Ma Soleil
Chapter Fourteen: Easy Come, Easy Go
Disclaimer: All Marvel Characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fanfiction, not an attempt to infringe on Stan Lee's personal arsenal of hotties. I can wish all I like, but Sabes is never gonna show up to collect me, and that's that. Oh, yeah, I'm making zero profit off this and if you want Beck, just ask.
And again, to anyone who's managed to read so far and understand what they're reading, I'm looking for a beta. Someone frank, someone unafraid to put a serious opinion into print, someone in between Simon Cowell and Mister Rogers, like Cowell in the sense that they're candid, but like Mister Rogers in the respect that they have SOME tact.
As always, the lifeblood of the fanfiction author is reviews. I will respect constructive criticism, but flames are sincerely unappreciated. My e-mail address is seraph_taurus@thekeyz.com. Thanks for your time and God bless.
XXX
Guillaume l'Rivière sat up. Yes, that WAS someone knocking on his door. He rolled off his couch, and ambled toward the door. He'd only given his address out to three people, and one of them was on an op in Eastern Europe at the moment. Considering his luck, however, he had a good idea of who it was. "Rebecca, is dat you?" he murmured to the wooden panels separating him from the hall.
"It's me." She replied. "Let me in, will you?"
He unlocked and opened the door. "Bon soir, chère, t' what do I owe dis honor?"
"I left the Mansion."
"Oh? Porquoi?"
"Because Vic didn't want me there. I didn't fit in with his life, and to be perfectly honest, I felt. . .caged there."
"You an' me bot', pétite," he shrugged.
"So, Guillaume, can I crash here?"
"Why don' y' go back t' Warden's safe'ouse?" he led her back toward the sofa, sat down beside her, slipping an arm around her shoulders comfortingly.
"I don't feel like confronting his flourishing love-life."
"Dieu, chère, it's on'y flourishing b'cause de homme is un slut!"
"And I'm not?" she grinned wryly.
"Oui, you ain'. B'sides, it's easier t' pick up men when you're gay."
"Why would you say that?"
"B'cause de major populace o' good-lookin' hommes dese days be gay."
"True story."
"An' all de good ones be taken, non?"
"Also true."
"So, y' come 'ere fo'e some casual sex?"
"Maybe. I'm not really in the mood right now."
"I'll bet anyt'in' dat I can MAKE y' get in de mood."
"You would be so lucky," she laughed.
"If I 'ear anoder luck joke, I'm gonna t'row a hissy fit." He pouted. She smiled.
"You have such pretty lips, Guillaume," she murmured, her voice whimsical. Then she turned away and buried her face in her hands. "You know, wherever Vic's concerned, I feel like an adolescent pining over her hopeless crush."
"On'y y've never 'ad a crush y' couldn' 'ave. Y' were always ballsy enough t' approach dem, or t' make dem back off if y' wanted." He sighed. "Why couldn' y' fall in love wit' un homme like moi instead of a scumbag like Creed?"
"Bad luck." She grinned wryly, winking at him.
"Jus' fo'e dat. . ." a twinkle came to his forest-green eyes, and he lunged for her, tumbling them both onto the floor, but, as luck would have it, he landed on top, imprisoning her between the carpet and his body. A faraway look came to her eyes, halting the tickling spree he was about to embark on.
"Would you do me a favor, darling?" she murmured.
"Any't'in', chère," his voice was low and husky, his body responding to her nearness and warmth, and the feelings he'd always had for her.
"Will you be Victor for me tonight?"
"O'course, chère," he smiled quietly, and within seconds, he had morphed into the muscular feral. "So, darlin', what did ya have in mind?" he growled in her ex-husband's voice, with her ex-husband's mouth.
She grabbed him by the collar and pulled his lips down onto hers, shoving her tongue violently into his mouth, cutting it on his fangs, overwhelming him with her taste, her passion. She drew herself up, and flipped him over in one smooth, expert movement. When finally she lifted her mouth from his, neither was breathing properly. "Thank you, Guillaume, thank you so goddamn much," she murmured into his chest, her fingers busily unbuttoning his shirt, unbuckling his belt and tugging down the zippers on his jeans.
