2. Bien-aimée
Bien-aimée
Three hours later, they had a plan.
It wasn’t as flashy as Louna usually liked, but then she usually didn’t have to work within the confines of the law.
She also wasn’t used to working with a team.
Philippe had proven to be impressively adept with Ilya’s security system—and, even better, he’d brought some of his own tech. “It’s a hobby of mine,” he’d explained, holding up a tiny earbud communicator. “Something I picked up in the military. I haven’t had a reason to use them until now.”
“If we can get one to Lindsey, we can coordinate with all of the Marines,” Tennyson said. “Then they can be ready when we make our move.”
Louna had smoothed out the paper, over which she’d drawn the jail blueprints Philippe had found. “I’ll take it in,” she said.
Tennyson shot her a look, and she met it with a smile. “I can pose as a lawyer and go in to offer representation.”
“The military will have already sent their own lawyers,” Tennyson said.
“I’ll say I’m following up.”
“It won’t work,” Tennyson said. “They won’t let just any lawyer in. You’d need a State Department official ID, plus—”
“You mean like this one?” Louna asked. She’d made her way to Philippe’s security desk while he spoke, and she held up an ID badge with her face and name on it.
Tennyson had narrowed his eyes. “How did you get that?”
“Plausible deniability, mon loup,” she said, setting it back on Phillipe’s desk. He picked it up and slid it back into its plastic sleeve, holding it at arm’s length for examination.
Tennyson’s gaze followed the movement, his expression tight. “This is more than background support. You sure you’re okay with committing identity fraud against the US government?”
Philippe had shrugged. “I was willing to break a military member out of a foreign prison. What’s a little fraud added to that?”
Conflicted feelings chased themselves through Tennyson’s expression—gratitude, worry, amusement, frustration.
For someone who had tried to steal from her just a few days ago, and who worked for someone as apparently corrupt as Bastian Harlow, Tennyson had displayed a disconcerting amount of qualms about the legality of their plan.
So when their planning was over, and Jean-Claude and Philippe had found other tasks to engage their attentions, Louna eased across the room toward Tennyson and offered up a reassuring smile.
“This isn’t the first time I’ve broken into a government facility,” Louna said. “I know what to do.”
He pressed his lips together. “You shouldn’t go alone.”
“I’m the least likely to attract attention.”
Tennyson’s gaze swept up and down her body, then landed on her face. He raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“I can be understated when I wish,” she said archly.
He looked unconvinced, but Louna wasn’t going to budge on this.
It was why she’d come in the first place.
When Harlow had captured her and forced her into his studio, she’d felt exactly how romantic a daring rescue could be.
Tennyson had arrived, a knight in battered armor, throwing off orders and concerns for his own safety for her sake.
She hadn’t asked for his help—hadn’t even hoped for it—but she had not been immune to the thrill of emotion when she saw him square off against Harlow’s men.
For Lindsey, who had a longer and stronger history with Tennyson, the effect would be tenfold.
Louna didn’t know their story. She barely knew Tennyson’s.
But she knew that Tennyson loved Lindsey, or had loved her, when they had served together.
He’d left the Marines and gone to work for Harlow, a man who had his own agenda, but Tennyson’s feelings hadn’t faded.
He still wore the necklace he and Lindsey had gotten together in Paris.
He had run to Romania the moment he realized she was in trouble.
When Harlow mentioned that Lindsey was in danger, Louna had known Tennyson would go to her. She knew what Lindsey would feel when Tennyson walked into that prison.
That was why Louna had to walk in first.
She wouldn’t do anything else to interfere. She would hand over the earbud, and she would make sure Lindsey walked free at the end of this job. But she wasn’t going to stand back and let Tennyson reunite with an old flame without reminding him how brightly Louna could burn.
“If the trial hasn’t been scheduled yet,” Louna said, speaking to where Philippe sat before the row of screens, “then we should get Lindsey the earbud today. As soon as possible.”
