And to an appalling verdict. That her identity had been manufactured just prior to meeting him.
It had all been a setup. Starting with the accident that had brought them together. She must have been sent by some rival to spy on him. And in their intimacy, he’d left himself wide-open. Whatever she’d been after, she could have found it.
But since no one had used privileged information against him yet, either she hadn’t found what she’d been looking for or she was waiting for the right time to leverage her intel from her recruiters. Or him. Or both.
Pretending to be oblivious until he’d decided how to deal with her, he’d called her. She’d been her usual bright, eager self at first, then as if hearing through his act, her voice had changed, becoming a stranger’s. Then she’d asked if he preferred she called him Lightning, or if he’d left that name behind when he’d escaped The Organization. And he’d realized it had been far worse than his worst fears.
It hadn’t been corporate espionage material she’d managed to get her hands on, but his most lethal secret. His previous identity. And she’d known its value, its danger. That its exposure would bring The Organization to his and his brothers’ doors. The Organization that needed them all dead.
His blood had frozen and boiled at once as she’d said it was just as well he’d brought the charade to an end so she could make her demands. Some money in exchange for her silence.
“Some money” had turned out to be fifty million dollars.
Enraged, he’d assured her he didn’t negotiate with blackmailers. He took them out. So it was in her best interest to keep what she knew to herself.
Unfazed by his threat, she’d said he’d never find her to carry it out, but that she’d had no wish to expose him, just needed the money. It was pocket change to him, so he should just pay without involving payback or pride. He also shouldn’t fear she’d ever ask for more or hold her knowledge over him in any other way. Once the transaction was complete, he could consider that she’d never existed. As she’d never truly had.
Though bitterness and fury had consumed him, cold logic had said that while he couldn’t trust his instincts or her, he could trust her sense of self-preservation. She’d already known how lethal he could be, and she wouldn’t risk extorting him again. This would be a one-off thing. It would end this catastrophic breach to his and his brothers’ security.
But he’d found himself wondering. If she really needed the money, he’d gladly help her, if only she’d tell him she’d been forced to spy on him, and that it hadn’t been all a lie.
His need to look the other way in return for such a reassurance had made him even angrier. At himself. Deciding to end the sordid interlude, he’d transferred the money to the offshore account she’d provided, what had been untraceable even to his formidable resources. As per her declaration, he’d never found any trace of her again. It had been as if she’d never existed. It had been truly over.
But it hadn’t ended. Not for him.
His obsession with her continued to torment him. It sank its talons the deepest when he was at his lowest ebb. It was at such times he yearned to turn to her, the only woman who’d touched his innermost being, to feel her vitality filling his arms, her empathy touching his soul, her passion igniting his cravings. Every time, he’d cursed her even more, for needing her still.
But his anger remained mostly directed at himself—the master of stealth who’d failed to detect the least trace of duplicity in her. And who, even after it had been proved, had remained inextricably under her spell.
Shaking himself out of the bitter musings, he now exited the ballroom in pursuit of that other woman who had wrung the same reactions from him.
Scarlett Delacroix was gracefully gliding across the mansion’s expansive terrace, descending the stairs to the traditional tea garden. In the light of a gibbous moon, her red tresses were the only splash of color and heat in the scene’s monotone coldness. The layered skirt of her black dress trailed after her like a piece of night that worshipped her lush figure.
Noting that Hiro’s bodyguards were monitoring her progress, he waited as she crossed the wooden bridge to the garden house, then set off in the opposite direction.
In minutes, he entered the building soundlessly from its southern entrance. The warmth of the interior advanced as if to greet him, but it was her aura that reached out and enveloped him as she stood looking out the screen window.
It was uncanny. His reaction to her was identical to his reaction to Hannah, when physically she couldn’t be more different. Still, he couldn’t shake that insane feeling. Or resist the preposterous impulse.
He stepped out of the shadows and strode toward her.
Without turning, she only shot him a sidelong glance. There was no doubt about it. She’d felt him there all along, had been waiting for him to make a move.
His heat rose as she resumed looking out to the exquisite moonlit garden. No one, no woman, certainly not Hannah, had ever treated him with such nonchalance.
He stopped a breath away, bent and placed his lips an inch from her ear. His words rustled the hair tucked behind it. “Why are you out here and not in that ballroom soaking up the collective adulation?”
Without giving any indication if his nearness affected her in any way, she said, “Not that I noticed such generalized fascination, but I came out for some fresh air and solitude. I’m a touch claustrophobic and agoraphobic. A full ballroom is my ultimate aversion.”
“Is it? Or are you just giving Hiro something he’s never experienced—a woman who can leave his side, who isn’t trying to court his favor with her every breath? If you walked away to test how deep your hook has sunk into him, are you now disappointed he hasn’t come running after you?”
“I plead not guilty to all of your assumptions, Mr. Kuroshiro. But the question is, why are you here? Why aren’t you back in that ballroom collecting oaths of allegiance and obedience? Can I assume my so-called hook has inadvertently sunk in you instead, and it has brought you running after me?”
“You can indeed assume, Ms. Delacroix.” He paused for a second, then decided to act on the unstoppable compulsion, no matter how absurd it was. “Or should I say Ms. McPherson?”
For an interminable stretch, there was absolutely no reaction from her. Nothing but total stillness and silence.
Then she turned her head to him, her heavily fringed, vibrantly blue eyes looking up at him in what looked like amusement. “I heard that right, didn’t I? You just implied I’m someone else? Someone you know?” A brief, tinkling chuckle escaped her dimpled lips. “That’s one line I was never given.”
His hands itched to clamp over the flesh that pulled at his instincts like inexorable gravity. He barely fought the temptation. “Because men approach you with protests that you’re like no one they’d ever met? Take heart. You’re still unique. So much so, even a totally different face and body didn’t stop me from recognizing you.”
There. The words were out. And they sounded ludicrous. At least, to his logic. His instincts said different. He’d follow those wherever they willed until it all played out.
Her eyebrows rose in incredulity before a considering expression came into her eyes. “Is this a game? You want me