"Where's this goin'?" he grabbed her hands in his. "I wanna be here for ya, but I don't know if I can deal with this right now."
"In YOUR voice, Guillaume, not his," she whispered, her hands seeking his, fingers brushing against his palms.
"I want y', Rebecca, always have, always will, but if y' wan' me t' be Creed, den I dunno if I can play 'im fo'e ya. It'll only hurt mo'e."
"That's where you're wrong," she cupped his face, nipped at his lower lip, flicked her tongue over his chin. "It'll make the hurt longer in coming. Please. Just tonight. For me."
"All right, p'tite, all right. Fo'e tonight. Fo'e you, ma Soleil." He popped his claws out, raking them down her back, tearing her expensive designer blouse to shreds, reveling in her low growl of pleasure before stifling it with his lips. "Je t'aime."
"Always have, always will." She whispered, and his heart rammed hard against her chest, and she reached her arms up around his neck, nestling her face in his shoulder. She smiled, pulled back, and slid the mutilated blouse from her shoulders.
"Damn, woman, what're ya wearin'?" he demanded, amber eyes widening at the lacy teddy she had on beneath. She laughed in her throat, the sound sultry, but frightening in its own peculiar way. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
"As though you've never seen me in something like this before."
He blinked. "I'm pretty sure I'd have remembered somethin' like that. . ." he muttered.
"Yeah. You would have." She stopped long enough to slide out of her low-sitting chinos, flipping her heels off and lowering herself onto him. They made love passionately, and with a frantic edge that was less demand than it was impatient. Neither wanted the moment to end, but neither wanted to draw it out, both knowing that everything between them was a complex charade but taking comfort in the familiarity of one another's bodies. When finally, they both lay sated on the floor, Rebecca pulled out her cell-phone and called Warden.
"Chris? Yeah, I'm sorry, did I disturb you? Is Richard there? Oh, say hello for me. No, I haven't just gotten laid. How would you know, all the men you've dated in the past five years haven't slept with a woman since they were in high-school! Oh, you think you know me, then? Bullshit. Listen, I'm going to be a little longer in coming back to the Safe house than I thought I'd be. Yeah. I miss you, too. And yes, I saw Jean-Paul Beaubier. I'm not sure, he's dating someone at the moment, but I'll be sure to tell him that you sent your regards to his arse. All right. No, I'm not with Victor right now. No, you haven't met him. If you're doing that ridiculous victory-dance right now. . .whatever. All right, Chris. Listen, I'll see you in a few days. Yes, give my regards to your lovely boyfriend. Love you, too. Bye."
As she hung up, Guillaume turned, propped himself up on an elbow. "Ya know, this healing factor comes in real handy. Never thought ta use it before. . ."
"Ha bloody ha, l'Rivière."
"So, are ya gonna apologize ta me fer walkin' out on our date last night?"
"I would, but that would be so trite."
"And if there's anything you're not, it's predictable."
"That's right. It's also why I'm going to say I'm sorry for walking out on you. Are we still on for that housewarming party?"
Guillaume's eyes widened. "Pardon?" he growled.
"Shift into yourself, darling, it's been two years since I've seen you naked." He obeyed, but sluggishly, as their minutes-old exercise had worn him out far more than even staging a museum heist would have. "You haven't changed. Your abdomen's still as lovely as when you were twenty-three."
"Merci," he grinned. "I wish. . ."
"Rachel were around to say that instead of some aging merc who's in love with her ex-husband?"
"I didn' say dat, compris?"
"I know. I know. But I know you meant that. But I'm grateful in my own way that she's not. Otherwise I'd be lying on a rug just now with Mystique, a woman who bore Victor's child. How kinky would THAT be?"
Guillaume smiled like only a protégé of Remy LeBeau's could. "I t'ink somet'in' like dat woul' be right up your alley."
"Oh, you sexy bastard!" she cuffed him on the shoulder. "I do love you."
