over ten years, Chandler McCallister, under circumstances most individuals cannot begin to comprehend and would be terrified to confront. There is nothing more honorable than that.” He exhaled slowly. “The role you played in Beth’s ordeal notwithstanding—and believe me when I tell you that is a difficult phrase to say aloud—you possess a perfect record. You were earmarked early on for advancement, and your commanding officer from the Royal Navy is on record stating he has never in his thirty-year career met a soldier more willing to fulfill every order issued her with immense tactical intelligence and sheer unwavering bravery.”

  Those words. “You memorized my file.” She stared at him, her earlier confusion roiling to the forefront once more. The juice carton crinkled in her hands before she caught her reaction and stilled.

  His jaw worked though his gaze remained fixed on the road stretching out before them. “It seemed pertinent.” His grip on the wheel relaxed somewhat. “Does your sister know what you do for a living?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really?” Surprise colored his tone. “Everything about what you do?”

  Dropping the crumpled carton into a cupholder, Chandler tugged lightly at the seatbelt bisecting her chest. “We’re twins. Lying to her is...difficult.” Almost impossible, and lying to Pippa this week was going to be hell. Hopefully Pippa would be too excited and exhausted to notice when Chandler didn’t immediately spill all about her new man—or how the man in question had kept her locked in a prison cell for a month. “I don’t tell her the scary things.” Pippa didn’t need any more nightmares.