A Dance with Seduction by Alyssa Alexander

Author:Alyssa Alexander [Alexander, Alyssa]
Language: fra
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Entangled Publishing, LLC (Select Historical)
Published: 2017-07-23T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The training room was a comfort. The knives laid out on the table beside her were infinitely soothing. Each one appeared exactly like the next.

Except they were not the same. No two knives were perfectly identical, even if touted as being a matched pair. Each knife had its own personality. The center, the weight, the grip. And once you understood the knife, it did not change. The throw, if one was careful, would almost always be the same.

Maximilian, with his bright mind, would enjoy testing this theory.

She flattened her hand on the table, fanned her fingers apart. These fingers had gripped Maximilian’s coat, held onto his shoulders.

Yet the hand belonged to a thief and a spy. She could not recall how many things she had stolen. Hundreds? Thousands? And what of the impact of those thefts? A few pounds as a girl, jewelry, a watch. Anything that could be sold for food. Now it was secrets and politics and strategies that could affect countries, all under the guise of mistress.

Maximilian knew this, and still he wanted her.

Or he knew most of it.

Picking up one of the knives, she tested the weight and found the center. Pinching the blade between thumb and index finger, she eyed the target at the long end of the room. It was the painted shape of a man on the wall and littered with splintered marks. Marchand. If she squinted, this painted target could look like Marchand—if she knew what he looked like.

Measuring the breath that had become uneven and calming the mind that had filled first with Maximilian and then with Marchand, she let the room, the target, the very air settle inside her. Then she threw. Straight and perfect and into the figure’s heart, just as she demanded of herself.

“I envy your knife skills.”

The words made her jump. “Jones?”

“You are in my home. Uninvited, so to speak.” He stood just inside the room, leaning against the wall. Pushing away, he stepped forward. “I don’t know why I ask every time you turn up, but why are you here, Vivienne?”

She shrugged, not entirely certain how to phrase it. She was uncertain and lost and alone, and yet she’d been none of those things with Maximilian a few hours ago as dawn broke over London. It had scraped her raw, that moment of intimacy.

“I wanted to be home.”

He did not speak, but only watched her, handsome and very serious in his shirtsleeves. His brown hair was cropped close to his head, and she could see a bit of early-morning stubble on his chin.

“Do you remember?” She ran a finger over the hilt of a knife. Good craftsmanship, that hilt. “We made love once. It was my first time.” Her only time. She turned to face him.

“I remember, Vivienne.” His tone was dry, as if to say, I would not forget such a thing. She’d thought perhaps he had, as it been many years ago.

“It was espionage, languages, training, politics. Day in. Day out. We were two lonely trainees.

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