"Really?"
"Yeah, in my own messed-up way. You're the only one I can do this with, who understands that it's not so much about comfort as it is about just plain old-fashioned hormones"
"Oui, I s'pose." He shrugged. "So, y' be stayin' wit' me fo'e de weekend, at least?"
"Looks like it."
"Dat means de firs' t'ing we need t' do is go shoppin' fo'e a new blouse," he held up the tattered ruins of the one she had been wearing when she had knocked on the door.
"Sounds good to me," she whispered, her eyes drifting closed as she curled up into his chest. "Would you do me another favor, darling?"
"Anyt'in'."
"Carry me into the bedroom and don't wake me until sinfully late tomorrow?"
"Yo' wish be my command," he whispered, dropping a final kiss onto her forehead before she drifted out of consciousness.
XXX
Two Months Later. . .
Chris Warden slammed the bathroom door open. Rebecca's head whipped up, the shaving razor in her hand poised to be thrown at a dangerous, precise angle, just acute enough to rip his throat open. When she realized it was her partner, she hissed. "You just nearly got yourself killed you little shite," she muttered.
"You'll never believe who just called!"
"From the looks of it, Jean-Paul. Why else would a gay man be so dotty?" she retorted.
"Oh, come on, be nice for once, Becky!" he pouted and batted his big blue eyes.
"Works on your boyfriend, Chris, doesn't work on me. And if you call me Becky one more time, I'm going to telekinetically lobotomize you."
"All right, fine." Chris rolled his eyes. "Guillaume l'Rivière."
"He called?"
"Yes! He has an op for us! Aren't you excited? He says he'll only discuss price with you, and I think he was serious, because he left his PERSONAL phone number. Do you think he's gay?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because Guillaume's one of the most heterosexual men I've slept with."
"Oh, I see." Chris exclaimed archly. "He's an old boyfriend."
"Hardly. If he were an old boyfriend, I wouldn't even CONSIDER an op commissioned by him seriously because I'd think it was pity-dust."
"Pity-dust, the nemesis of the pixie kind," Warden sighed. Rebecca shook her head. It was only in moments like these when he let out his effeminate side. Otherwise he was a stone-cold, ultimately macho merc. The sort she'd always dreamed of working with. Sure, the man was beautiful eye-candy, but that was just an added benefit. She shrugged. "So, are you gonna call him?"
"Will," she rinsed her razor off, then towel-dried her legs. "Soon as I kick your ass for busting in on me in the shower."
"Oh grow up! It's not like I like what I see."
"Excuse me?"
"Okay, okay. If I were straight, I'd have a hard-on. What about it?"
She shot him a sly grin that would have been wasted on any other gay man but Chris Warden. He returned it with one of his own, leant down, and kissed her forehead. "You're so sexy, Rebecca. Sometimes I think I should be bisexual, just so I could screw you."
"Tug your head out of my arse, Warden. It's business time." She put her hand over his face and shoved him away, jogging nude to the telephone and picking it up, dialing a number from memory.
"L'Rivière speaking." Guillaume's voice came over the receiver, loud and clear.
"This is Rebecca Starsmore calling. You spoke with Chris Warden, my partner, about some business transaction you need our advice on?"
"Mon Dieu! Who y' tryin' t' impress, pétite?" Guillaume, or Checkmate, as he was called to the underlings of his Crime Syndicate, grinned into the phone.
"No one. Chris, quit skulking in the doorway. And wipe that grin off your face."
"Hey, I gotta question," Checkmate muttered.
"Shoot."
"Was Warden hittin' on meh las' time I called?"
"It's highly likely. So what's the deal?"
"Can I come over, say in a coupl'a hours?"
"Yeah, I'll order some food. What do ya want, Thai or Italian?"
"Chinese. I'll be right dere."
"See ya," she hung up the phone, and turned toward Chris. "Order me some takeout from the Schezuan Temple, will you, darling?" she said as she stalked into her room to dry off and get dressed. "He'll be here shortly."
