Kiss or Kill. Lyn Stone

>

      

      Her heart rate doubled and her breath caught in her throat.

      The man who entered the weak circle of light registered a barely discernible flicker of surprise, just as she suppressed one of her own. Mark. Instant recognition promised instant death if he blew her cover. Her fingers slipped around the grip of her pistol.

      She raised a brow and offered him the ghost of a smile. He returned it, just a small quirk of his lips. Nice lips they were, too. She remembered them well. Their texture, their taste, their hunger that had fuelled hers.

      But one kiss, mind-blowing as it had been, did not provide a basis for putting her life in the man’s hands now.

      That killer body of his could be just that – the body of a killer.

       ABOUT THE AUTHOR

      Lyn Stone is a former artist who developed an early and avid interest in criminology while helping her husband study for his degree. His subsequent career in counter-intelligence and contacts in the field provided a built-in source for research in writing suspense. Their long and happy marriage provided first-hand knowledge of happily-ever-afters.

      Dear Reader,

      What a great time I’ve had working on the MISSION: IMPASSIONED series! I do hope you’ve had the opportunity to read the four books preceding mine and will be as eager as I am to read Kathleen Creighton’s finale next month. It has been a real privilege to participate in this project with such wonderfully talented writers who are terrific characters in their own right!

      The plotting was a blast from the first day! One of my Special Ops operatives jumped the big pond to join the fun in Paris. Though Compass agent Renee’s agenda proved different from Mark Alexander’s, our Lazlo agent, she definitely plays well with others in every sense of the word.

      Everyone should have at least one wild adventure in Paris and I hope you enjoy this one!

      Happy reading!

       Lyn Stone

      Kiss or Kill

      LYN STONE

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      This one is for my Hotlanta buddy,

      Deb Martin.

      Prologue

       London, 1991

      “Son, put down the book. Get up quietly and do exactly as I say.”

      The unusual, low-voiced command grabbed Mark’s attention and he glanced up. The television blared Cagney’s snarling voice in an old American gangster movie his father had been watching. Totally disinterested, Mark had been devouring the last chapter of a current mystery novel. “What?”

      His father snatched the book from his hand and threw it on the floor. “Crawl into the cupboard there. Hurry.”

      Mark laughed, watching as his dad opened the cabinet and raked out the pillow and blanket kept there for anyone bunking on the couch. “I’m thirteen now, not three! I won’t fit.” His lanky, all-knees-and-elbows build caused enough laughs as it was without the old man making jokes about it.

      His dad grasped his arm. “Get in there. Now! Fold yourself up, close the door and don’t move a hair no matter what! Do not come out, do you hear, Mark? Can you follow orders or not?”

      Mark started to argue, but noted the alertness in his father’s expression, felt the incredible tension in the strong fingers locked around his arm. This was no joke. “Dad, what’s wrong?” he whispered.

      “A break-in, I think,” his father answered, barely audible above the shoot-’em-up on television. He pushed Mark into the enclosure, roughly tucking in one big socked foot that stuck out oddly. “Stay there. I can’t be worried for your safety, too. Do I have your word?”

      “Yes! Call the police, Dad!” Mark gasped. His neck was bent at an unnatural angle and he felt like a freaking contortionist.

      “I will. Do not move until I come back for you and tell you it’s safe.” His eyes met Mark’s before he shut the door. In them Mark saw fear, something he had never in any way associated with his dad. The man was courage itself, everyone knew that.

      Mark waited for what seemed forever, wincing at the jarring volume of the noisy telly just above him. It eclipsed all other sounds. He couldn’t stand not knowing what was happening. It couldn’t hurt to ease the door open a mere crack. Half an inch only, and he wouldn’t even have to move his head to see out.

      Immediately he saw a silhouette moving into the lounge from the kitchen. He held his breath. The figure came closer, gun in hand, and into the circle of lamplight. Not his dad. Surely he was hiding, too. Or looking for something to use as a weapon.

      Mark wanted to ease the door shut, but knew that even the slightest movement might be seen. He froze, watching as the man approached and reached out to turn off the TV set. Silence dropped like a bomb. Mark’s lungs were nearly bursting. Silently, slowly, he released the breath he was holding and drew in another. Through the narrow crack, he clearly saw the face of the intruder.

      This could be helpful, he thought. If the man escaped, Mark could identify him later. He took careful note of the features as the man examined something on the shelves above the television, probably his dad’s trophies or grandad’s gold pocket watch mounted under a little glass dome. The man’s back turned as he headed for the desk on the other side of the room. Then he whirled around quickly, alerted by car doors slamming outside. There were voices. The cavalry had arrived! Good for Dad!

      The man cursed and disappeared from view. Mark remained where he was. The police were here and everything would be fine now. A bit of excitement, having a burglar. His mates had never had anything like this happen in their houses. He smiled with anticipation. Tom and Hugh would turn absolutely green when he told them about it.

      He almost came out of the cabinet then so as not to miss a minute of the arrest, but remembered his father’s orders. Mark had been working hard on his impulses since he’d turned thirteen last month. Self-control was imperative now that he was no longer a kid. His dad would be proud that he’d followed instructions to the letter. A good soldier, my lad, he would say. And one day Mark would be.

      Doors slammed again and shouting commenced. Shots were fired! Crikey, he wished he could be out there to see the arrest. Maybe he would be asked to appear in court later to identify the chap who broke in.

      His leg cramped horribly and his neck began to hurt, but he held steady. Dad would come soon.

      “Where is the son?” a deep voice demanded. Mark peeked out of the crack in the door. Mr. Lazlo, who worked with his dad.

      “No sign of anyone else here, sir,” A uniformed policeman said. “Only the body in the kitchen.”

      Body? Mark burst out of the cabinet and scrambled to his feet. He dashed, arms flailing, legs half numbed, right past Lazlo and the copper. His socks slid on the tiles when he hit the kitchen and he tumbled forward to his knees. “Daddy!” he screamed, voice breaking, heart breaking.

      Strong arms clasped him from behind, lifted him forcefully and pulled him away. “Come with me now, Mark. He’s gone. You don’t need to see—”

      Mark stopped struggling and stood stock-still. He was no match for a grown man’s strength. Not yet anyway, even though every vestige of boyhood drained out of him then and there. He took a deep breath, inhaling the metallic scent of his beloved father’s lifeblood now puddled uselessly on the kitchen floor.

      “I do need to see,” he said, staring down at the body. “I’m going to kill the man who did this, Mr. Lazlo. On my honor, I swear before God, I will kill him,” he muttered through his teeth.

      Lazlo