Lazlo's Last Stand. Kathleen Creighton

drew most of her attention; it was fascinating to see him in this context for the first time. She’d always been struck by how different the brothers were, but now she could see how and why that could be so. Corbett took after his father, both in looks and manner, while Edward favored his mother in much the same way. His body was shorter, softer and rounder than his younger brother’s, which was all sharp angles and hard planes, like his father’s. Edward’s face had the open, friendly plumpness of a happy cherub, while Corbett’s finely chiseled features seemed always veiled in shadows. And yet, watching, she could see genuine affection between the two brothers, as well as the deep respect both had for their parents.

      Families, Lucia thought, suddenly missing hers. She was an outsider here, as she would expect to be. What gave her an unexpected pang of loneliness was the realization that she would be just as much an outsider in her own family now. She’d missed them terribly when she’d first moved to Paris, but over the years, visits to her parents’ home in the San Francisco suburb of Pleasant Hill had grown fewer and farther between. Now, on those rare trips to California, all she could think about was getting back to her apartment in Paris, her job…and Corbett. This was her home now, and the Lazlo Group was her family.

      And the Lazlo Group—my family!—was being threatened. Someone was picking off their agents—my brothers and sisters!—one by one. Someone had tried twice to kill its founder and head, Corbett Lazlo. Someone was bombarding agency computers with horrifying e-mails.

      And she’d been powerless to stop them.

      The hum of genteel conversation, the tinkle of chamber music, the laughter and lights and Christmas cheer all faded into nothing as Lucia’s mind tugged and plucked at the puzzle knot that had frustrated her since midsummer. So far all her best efforts had done was teach her that it was far easier to be a hacker than to catch one.

      Maybe, she thought, if I backtrack through…

      “Hmm…are those pixels I see in your eyes, my dear?”

      The quiet voice so near her ear gave her a start. Electric currents ran wild across her skin as she looked into Corbett’s brilliant blue eyes.

      “Let’s not keep the ambassador waiting. Shall we?”

      She laughed to cover her shiver and tucked her gloved hand into the crook of the arm he offered.

      It was an hour or so later, maybe two—Lucia had lost all track of time—when she and Corbett left the embassy’s heavily secured courtyard and began to stroll along the rue du Faubourg St Honoré. They walked slowly, close together, like lovers reluctant for the evening to end. The night had turned cold and raw. There were few people on the streets, though by Paris standards it wasn’t late. A nasty little wind riffled Lucia’s hair and curled freshly around her neck and under her skirt. She moved closer to Corbett’s side, telling herself it was permissible to do so, that they were supposed to look like lovers, after all. And she tried not to enjoy too much the warmth and closeness of his body, the smell of his jacket and aftershave.

      A little ripple of something—perhaps a combination of pleasure and suspense—shivered through her. As if he’d felt it, Corbett pressed her arm, the one that was tucked through his, closer against his side, an odd little hug that may have been only encouragement but somehow felt more intimate than that.

      “You did very well tonight,” he murmured, and his voice wasn’t soft like a lover’s, but had a slight rasp to it, as if the words didn’t come easily. “Handling—ah…dealing with…meeting my parents.”

      She glanced up at his profile and saw the crease of a wry smile in his cheek, even as his narrowed eyes roamed the street and sidewalk ahead, missing nothing. “I thought they were wonderful,” she said sincerely, then shrugged. “Your mother especially. She seemed much younger than I know she must be. Your parents would be in their seventies, right? I assume—”

      “Mother is seventy-six,” Corbett said. “My father will be seventy-nine in February.” He glanced at her, smiling that same wry smile. “By the way, I thought you did an admirable job of not bursting into a fit of giggles when he kissed your hand.”

      “I wouldn’t have!”

      “I was watching your face. You were on the verge, don’t tell me you weren’t.”

      “He caught me by surprise,” Lucia said with dignity. “And his moustache tickled.”

      Corbett laughed softly and gave her arm another of those strangely intimate little squeezes. Lucia felt the same shiver, and this time knew without a doubt that it was pleasure.

      “I could have done without that little comment he made about me being—what was it? Oh, yes— ‘a nice, healthy-looking vooman. Vith some meat on her bones.’ What, exactly, did he mean by that?”

      Corbett’s chuckle now sounded slightly embarrassed—something new for him. “That was a compliment. He approves of you, my dear. In fact—” now he sounded bemused “—they both did. I think—”

      Whatever it was he thought was never revealed. He stiffened, put one hand to his ear and seemed to come to attention, like a hunting dog on point. His eyes were dagger points, focused straight ahead, though Lucia could see nothing alarming about the handful of people hurrying along the still-damp sidewalk, heads down, shoulders hunched against that nasty little wind.

      “Lucia, go back to the embassy and wait for me,” Corbett said in a quiet voice as he gently untangled his arm from hers.

      “But I—”

      “Don’t argue. That’s an order. Go. Now.”

      Chapter 2

      Lucia went, but with rebellion in her heart, in her soul and in every ounce of her being. Her feet were the traitors; they obeyed his will, not hers. She went, but with every muscle straining against the tug of an irrational yearning to stay at the side of the man she loved and face along with him whatever dangers threatened. She went, but with reluctance in every step, high heels scraping unevenly on the damp sidewalk as she paused and turned every few steps to look back.

      And so it was that she saw the events unfold in jerky fast-forward, like an old-time movie.

      Corbett relaxed only slightly as he listened to Lucia’s footsteps retreating back toward the safety of the embassy. He knew she didn’t want to go, that she’d have stayed and fought side by side with him, if he’d allowed it. He felt a peculiar swelling of something he couldn’t quite identify. Was it pride or something more complicated?

      No time to wonder about it now. Adam’s voice was muttering in his ear again, calmly and without a hint of excitement.

      “Yeah, mate, this looks like a live one…can’t tell what he’s carryin’. Definitely comin’ your way, though.”

      Corbett pressed the button hidden under his tie and replied quietly, “Got it. Don’t move in…wait for my word.”

      When she glanced back again, Lucia saw a man turn the corner at the end of the next block. A young man, wearing a jacket with a hood. His hands were thrust deep in his pockets and he walked rapidly toward Corbett, not with his head down and hunched against the cold wind, going someplace warm and in a hurry to get there. No—this man’s head was up, and even from that distance, she could see that his gaze was fiercely intent. And fixed on Corbett.

      In her heart, in her gut, she knew this was wrong. He was wrong.

      Oh, God, this is it. It’s him.

      This was the assassin who’d already tried twice to murder Corbett. This time…

      No. She told herself Corbett had planned for this. That he had backup all over the place. That just because she couldn’t see them didn’t mean they weren’t there. She told herself she couldn’t go back, that he’d be furious with her if she did.

      But she did stop walking and stepped into the shadow of the nearest doorway to watch.