"Who?"
"Our latest employer, Warden, who else. Oh, and don't drool all over his shoes when he gets here, all right?"
XXX
Chris Warden thought he'd died and gone to heaven. In front of him in full, five foot eleven live color was Guillaume Raoul l'Rivière, wearing stone-washed jeans that clung to the curves of his legs and arse, a black ribbed sweater, and an Armani leather trench coat. "Bonjour, M'sieu' Warden. Y' partner aroun'?" green eyes scanned the apartment behind the blond mercenary.
"Ah, no, not really. But please, come in, make yourself completely at home." Chris moved backward, but not far enough that Guillaume could make it through the door without brushing his shoulder against the other man's chest. As the Crimelord scanned the living-room, his lips twisted into a wry grin.
"Rebecca ain' 'ere?"
"No, she's not really. The take-out place was only take-out, no delivery. She should be back at any second. Meanwhile, why don't you brief me in on the basics of the op?"
"An' y' be sure she won' min'?"
"We're partners, Mr. l'Rivière. We don't keep secrets from each other. What she knows, I know."
"No offense, M'sieu' Warden, but I'm gonna havet' ask y' t' back up dat statement."
"Well, for one I know she's still in love with Creed, who is a low-down, dirty bastard who plays for keeps."
"Dat on'y says y' read de gossip columns o' de Merc's Quarterly," Guillaume's smile was spectral. "Why don' we wait f'r Rebecca?"
"Whatever you say. Would you like a drink in the meanwhile?"
"Sure. I'll 'ave a vodka martini, shaken, no' stirred."
Warden nearly choked. "Are you for real?"
"Non, I'm a figment o' y'r imagination." Guillaume said, standing up and sucker-punching the daylights out of the mercenary. "De t'ing I hate about y' pretty boys comin' up in de merc worl' t'day is dat y'r so fuckin' easy t' con." Tugging a syringe out of his trench coat pocket, he inserted the needle into Warden's arm and pumped a lovely amount of drugs into his bloodstream.
XXX
Chapter Fourteen: Easy Come, Easy Go
Disclaimer: All Marvel Characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fanfiction, not an attempt to infringe on Stan Lee's personal arsenal of hotties. I can wish all I like, but Sabes is never gonna show up to collect me, and that's that. Oh, yeah, I'm making zero profit off this and if you want Beck, just ask.
And again, to anyone who's managed to read so far and understand what they're reading, I'm looking for a beta. Someone frank, someone unafraid to put a serious opinion into print, someone in between Simon Cowell and Mister Rogers, like Cowell in the sense that they're candid, but like Mister Rogers in the respect that they have SOME tact.
As always, the lifeblood of the fanfiction author is reviews. I will respect constructive criticism, but flames are sincerely unappreciated. My e-mail address is seraph_taurus@thekeyz.com. Thanks for your time and God bless.
XXX
Guillaume l'Rivière sat up. Yes, that WAS someone knocking on his door. He rolled off his couch, and ambled toward the door. He'd only given his address out to three people, and one of them was on an op in Eastern Europe at the moment. Considering his luck, however, he had a good idea of who it was. "Rebecca, is dat you?" he murmured to the wooden panels separating him from the hall.
"It's me." She replied. "Let me in, will you?"
He unlocked and opened the door. "Bon soir, chère, t' what do I owe dis honor?"
"I left the Mansion."
"Oh? Porquoi?"
"Because Vic didn't want me there. I didn't fit in with his life, and to be perfectly honest, I felt. . .caged there."
"You an' me bot', pétite," he shrugged.
"So, Guillaume, can I crash here?"
"Why don' y' go back t' Warden's safe'ouse?" he led her back toward the sofa, sat down beside her, slipping an arm around her shoulders comfortingly.
"I don't feel like confronting his flourishing love-life."
"Dieu, chère, it's on'y flourishing b'cause de homme is un slut!"
"And I'm not?" she grinned wryly.
"Oui, you ain'. B'sides, it's easier t' pick up men when you're gay."
