Mistral-PG13, Alias-Vaughn
Peregrine (E. Klisiewicz)
Rated PG13 for language and sexual innuendo.
mistral: a cold, dry, northerly wind common in southern France and neighboring regions.
Summary: Vaughn's thoughts on Alice, office Christmas parties, and the meaning of life and death.
There's no excuse really. I should have known, or at least guessed that something like this might happen. I think Kendall was counting on it (bastard). With connections like mine, the rest should be easy, right?
Wrong. It's never easy…doing what we do. Battle lines are constantly drawn between my conscience and the need to follow orders. And never more than now, when half my mother's family is attached to my target.
When I hear the light tap of Syd's heels, I grab her elbow and pull her into the bushes. "We have a problem." Always the master of understatement.
She gathers her cloak around her and frowns slightly. "Sounds serious."
"Markarov has company." I palm the coin and let it slide through my fingers.
"So we distract him," Syd says with a shrug, checking her watch when she thinks I'm not looking.
"Can't. The people he's with…umm…TrishandElise." I deliberately run the words together, but she catches it anyway.
"Aunt Trish?" she asks in astonishment, delicate eyebrows rising as she mulls over this tidbit.
"The very same." I let out my breath in a long sigh.
"And Elise is…" Syd fragments the sentence and I put the pieces together for her.
"My grandmother."
Her mouth opens and closes. "Oh. That is…definitely….like you said before…"
"Right. We should go in…Laura." I smirk, ducking away from her playful swat.
"Certainly, Kim."
We make our entrance, which is duly noted by some minor functionary (complete with clipboard). When she slides the cloak from her shoulders, heat shoots straight to my groin, nearly frying me with its intensity. The dress she is wearing sparkles and shimmers as she moves, hugging her every curve with its silken caress, cut low in the front and back and slit high on the sides, showcasing the fabulous body that I've dreamed about for months. Then she catches me staring and ducks her head to hide a smile. "Are you ready?"
I take her in one last time, letting my eyes sweep slowly from her perfectly coiffed head to the incandescent red of her lips, feeling nothing like the brother I'm supposed to be and sure that somewhere in LA, Kendall is laughing at me. With a smile, I offer my arm and we enter the gallery.
******Flaky Aunt Trish is a patron of the arts. She opens her purse strings to dozens of charitable organizations and sits on the board at the Met. So it's no surprise that she's practically camped on the lap of the museum's director, hands wandering down his shoulders as she whispers in his ear.
Syd sees me staring. "Is that Trish?"
I nod, feeling the heat rise into my cheeks. "Unfortunately."
She seems to enjoy the fact that I'm blushing. "Can't wait to meet her."
At that moment, Trish raises her head and stares straight at me, sensual lips curving into a dangerous smile, seeming not at all surprised that I'm here. Her green eyes flick to Syd, who's chatting with an amorous oaf from Christie's, and she gives me a thumb's up. I smile tightly and turn my attention to the crowd, wondering why Markarov has yet to make an appearance.
I wend my way through the artsy throng, nearly fainting from the melange of cologne that assaults my senses, wondering if they bathe in it. A tall woman with dark hair glides through the fringes of the crowd, catching my eye as she disappears through a doorway.
Something in the way she moves…I've seen that before….somewhere. The long strides of a dancer…assured…maybe a predator.
I start after her, sure that Syd is hot on my heels. "Did you see her?" I gasp, putting on the brakes before I tumble down a staircase.
She pulls on my arm and I look behind me. At the far end of the hall is a large mirror, reflecting the mocking smile of an assassin.
Ana Espinosa.
And we both know why she's here.