Left to Kill (Adele Sharp #4) - Blake Pierce Page 0,5
if he’d been caught in the middle of a nap, but the other was open, staring at her. He had the lazy, lounging look of a tomcat. His shirt was bunched up behind his head. Adele felt the corner of her lip twitch, and she eyed him.
They had gone swimming once before, back at Robert’s estate. But it had been dark at the time. Now, in the heat of the basement room, John’s chest was revealed. She had always known he had burn marks along the underside of his chin, down his neck, but Adele hadn’t realized just how far the wound traveled.
Criss-crossing patterns of scar tissue ornamented the entire left side of his torso, curling under his arm and down to the edge of his waist. The burn mark seemed to coil as John breathed, twisting like the scaled hide of some snake. Beneath the burn, and around, it was evident John spent time in the gym—his muscles slick with sweat beneath the single naked bulb dangling from the fixture above.
“Like what you see?” he said, a purr to his voice.
Adele cleared her throat and blinked. She tore her gaze away from the wound, looking at John. The handsome agent’s eyes were hooded and his dark hair was combed back out of his face. He looked the picture of comfort, despite the burn wound, as he returned her gaze.
“Does it… does it hurt?” she asked, gently, still meeting his eyes.
“Every single day,” he said with a shrug. “Are you here to admire the view or taste the local cuisine?” He jangled his glass in her direction and nodded toward the makeshift distillery across from the couch, edged against the wall. Adele had been here before, and noticed that John had recently added to his collection of beakers, sugar tanks, and spouts. She didn’t know much about moonshine, but from what little she’d tasted before, she certainly approved.
Adele’s gaze flickered to the edge of the couch, her eyes flitting to a small glass frame. Instead of a painting or a photo, though, the portrait displayed a single metallic emblem attached to a ribbon.
Adele blinked.
“Is that a Légion d’Honneur?” she said automatically.
John noticed her attention and quickly reached out, knocking the thing off the couch and behind it, wedging it against the wall.
Stunned at the cavalier way he treated the French military’s highest medal of honor, Adele ventured, “Is that yours?”
John grunted, his eyes still hooded. “Not mine,” he said. “They gave it to me, but it isn’t mine.”
The only other ornamentation John kept in the room were the two pictures of a group of men. All wearing desert fatigues, all members of the Commandos Marine, the French Navy SEALs. The pictures were worn and sun-stained, and yet placed in positions of honor above the couch, where John could see them while lying down.
“How did you get that wound?” Adele said, softly, nodding toward Agent Renee.
John rolled his shoulders and took a long sip from his glass. “Which wound are you talking about?”
Adele murmured, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want.”
John laughed and shook his head. “I’m not embarrassed, American Princess. Here, it’s not a pretty story, you’ll need a drink.”
He got to his feet and approached the distillery, pressed a spigot, and poured the clear liquid into a spare red cup kept upside down on the wooden counter. He brushed past Adele and handed her the cup. As he passed her, she was reminded again just how tall he was. She found herself looking up at him, her eyes trailing the edge of his chin, down to the scar, then up into his brooding gaze.
“Helicopter crash,” he said, simply. “My stupid ass couldn’t fly in a straight line. Hit by enemy ordinance.” He shrugged. “A lot of good soldiers died on my watch.”
“They don’t tend to give Légion d’Honneurs out for being a bad pilot,” said Adele.
John quieted a bit, going stiff. He took another long sip from his glass and said, “I can’t pretend to know why they do what they do. But that Légion d’Honneur was earned by others, I’m just keeping it safe for them.”
Adele wanted to press further, for the sake of curiosity, but thought this would be an unusual cruelty, and instead switched tack.
She took another sip from the glass and winced. “Stronger than before.” The drink singed her lips, and started with a burning sensation, but it became mercifully sweet and mellow as it went down.