"Why would you say that?"
"B'cause de major populace o' good-lookin' hommes dese days be gay."
"True story."
"An' all de good ones be taken, non?"
"Also true."
"So, y' come 'ere fo'e some casual sex?"
"Maybe. I'm not really in the mood right now."
"I'll bet anyt'in' dat I can MAKE y' get in de mood."
"You would be so lucky," she laughed.
"If I 'ear anoder luck joke, I'm gonna t'row a hissy fit." He pouted. She smiled.
"You have such pretty lips, Guillaume," she murmured, her voice whimsical. Then she turned away and buried her face in her hands. "You know, wherever Vic's concerned, I feel like an adolescent pining over her hopeless crush."
"On'y y've never 'ad a crush y' couldn' 'ave. Y' were always ballsy enough t' approach dem, or t' make dem back off if y' wanted." He sighed. "Why couldn' y' fall in love wit' un homme like moi instead of a scumbag like Creed?"
"Bad luck." She grinned wryly, winking at him.
"Jus' fo'e dat. . ." a twinkle came to his forest-green eyes, and he lunged for her, tumbling them both onto the floor, but, as luck would have it, he landed on top, imprisoning her between the carpet and his body. A faraway look came to her eyes, halting the tickling spree he was about to embark on.
"Would you do me a favor, darling?" she murmured.
"Any't'in', chère," his voice was low and husky, his body responding to her nearness and warmth, and the feelings he'd always had for her.
"Will you be Victor for me tonight?"
"O'course, chère," he smiled quietly, and within seconds, he had morphed into the muscular feral. "So, darlin', what did ya have in mind?" he growled in her ex-husband's voice, with her ex-husband's mouth.
She grabbed him by the collar and pulled his lips down onto hers, shoving her tongue violently into his mouth, cutting it on his fangs, overwhelming him with her taste, her passion. She drew herself up, and flipped him over in one smooth, expert movement. When finally she lifted her mouth from his, neither was breathing properly. "Thank you, Guillaume, thank you so goddamn much," she murmured into his chest, her fingers busily unbuttoning his shirt, unbuckling his belt and tugging down the zippers on his jeans.
"Where's this goin'?" he grabbed her hands in his. "I wanna be here for ya, but I don't know if I can deal with this right now."
"In YOUR voice, Guillaume, not his," she whispered, her hands seeking his, fingers brushing against his palms.
"I want y', Rebecca, always have, always will, but if y' wan' me t' be Creed, den I dunno if I can play 'im fo'e ya. It'll only hurt mo'e."
"That's where you're wrong," she cupped his face, nipped at his lower lip, flicked her tongue over his chin. "It'll make the hurt longer in coming. Please. Just tonight. For me."
"All right, p'tite, all right. Fo'e tonight. Fo'e you, ma Soleil." He popped his claws out, raking them down her back, tearing her expensive designer blouse to shreds, reveling in her low growl of pleasure before stifling it with his lips. "Je t'aime."
"Always have, always will." She whispered, and his heart rammed hard against her chest, and she reached her arms up around his neck, nestling her face in his shoulder. She smiled, pulled back, and slid the mutilated blouse from her shoulders.
"Damn, woman, what're ya wearin'?" he demanded, amber eyes widening at the lacy teddy she had on beneath. She laughed in her throat, the sound sultry, but frightening in its own peculiar way. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
"As though you've never seen me in something like this before."
He blinked. "I'm pretty sure I'd have remembered somethin' like that. . ." he muttered.
"Yeah. You would have." She stopped long enough to slide out of her low-sitting chinos, flipping her heels off and lowering herself onto him. They made love passionately, and with a frantic edge that was less demand than it was impatient. Neither wanted the moment to end, but neither wanted to draw it out, both knowing that everything between them was a complex charade but taking comfort in the familiarity of one another's bodies. When finally, they both lay sated on the floor, Rebecca pulled out her cell-phone and called Warden.
