Latymer (Nexus) Page 3

  “Run, Giles. Run!” Papa roared.

  Fighting back a sob, I turned. And ran.

  PART TWO

  DESPERATE FATHER

  LATYMER

  3:14 a.m.

  Three minutes. That’s all it had taken for Latymer to incapacitate Collette’s last bodyguard and follow in her and Giles’s wake. But three minutes had been three too many, because both his son and the French assassin had disappeared into the warren that was London’s streets.

  Losing his son was only part of his heartache. The Gladys had set sail, and another ship wouldn’t be bound for America for five more weeks. Five weeks. They would be lucky to survive the next five hours. Keeping safe for over another month seemed nigh on impossible.

  Right now, he couldn’t think about The Gladys or America. His one and only concern at this moment was locating Giles. Dammit, where is he?

  An hour later, Latymer had investigated every nook and cranny between the Tower, his office near the docks, and Somerton House. Out of desperation, he’d even gone to Abbingale Home, only to discover the boys’ home inexplicably closed down.

  The only place left to look for his son—the only place he could imagine Giles would go—was the little house he’d bought for Lydia and Giles. They’d all been happy there once. He used to visit them several times a week, more when his schedule had allowed. On occasion, he had taken them on sightseeing outings or found private spots for the three of them to enjoy a quiet picnic.

  From the first moment he’d seen Lydia Clarke strolling along the banks of the Serpentine, he’d wanted her. Not only for her beauty and desirability, but also for the innocence and compassion he’d glimpsed in the depths of her green eyes. Lydia had never expected more from him than he could give. Her low birth dictated they could never marry, which meant Giles could never inherit his lands or title.

  She had known that one day he would have to marry a young, well-connected, preferably rich debutante who could provide his estate with an heir and refill his depleting coffers. A ton wife, trained to look the other way while he spent most of his time with his mistress and son. When he’d begun the search for an appropriate heiress two years ago, Lydia had cried. In all the years they’d been together, he’d only seen her shed a tear once before—when their son was born.

  The experience had staggered him. His reaction had confused him. Then angered him.

  He’d stayed away from Lydia for an entire month, during which time he’d flirted and danced with and kissed every eligible debutante on display that season. None of them had stirred a single lust-filled thought in his head. Not one.

  It was then he realized that he loved Lydia and would do anything to be with her and Giles. From then until now, every decision he’d made had been in service of securing their future.

  While lost in thought, his feet had led him to Lydia’s house without incident. Latymer felt a familiar rush of excitement before memory set in. Never again would she greet him at the door with a smile and a kiss passionate enough to grip his stomach in an instant tangle of need.

  He halted on the opposite side of the street and simply stared. The modest brick house was one of many that lined the street of this quiet neighborhood. Pickpockets did not lurk in the shadows and gin-sodden men did not sleep in the bushes here. In fact, Latymer found the absolute quiet that surrounded him far more unnerving than the cluttered, poverty-stricken streets of Seven Dials.

  Remaining in the shadows, he scanned the area for signs of Collette and her entourage as he made his way to the entrance door. He pulled a key from his pocket and inserted it into the lock. The door clicked open, and he stepped inside.

  Even though the house had been closed up for more than a month, Lydia’s scent enfolded him. He gave himself a moment to enjoy and to remember, then pushed away the grief. Such a useless emotion. It did nothing to assuage the loss, but it did everything to make him more miserable.

  He paused inside the door and listened for signs of habitation: the patter of small feet, the echo of a young boy’s voice, the squeak of a rusty hinge. Instead, his arrival was met with the telling silence of a hollow existence.

  Releasing a breath, he moved from room to room, floor to floor, sifting through the evening shadows with painstaking precision. White linens draped every piece of furniture, making the once-happy atmosphere feel more like that of a dreary mausoleum.

  He saved Lydia’s bedchamber for last. Had he been stronger, he would have gone there first, knowing if Giles had managed to find his way home, he would’ve sought the comfort of his mother’s chamber. An instinctual response for any child, especially one who’d suffered so much.