“It’s ready whenever you are,” Philippe said.
Louna caught Tennyson’s uncertain look and flashed a smile. “Don’t you think I can do it?”
His expression said why are you asking stupid questions, but his mouth stayed shut.
He was anxious. That little wrinkle between his brows had grown deeper throughout the morning, and she wished she could soothe it away.
He just needed to relax a little, and have some fun with the job instead of wasting the whole thing on worry.
She could help with that.
With a hum, she moved toward the bedrooms, stepping close enough to brush her shoulder against his chest. “If nothing else,” she said. “We need to find out when their trial is scheduled.”
“I’ll check online,” Philippe offered. “There might be something there.”
She beamed at him, then turned her smile on Tennyson, who sighed.
“Fine. Jean-Claude?”
Jean-Claude lifted his eyebrows suggestively. “I think I will stay behind. I’m sure you two have much to discuss.”
“Just remember not to put in your earbuds until you’re ready for us to listen,” Philippe said.
Tennyson looked like he was trying very hard not to roll his eyes, but Louna grinned at the boys. “Can you get the earbud ready?” she asked Philippe. “I will have to change.”
He nodded and spun his chair back to his workspace, and she crossed the loft to the bedroom nearest the stairs.
The room was sparsely decorated—Ilya’s family preferred to keep everything in the open, so they concentrated the bulk of comfort in the shared areas.
But he had stocked the Nest’s closet a few years ago, when Louna first started making a name for herself as the Black Swan.
“A swan needs feathers,” he’d told her, and she’d laughed at the absurdity of the comparison until he showed her the clothes.
Rows of dresses, blouses, suits, and coats filled one wall beneath hooks of hats in various styles and colors.
On the other three walls, built-in shelves held sweaters, trousers, undergarments, shoes, scarves, and bags to match any outfit in the room.
A locked safe in the bottom of one shelf held sets of earrings, necklaces, bracelets, brooches—anything she could possibly need to pull off any kind of character during a theft.
Ilya had assured her that each of his family’s safe houses would be equipped with such treasures, just in case she was in the area. After all, his father had made it clear that she could go after her own targets, as long as they didn’t interfere with the assignments he gave her.
“Think of it as an employment perk,” Ilya had said.
“I’m not your employee,” Louna argued.
“A bonus, then. Incentive to continue our freelance relationship.”
It had been several years since they’d begun that relationship, and so far, the bonuses had vastly outnumbered the downsides.
Though they didn’t completely erase them.
Since Louna was going as a State Department official and not a military lawyer, she chose a dark blue pantsuit that was formal and dignified, but still called tasteful attention to her curves.
She might as well use every asset at her disposal, after all.
She took a few moments to put her hair into a loose chignon, added pearl earrings, and tossed a few necessary items into a briefcase before rejoining the boys in the main space.
She smiled when Tennyson scanned her new outfit, and looped her arm through his.
“We will be back soon,” Louna said, blowing the brothers a kiss and accepting two earbuds from Philippe.
She guided Tennyson to the staircase, tossing the keys so he could catch them over his shoulder as he descended the steps before her.
“You drive. I need to finish my makeup.”
“That’s to make you more understated?” he asked.
“Makeup is art,” Louna said. “There is a desired response on the part of the audience, yes? An expectation that must be met?”
“Yes,” Tennyson agreed.
“Then do not begrudge me the time it takes to meet that expectation.”
“I begrudge you nothing,” Tennyson said, leading the way into the shadowed corridor at the bottom of the stairs.
“Nothing?” Louna echoed. “Not even your uneven stitches?”
“Not even those.”
A dangerous glow wanted to build in her cheeks, but she held it in check. No matter how much fun he was to flirt with, a situation like this must be handled delicately. That was art, too—the balance between concealment and attention. What to cover, what to highlight, what to linger on.
The problem was keeping the final vision in mind.