"Chris? Yeah, I'm sorry, did I disturb you? Is Richard there? Oh, say hello for me. No, I haven't just gotten laid. How would you know, all the men you've dated in the past five years haven't slept with a woman since they were in high-school! Oh, you think you know me, then? Bullshit. Listen, I'm going to be a little longer in coming back to the Safe house than I thought I'd be. Yeah. I miss you, too. And yes, I saw Jean-Paul Beaubier. I'm not sure, he's dating someone at the moment, but I'll be sure to tell him that you sent your regards to his arse. All right. No, I'm not with Victor right now. No, you haven't met him. If you're doing that ridiculous victory-dance right now. . .whatever. All right, Chris. Listen, I'll see you in a few days. Yes, give my regards to your lovely boyfriend. Love you, too. Bye."
As she hung up, Guillaume turned, propped himself up on an elbow. "Ya know, this healing factor comes in real handy. Never thought ta use it before. . ."
"Ha bloody ha, l'Rivière."
"So, are ya gonna apologize ta me fer walkin' out on our date last night?"
"I would, but that would be so trite."
"And if there's anything you're not, it's predictable."
"That's right. It's also why I'm going to say I'm sorry for walking out on you. Are we still on for that housewarming party?"
Guillaume's eyes widened. "Pardon?" he growled.
"Shift into yourself, darling, it's been two years since I've seen you naked." He obeyed, but sluggishly, as their minutes-old exercise had worn him out far more than even staging a museum heist would have. "You haven't changed. Your abdomen's still as lovely as when you were twenty-three."
"Merci," he grinned. "I wish. . ."
"Rachel were around to say that instead of some aging merc who's in love with her ex-husband?"
"I didn' say dat, compris?"
"I know. I know. But I know you meant that. But I'm grateful in my own way that she's not. Otherwise I'd be lying on a rug just now with Mystique, a woman who bore Victor's child. How kinky would THAT be?"
Guillaume smiled like only a protégé of Remy LeBeau's could. "I t'ink somet'in' like dat woul' be right up your alley."
"Oh, you sexy bastard!" she cuffed him on the shoulder. "I do love you."
"Really?"
"Yeah, in my own messed-up way. You're the only one I can do this with, who understands that it's not so much about comfort as it is about just plain old-fashioned hormones"
"Oui, I s'pose." He shrugged. "So, y' be stayin' wit' me fo'e de weekend, at least?"
"Looks like it."
"Dat means de firs' t'ing we need t' do is go shoppin' fo'e a new blouse," he held up the tattered ruins of the one she had been wearing when she had knocked on the door.
"Sounds good to me," she whispered, her eyes drifting closed as she curled up into his chest. "Would you do me another favor, darling?"
"Anyt'in'."
"Carry me into the bedroom and don't wake me until sinfully late tomorrow?"
"Yo' wish be my command," he whispered, dropping a final kiss onto her forehead before she drifted out of consciousness.
XXX
Two Months Later. . .
Chris Warden slammed the bathroom door open. Rebecca's head whipped up, the shaving razor in her hand poised to be thrown at a dangerous, precise angle, just acute enough to rip his throat open. When she realized it was her partner, she hissed. "You just nearly got yourself killed you little shite," she muttered.
"You'll never believe who just called!"
"From the looks of it, Jean-Paul. Why else would a gay man be so dotty?" she retorted.
"Oh, come on, be nice for once, Becky!" he pouted and batted his big blue eyes.
"Works on your boyfriend, Chris, doesn't work on me. And if you call me Becky one more time, I'm going to telekinetically lobotomize you."
"All right, fine." Chris rolled his eyes. "Guillaume l'Rivière."
"He called?"
"Yes! He has an op for us! Aren't you excited? He says he'll only discuss price with you, and I think he was serious, because he left his PERSONAL phone number. Do you think he's gay?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because Guillaume's one of the most heterosexual men I've slept with."
"Oh, I see." Chris exclaimed archly. "He's an old boyfriend."
"Hardly. If he were an old boyfriend, I wouldn't even CONSIDER an op commissioned by him seriously because I'd think it was pity-dust."