  But Latymer’s courage began to flag the moment he placed his boot on the first stair. Although he could ignore the grief, he hadn’t been able to control the longing. After the French had kidnapped Giles and forced Lydia to spy on Somerton for them, he’d come here often. This house, their possessions, her bedchamber—the only links he had left to his lover and his son. Once he’d learned of her death, he’d stopped coming.

  He stared at Lydia’s bedchamber door now, praying Giles was within. If he lost his son to the French, as he’d lost the woman he loved, not even Bonaparte would be safe from his vengeance.

  Turning the handle, he eased the door open and slipped inside. Low, flickering light caught his eye. “Giles?”

  “No, darling, not Giles.”

  Collette. His heart sank like a bag of tarnished coins into his gut.

  How had she known to come here? Had she followed Giles? His gaze slashed around the chamber, searching for his son.

  Nothing, nothing, nothing.

  The lamplight grew stronger. “Looking for someone?” Collette’s bloodred lips tipped up into a taunting smile.

  “Where is he?”

  Sitting at Lydia’s dressing room table, Collette reached for a silver comb that lay next to a small pistol. She slid the hairpiece into her mass of dark locks, twisting her head one way, then the other, inspecting her handiwork. He’d given the comb to Lydia on her birthday five years ago. Seeing the special piece in his enemy’s possession sent fire streaking through his veins.

  She met his gaze in the looking glass. “He?”

  “Don’t play games with me, Collette. What have you done with my son?”

  “We will get to him later.” She rose and turned to face him. “First, let us discuss the unfinished business you have yet to attend to.”

  “There is no later. If you know where my son is, tell me now.” The steel in his voice drew forth two new bodyguards—one from the corridor and one from the dressing room—both as large as the last two he’d dispatched. “It appears you purchase your brawn in bulk.”

  Her eyes twinkled. “So much more convenient that way. Now, about that unfinished business…”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” He threw up his hands. “The damned list does not exist. When will your superiors listen?”

  She reached for the pistol. “We’re no longer interested in the piece of paper.”

  “Then what?”

  “Give it some thought, darling. I’m sure that brilliant mind of yours will come up with the answer.”

  Latymer considered the last few weeks and the various attempts the French had made to raze the Nexus organization. They had been unsuccessful thus far, but that would not stop them. There could be only one individual they wanted more than a list of agents. “Somerton.”

  She sent him an appreciative smile. “Very good, my lord. Bring him to me.”

  He and Somerton had a long history of working together at the Alien Office—until Somerton realized Latymer was aiding the French. Even though Somerton was now his enemy, he was the one person Latymer trusted. To betray Somerton once again would be difficult, though not impossible. To save Giles, he would do whatever it took. But first, he had to uncover what Collette knew about his son’s whereabouts—if anything. “Show me my son first.”

  “That’s not how this works, Latymer, and you kno
w it,” Collette purred, clearly enjoying having the upper hand.

  When he’d met Collette many years ago in London, fresh out of the schoolroom, she’d exuded a raw, untamed sensuality. Four days after meeting her, Latymer had taken her to bed and had spent several hours tutoring her in the carnal arts. She had been a quick and enthusiastic pupil.

  Although extraordinary, her beauty had not been the reason for his interest. No, he had enticed Collette into his bed to coax from her information about her new husband and his associates within the French government. Two months into their affair, she discovered his duplicity. Undeterred, she’d asked questions…a lot of questions. And then she’d disappeared. Their paths crossed a few more times over the years, and every time he saw her he had been fascinated by her transformation—from innocent to victim, to predator, to killer.

  “You expect me to bring one of the most dangerous men in Britain to you without any assurance that my son is even alive?”

  Nodding, she lifted the pistol in his direction. “Yes, that is exactly what I’m saying.” She began to move toward him, one provocative step at a time. “You have a perfect understanding of the situation.”