She followed him into the garage and settled into the passenger seat of the car she’d rented under the name Grace Eaton. Tennyson opened the garage doors and got in beside her to start the car.
“Philippe,” Louna said, placing her communicator into her ear. “Can you hear me?”
“I hear you.”
Tennyson touched his left ear, where he must have put his own earbud.
“There’s a button on the surveillance controls to close the garage door,” Louna went on.
“We will lock it up tight after you leave,” Jean-Claude said. “Have fun, my friends!”
Louna grinned and sat back to remove her makeup kit from her briefcase, ready to embrace his advice, but Tennyson was too distracted to have fun.
He responded to her attempts at conversation with hums and grunts, and occasional one-word answers.
She let it go until she had finished her contours, and then she spoke without looking up from the visor mirror, hoping the lack of visual scrutiny would encourage him to speak.
“What is wrong, mon loup? Is it Lindsey? You have nothing to worry about. I’ve freed dozens of prisoners from their places of holding.”
“What prisoners?” Tennyson asked.
“Paintings, mostly,” she said. “Museum curators can be very possessive. To negotiate their release takes persuasion and patience. I’m sure the skills are transferable.”
And if her conversational skills weren’t up to par, her thieving ones were more than adequate.
“The principles aren’t exactly the same,” he mumbled.
“Of course they are,” Louna said, blending rouge into her cheek. “When doing something new, you must apply the skills you already have. I have the skills, mon loup. Your Lindsey will be perfectly safe.”
“It isn’t just Lindsey.”
One cheek finished—she moved on to the next. “I know. We will rescue all of the Marines, and you will be reunited with your beloved.”
She’d chosen the word intentionally—bien-aimée, a term that could only mean a romantic connection—hoping to gain an understanding of his feelings by his response. He obviously cared a great deal for her still. Would he deny it?
Her attention was maybe a bit too pointed, because after a moment, he sighed and removed his earbud. She copied him, her eyebrows raised in interest.
“Why did Harlow let us go?” Tennyson asked.
Louna blinked at him, but he had turned his attention back to the road. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Lindsey was my best friend,” Tennyson said, switching to English for the first time since they’d arrived at the Nest. “We haven’t spoken in years, and Harlow still knew exactly who to go after to control me. He’ll do the same to you. I need to know what you said to him.”
She lowered her makeup blender. “This is what’s bothering you?”
“We were outnumbered,” he said. “Even with Ilya there.”
“You didn’t seem to need much help,” Louna said, part soothing, part flattering.
Tennyson shot her another look. “Don’t do that.”
“What?” she asked innocently.
“I don’t need you to make me feel like a hero. Harlow’s guards are well-trained, and the only reason I was able to take out so many of them was because I caught them by surprise and got in between them so they couldn’t shoot. Harlow always has reserves. He could have called them. Why didn’t he?”
Louna didn’t answer. She still wasn’t used to the way her charms slid off of him, the way he saw through her plays and guessed her intentions. She didn’t like it. Information was the most precious currency in her world, and for Tennyson to demand it so guilelessly—so straightforwardly—it threw her.
She didn’t even have much to tell him. In Harlow’s studio, before Tennyson had come to rescue her, Louna had found a picture and played a hunch. It paid off. She wasn’t yet sure why.
“There were artworks in his studio,” Louna said carefully. “Half-finished ones. Ones that have already gone to auction. I may have implied that I had recognized one.”
“Which one?”
“I didn’t say,” she said. “I let Harlow draw his own conclusions.”
The little groove in his forehead deepened, but he didn’t say anything. “He was afraid,” Louna added. “Outnumbered or not, you were beating his men. He may have just decided to cut his losses and try again later.”
Tennyson said nothing, and after a few moments, Louna replaced her earbud, applied her eyeliner, and waited for him to sort his thoughts. “You needn’t worry,” she said again, at a loss for any other reassurance. “I know what I’m doing.”
At least, she was pretty sure she did.