"Pity-dust, the nemesis of the pixie kind," Warden sighed. Rebecca shook her head. It was only in moments like these when he let out his effeminate side. Otherwise he was a stone-cold, ultimately macho merc. The sort she'd always dreamed of working with. Sure, the man was beautiful eye-candy, but that was just an added benefit. She shrugged. "So, are you gonna call him?"
"Will," she rinsed her razor off, then towel-dried her legs. "Soon as I kick your ass for busting in on me in the shower."
"Oh grow up! It's not like I like what I see."
"Excuse me?"
"Okay, okay. If I were straight, I'd have a hard-on. What about it?"
She shot him a sly grin that would have been wasted on any other gay man but Chris Warden. He returned it with one of his own, leant down, and kissed her forehead. "You're so sexy, Rebecca. Sometimes I think I should be bisexual, just so I could screw you."
"Tug your head out of my arse, Warden. It's business time." She put her hand over his face and shoved him away, jogging nude to the telephone and picking it up, dialing a number from memory.
"L'Rivière speaking." Guillaume's voice came over the receiver, loud and clear.
"This is Rebecca Starsmore calling. You spoke with Chris Warden, my partner, about some business transaction you need our advice on?"
"Mon Dieu! Who y' tryin' t' impress, pétite?" Guillaume, or Checkmate, as he was called to the underlings of his Crime Syndicate, grinned into the phone.
"No one. Chris, quit skulking in the doorway. And wipe that grin off your face."
"Hey, I gotta question," Checkmate muttered.
"Shoot."
"Was Warden hittin' on meh las' time I called?"
"It's highly likely. So what's the deal?"
"Can I come over, say in a coupl'a hours?"
"Yeah, I'll order some food. What do ya want, Thai or Italian?"
"Chinese. I'll be right dere."
"See ya," she hung up the phone, and turned toward Chris. "Order me some takeout from the Schezuan Temple, will you, darling?" she said as she stalked into her room to dry off and get dressed. "He'll be here shortly."
"Who?"
"Our latest employer, Warden, who else. Oh, and don't drool all over his shoes when he gets here, all right?"
XXX
Chris Warden thought he'd died and gone to heaven. In front of him in full, five foot eleven live color was Guillaume Raoul l'Rivière, wearing stone-washed jeans that clung to the curves of his legs and arse, a black ribbed sweater, and an Armani leather trench coat. "Bonjour, M'sieu' Warden. Y' partner aroun'?" green eyes scanned the apartment behind the blond mercenary.
"Ah, no, not really. But please, come in, make yourself completely at home." Chris moved backward, but not far enough that Guillaume could make it through the door without brushing his shoulder against the other man's chest. As the Crimelord scanned the living-room, his lips twisted into a wry grin.
"Rebecca ain' 'ere?"
"No, she's not really. The take-out place was only take-out, no delivery. She should be back at any second. Meanwhile, why don't you brief me in on the basics of the op?"
"An' y' be sure she won' min'?"
"We're partners, Mr. l'Rivière. We don't keep secrets from each other. What she knows, I know."
"No offense, M'sieu' Warden, but I'm gonna havet' ask y' t' back up dat statement."
"Well, for one I know she's still in love with Creed, who is a low-down, dirty bastard who plays for keeps."
"Dat on'y says y' read de gossip columns o' de Merc's Quarterly," Guillaume's smile was spectral. "Why don' we wait f'r Rebecca?"
"Whatever you say. Would you like a drink in the meanwhile?"
"Sure. I'll 'ave a vodka martini, shaken, no' stirred."
Warden nearly choked. "Are you for real?"
"Non, I'm a figment o' y'r imagination." Guillaume said, standing up and sucker-punching the daylights out of the mercenary. "De t'ing I hate about y' pretty boys comin' up in de merc worl' t'day is dat y'r so fuckin' easy t' con." Tugging a syringe out of his trench coat pocket, he inserted the needle into Warden's arm and pumped a lovely amount of drugs into his bloodstream.
XXX