  “If I do what you want, I’m free of further harassment from your emperor?”

  “Harassment? I do not recall you being so harsh last time we worked together.” Her gaze roamed down his frame leisurely, thoroughly, seductively.

  Despite the seriousness of the situation, Latymer’s body took notice. One sultry look. That’s all it had taken to awaken memories of their brief affair. She knew how to pleasure a man and how to take a man’s pleasure. How to make him feel like a king.

  “Last time we met you weren’t after my son.”

  “You’re becoming quite soft on me, Latymer. So much emotional bother over a bastard.”

  “Careful, Collette,” he said in a quiet, dangerous voice.

  “A man with your aspirations should know better than to become attached to anyone or anything.”

  “Let’s stop wasting time. Do we have an understanding or not?”

  She approached him with a confident stride, though caution rode beside her like a battalion of loyal guards. Her pistol never wavered. She continued forward until the end of the barrel rested against his temple. He dared not move. If nothing else, he understood one thing about her—she would not hesitate to pull the trigger if he made any attempt to overcome her. This woman never hesitated, nor did she waste her time and energy on regrets.

  Her familiar exotic scent reached his nostrils, and he could not stop his slow intake of breath—nor the hardening of his body. Whether his physical reaction was due to the threat, or to the temptation, she presented, he couldn’t be sure. Given his peccadilloes, it could be both.

  A flush of pink highlighted her sculpted cheeks, and a sheen of perspiration peppered the delicate hollow of her throat. Her gaze never left his.

  “Still enjoy the thrill of danger, Collette?” He dropped his voice, careful to keep himself motionless. “Is that the thunder of your heart beating? Does your womb weep for me?”

  She caressed the steel barrel against his temple. “Feel free to indulge in your curiosity.”

  “Is your trigger finger steady?”

  Something close to a genuine smile appeared. “You’re good, darling,” she responded. “But not that deliciously good.”

  “We’ll see.” All he needed was a split second of inattention. Enough time for him to wrench her weapon away and force her to reveal what she knew about Giles. “Send your dogs away.”

  Her erotic gaze roamed his face, finally resting on his mouth. “I think not.” She smiled. “Etienne and Philippe won’t mind.”

  Latymer clenched his jaw. Having her two guards in the room complicated things.

  “Do not move your head without my permission,” she said, “or it won’t go well for you.”

  “Then you’re going to have to come closer.”

  “You wouldn’t be foolish enough to underestimate me, would you?”

  He lowered his lids and expanded his chest. “Do I look foolish?”

  She pressed the pistol against his flesh and moved close enough for the tip of her boots to touch his.

  Accepting her challenge, he caressed the backs of his fingers over her silken cheek and down her long, slender neck. Her breasts rose to meet his touch, and the soft, exposed skin above her neckline invited him to linger. He did.

  Back and forth, he teased the plump, sensitive swell of her bosom before dipping his finger underneath her bodice. When his finger connected with her tight nub, she sucked in a sharp breath. The pistol remained steady. So he sank a second finger inside and applied pressure to the ruched bud until a low groan escaped her throat.

  Still, her grip on the pistol did not falter.

  He slid his free hand around her waist, cupping the feminine curve of her torso. After another slow squeeze, he removed his fingers from her bodice.

  “Take me into your mouth,” she demanded.

  Despite his intention to tap down his own desires, her breathy command curled around his cock like silken fingers and squeezed.

  “Will,” she whispered. “I want to feel your hot, slick tongue on me.” She grabbed the neckline of her dress, pulled down the material, and arched her back until her breast broke free of her stiff corset.

  Blood receded from his brain and drove straight into his manhood. He’d always loved her breasts. Plump, creamy smooth, with an enticing dark pink ring encircling an even darker pink tip.

