I think Nickolas Von Bergen knows I liked that kiss.
And he intends to use my weakness to his advantage.
Fat chance, pretty boy, I telegraph with my eyes as he slides closer and whispers, “Chat after the lovebirds go to bed? I have a proposition for you, 007.”
My nostrils flare, but I’m careful to keep my expression neutral and my voice low as I ask, “Are you insane?” He should know better than to tease me about work in front of anyone—especially my family.
He smiles. “No, I’m brilliant. Meet me in my closet at two a.m. Sabrina and Andrew should have passed out by then.”
“I will not,” I say through gritted teeth, forcing a smile as Sabrina casts a curious glance our way, clearly wondering why I’m suddenly open to having my head this close to Nick’s when I’ve been treating him like an infectious disease the entire weekend. “You’re not my boss yet. It’s not official until it’s official.”
“True. But…if you play your cards right, it might never be official. Or at least not for long.” He leans over, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek before adding in a louder voice, “I like you, too, Zanda Panda. I’m so glad we decided to kiss and make up.”
Before I can whip up a retort, he stands. Swinging one leg over the edge of the tub, he dribbles water all over me as he moves, leaving me sputtering.
Sabrina snorts in amusement, and Andrew chokes on his sip of champagne.
“Oh, no. You’d better run, Nick,” Sabrina says, still laughing. “She’s got her spitting cat face on.”
“I do not.” I school my features, but it’s too late. Nick’s won this round. He surprised me, got under my skin, and threw me off my game. Just like he did in Bucharest.
He’s two for two, which means it’s time to change tacks.
The number one rule of undercover work and a reasonably lived life in general? If a strategy isn’t working, it’s time to alter your approach.
Repeating the same behavior and expecting different results is, after all, the textbook definition of insanity.
And I’m many things, but crazy isn’t one of them.
Nick better watch his back.
Because the next point? It’s going to be mine.
Chapter Three
Nickolas
Nickolas Edward Xavier Von Bergen
A man with a massive, improbable, and very misguided crush.
She wants to murder me.
It’s obvious every time she glances my way.
If it were possible to murder someone with a glare, I’d be six feet under.
Having a crush on Alexandra Rochat is possibly the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, and I’ve done a lot of very stupid things. Before I joined the Union Ten training program, I was on a dangerous path.
Hacking as a hobby is all well and good until you’re caught poking around in places you shouldn’t by people prone to killing people who suss out their secrets.
I was on the verge of exposing a money-laundering scandal in one of my mother’s favorite charities—an organization run by a shell company owned by the Croatian mob that spent as much time selling children as feeding them—when Neville showed up at the castle, offering to save me from myself.
Unbeknownst to Teenaged Me, the mob was already tracking my movements, waiting for evidence of a breach. Thankfully, Union Ten was also tracking my online activity with an eye for recruitment.
Zan and I aren’t the only royals working within the agency. Union Ten has a history of employing wealthy, influential people. People whose status draws attention, yes, but whose elevated positions provide a level of access impossible for the average citizen.
Wealthy people get away with shady behavior with appalling regularity. The rich and beautiful are all but above the law. People bend over backward to meet our needs, humor our whims, and excuse our eccentricities. Fair or not, we operate on a separate plane of existence, one where it’s almost scandalously easy to get your spy on.
Get your spy on…
Alexandra would hate that I put it that way. She would be repulsed by my lack of gravitas and respect for the office.
But I have plenty of regard for the office. I simply refuse to let my job turn me into a rigid, humorless, permanently stressed-out bore. Life’s too short to waste it fretting about work, even when your work involves international crime and bad guys who live to kill people like you.
Like us, I mentally correct as I step into the shower to rinse off the chlorine from the hot tub.
I don’t like the thought of Zan putting her life in danger, especially knowing she was recruited at such a young age. It’s one of my biggest issues with the organization. A thirteen-year-old child can’t drive a car or buy cigarettes, let alone be trusted to understand what they’re sacrificing—and risking—when they decide to become a spy.
But from everything I’ve read, Zan is good at her job. Very good. It wasn’t her fault our operations tripped over each other last summer. A twist of fate put me at that music festival, and I blame Romania’s spotty rural cell service for the rest.