Checkmate

"You are very good at lying."

I looked down at my girl, sprawled out on her stomach over the hotel bed, swinging her legs back and forth.

Our flight to Istanbul was uneventful, and Waverley made us a couple again. The Cowboy rolled his eyes, but he didn't object. That's how I found myself in a room with her like before-the tiny, maddening person who never leaves me alone. I'd die before I would tell anyone, but I was glad.

"Yes," she agreed, idly flipping through a car magazine, "I am. Are you upset?"

I stared hard at the floral patterned bedspread. "Not as an agent; I'm glad to work with someone of your talents. As a man, I'm—upset that I was taken in." I was honest with her. I can't figure out how not to be.

She flipped over onto her back and grinned up at me, stretching her arms up behind her the way she does, like a self-satisfied kitten. "As an agent, I appreciate the compliment. As a woman, I'm glad I put you off balance."

She slipped off the bed, smoothed her pajama top, and came to stand in front of me. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"When are you going to kiss me?" She asked it like she was asking me what caliber of bullet is my favorite.

"I don't know," I said, feigning annoyance. "I've decided I'm angry with you after all."

She laughed. "Are you trying to tease me? You're very bad at it."

I wanted to say something funny, but I'm a serious man who's led a serious life, and I am no good at teasing and joking. She stood there in front of me, with her pajamas on and her hair up, and she was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

I reached out my hand, and I dared to touch her cheek with my fingertips. She covered my hand with her own and pulled it to her lips, kissing my palm. "I like your hands," she said. "Do you remember our first night, when I wouldn't let them go?"

I nodded. "I thought you were too drunk to know what you were doing."

She shook her head. "I don't remember much, but I remember holding your hand before I fell asleep."

"Come here," I said. She followed me into the front room of the suite, and I set her on top of the ottoman, like always, so she would be tall.

"Hello," she said, when we were face-to-face.

"Hello," I said. "When are you going to kiss me?"

So she did. Long and sweet and satisfying. A serious kiss for the serious people we are. A kiss for sorry and thank you and you're welcome and—perhaps something more was in it, too. I only know that when she pulled away to breathe, I smiled because I couldn't help myself.

She took my hands and put them around her waist. "Help me down."

When she was on the floor once again, she came close to me and melted into me like wax from a Christmas candle, closing her eyes and resting her head on my chest. Even though I am big and clumsy, she let me hold her, and I think she liked being in my arms.

"Will you dance with me?" she asked.

"No," I answered, stroking her hair, "but I will teach you to play Chess."

So we played. After a few moves, I could see that she was bluffing about not knowing how. She's good at Chess, very good. But not as good as I am.

"Checkmate," I finally said, though she'd surprised me with her strategy. "Why didn't you tell me you knew how to play?"

She looked up through her eyelashes. "I thought you never played with a partner."

"I don't," I agreed, "but for you, I make an exception." She smiled across the board at me, and my breath caught in my chest.

This morning, when we were downstairs having breakfast in the hotel cafe, Solo looked at us and grinned in that irritating way he has when he's about to say something obnoxious. "So, Gaby, how do you say 'I love you' in Russian?"

My girl looked up from her menu and fixed him with a serious stare. "That's easy. You say 'Checkmate.'"

I knew then that I would never escape from her, and I would never want to. Because she was absolutely right.