  Saliva drenched his mouth, preparing for the feast she so freely offered. He lowered his head, anticipating the feel of her stiff bud raking against the soft pad of his tongue. Her breast filling his mouth, his hard draw on her peak. Then he no longer imagined the sensation; he plunged in headfirst.

  Flesh against flesh. His eyes rolled closed as a wave of erotic bliss shuddered through his body. He devoured first one breast then the next, not waiting for permission. Taking, taking, taking. Hearing her deep groan of pleasure forced his breath to come harder, his heart to beat faster. The guards disappeared behind a veil of desire.

  Even while his body descended into sensual madness, his mind managed to retain a measure of sanity. He focused on the pistol that she still managed to keep anchored to his temple.

  He sucked harder, moving his hands to her hips and kneading the area with an expert touch, one both tender and carnal. Closer and closer, he inched his thumbs toward her apex. She rolled her hips, inviting him into her web. He no longer stimulated her flesh but awakened her deepest core of need.

  Grasping her voluminous skirts, he raised them high until the top of her thighs and her dark patch of curls came into view. He cupped her, and his cock surged high inside his breeches, anticipating. Humid warmth drenched his palm, and her musky scent floated up between them.

  As if sensing her own crumbling control, she said, “Darling, that’s enough.” Her words came out in a pant, hard and shaky. She made to push away.

  His middle finger slid inside her slick passage. The pistol slipped.

  Latymer slammed his forearm into hers. The weapon exploded. Searing heat cut across his scalp, and the world went blindingly quiet. He staggered back, touching his fingers gingerly to the side of his head. Pain hissed between his teeth.

  A fist plowed into his kidney, sending him to his knees. Rolling away, Latymer jumped to his feet and shoved the heel of his hand into the guard’s nose. Cartilage snapped. He didn’t stop there. Folding his three fingers over once, he jabbed the hard edge of his knuckles into the bastard’s throat.

  The guard gagged, but no noise emerged. He wrapped his hands protectively around his neck while attempting to take a breath. His efforts were met with chilling resistance. When the guard’s face started to turn blue and his body tilted sideways, Latymer whirled to meet the next challenge.

  With a knife in one hand, the second guard stood between Latymer and Collette. Lust no longer softened the female assassin’s features. Fu
ry contorted her beauty into an evil mask of retribution.

  “Philippe,” she said in a low barely contained voice. “Bring me his manhood and his tongue. I’ll take care of his heart.”

  Blood trailed through Latymer’s hair in angry, pulsing rivulets. He had to get the blood loss under control, or he would find himself sprawled on the floor at this witch’s mercy. For now, he settled with swiping his arm over his face to keep his vision clear. A wave of dizziness hit him at the same time the second guard charged.

  Giving in to his weakness, he dropped to his knees at the precise moment the guard reached him. The guard’s leg connected with Latymer’s shoulder. He used the guard’s momentum against him and flipped the hulking bastard over. The guard landed hard, heaving for breath, but Latymer didn’t allow him to catch it. He reached inside his coat sleeve and slid his blade from its protective sheath. One slice across the neck, and a death rattle replaced the guard’s heaving.

  A rabid, feminine snarl rent the air, followed by a loud click. A second pistol.

  Latymer whirled but not soon enough. The full impact of her bullet struck his chest, drilling deep into flesh, muscle, and bone. He staggered a moment, his mind full of disbelief, his body flooded with pain. He fell backward, catching the back of his knees on an ottoman. His world teetered for a moment and finally collapsed. Shards of lightning ripped through him.

  Disdainfully, Collette said, “You never gave my warnings due care. Did I not tell you this would not go well if you betrayed my trust?”

  He blinked hard to bring the chamber back into focus. “And you never learned that duty comes before pleasure.”

  She laughed. “Spoken like a real traitor.”

  “There is more to duty than one’s country.” Gritting his teeth against the onslaught on impending pain, Latymer used his good hand to push himself up into a sitting position. His first attempt failed, leaving him breathless. The next time, he managed enough elevation to prop his shoulders against the foot of the bed.