Lazlo’s Last Stand

shirtsleeve. He was on the verge of saying something reassuring, but thought better of it. He was the one from whom she was trying so hard to hide her nervousness; she’d hate that he’d noticed.

He felt twinges of protectiveness to her and reminded himself that he’d trained her well, she had no reason for jitters.

That gave way to compassion. Anyone might be a bit nervous at the prospect of meeting the parents of the boss on whom she had a slight crush.

Then guilt: It was wrong of me to use her like this. Isn’t fair to her.

Although, damnation, he’d been careful to treat her with absolute decorum. Damned hard to do, too, when she was so incredibly beautiful. He could smell her hair, her skin, her own signature fragrance, that sweet, sassy scent that always made him think of warm tropical nights. Jasmine, perhaps?

“Dahling! There you are. Vere have you been, edes fiu? You terry-ble boy!”

The voice he both adored and dreaded soared across the crowded ballroom like the cry of an eagle. At his side, Lucia gave a start and threw him a look, half query, half alarm.

“That would be Mother,” he said resignedly, “obviously channeling the Gabor sisters.”

Lucia braced herself to meet the couple sweeping down upon them. To her the Honorable Andre Lazlo and his wife seemed to belong to another age, and the chamber music rising above the hum of genteel conversation a fitting accompaniment for them as they glided over the gleaming parquet floor. Lydia-Maria didn’t need a towering powdered wig, panniers and a black beauty spot artistically applied to her heart-shaped face in order to fit perfectly with the grand ballroom’s eighteenth-century splendor of carved paneling and gilded mouldings, cascading chandeliers and red velvet draperies. In her platinum pouf and shimmering white gown, with a neckline that plunged dangerously close to the limits of decency-Yes, Corbett, I see what you meant!-she seemed to glitter like the brightest diamond in a rococo setting.

Her husband, by contrast, seemed almost austere in his tux, even with a festive swath of red, white and blue ribbon across his chest. He was a tall man, regal in bearing, handsome in an ascetic sort of way, with silver-white hair and luxuriant moustache to match, and the ice-blue eyes he’d bequeathed to his younger son.

This is what Corbett will look like when he’s old, Lucia thought.

It gave her an odd feeling, as if she’d been allowed a tiny peek behind his facade.

She could almost hear the elder Lazlo’s heels click together as he took her hand and bowed over it with military precision, but was unprepared and had to stifle a nervous giggle when he kissed her hand and in the process let his eyes linger on her half-exposed bosom with an unmistakable twinkle of appreciation. She wanted, but couldn’t quite bring herself, to look at Corbett, to see if he’d noticed.

The introductions had barely concluded when Lucia saw Edward Lazlo heading toward them through the crowded ballroom, with pauses for handshakes and backslaps along the way. Glad-handing, Lucia’s father would have called it, like a politician on the campaign trail.

For all his charm and apparent popularity, Lucia had never managed to like Corbett’s older brother. Being around him gave her a feeling of clammy distaste, as if she’d inadvertently touched something slimy and cold. And, since she was the agency’s computer tech and he its controller, she had to spend a good bit more time in his company than she liked. She tried her best to hide the way she felt, of course, knowing how close the two brothers were. Knowing, too, that Corbett felt deeply indebted to Edward for financing Adam Sinclair’s efforts to clear him of the treason charge, back in their SIS days.

Hard to believe the man could ever have been guilty of so selfless and noble an act, she thought now as she endured his arrogant smile, the look of heavy-lidded appraisal as he took in her gown and cleavage, and the touch of his fat hand on her bare shoulder with a murmured, “How nice to see you, Lucia.”

Then for a while she slipped willingly into fifth-wheel status, wearing the stiff, meaningless smile of the outsider as she watched the four Lazlos draw together and become family. Corbett, of course, drew most of her attention; it was fascinating to see him in this context for the first time. She’d always been struck by how different the brothers were, but now she could see how and why that could be so. Corbett took after his father, both in looks and manner, while Edward favored his mother in much the same way. His body was shorter, softer and rounder than his younger brother’s, which was all sharp angles and hard planes, like his father’s. Edward’s face had the open, friendly plumpness of a happy cherub, while Corbett’s finely chiseled features seemed always veiled in shadows. And yet, watching, she could see genuine affection between the two brothers, as well as the deep respect both had for their parents.

Families, Lucia thought, suddenly missing hers. She was an outsider here, as she would expect to be. What gave her an unexpected pang of loneliness was the realization that she would be just as much an outsider in her own family now. She’d missed them terribly when she’d first moved to Paris, but over the years, visits to her parents’ home in the San Francisco suburb of Pleasant Hill had grown fewer and farther between. Now, on those rare trips to California, all she could think about was getting back to her apartment in Paris, her job…and Corbett. This was her home now, and the Lazlo Group was her family.

And the Lazlo Group-my family!-was being threatened. Someone was picking off their agents-my brothers and sisters!-one by one. Someone had tried twice to kill its founder and head, Corbett Lazlo. Someone was bombarding agency computers with horrifying e-mails.

And she’d been powerless to stop them.

The hum of genteel conversation, the tinkle of chamber music, the laughter and lights and Christmas cheer all faded into nothing as Lucia’s mind tugged and plucked at the puzzle knot that had frustrated her since midsummer. So far all her best efforts had done was teach her that it was far easier to be a hacker than to catch one.

Maybe, she thought, if I backtrack through…

“Hmm…are those pixels I see in your eyes, my dear?”

The quiet voice so near her ear gave her a start. Electric currents ran wild across her skin as she looked into Corbett’s brilliant blue eyes.

“Let’s not keep the ambassador waiting. Shall we?”

She laughed to cover her shiver and tucked her gloved hand into the crook of the arm he offered.

It was an hour or so later, maybe two-Lucia had lost all track of time-when she and Corbett left the embassy’s heavily secured courtyard and began to stroll along the rue du Faubourg St Honore. They walked slowly, close together, like lovers reluctant for the evening to end. The night had turned cold and raw. There were few people on the streets, though by Paris standards it wasn’t late. A nasty little wind riffled Lucia’s hair and curled freshly around her neck and under her skirt. She moved closer to Corbett’s side, telling herself it was permissible to do so, that they were supposed to look like lovers, after all. And she tried not to enjoy too much the warmth and closeness of his body, the smell of his jacket and aftershave.

A little ripple of something-perhaps a combination of pleasure and suspense-shivered through her. As if he’d felt it, Corbett pressed her arm, the one that was tucked through his, closer against his side, an odd little hug that may have been only encouragement but somehow felt more intimate than that.

“You did very well tonight,” he murmured, and his voice wasn’t soft like a lover’s, but had a slight rasp to it, as if the words didn’t come easily. “Handling-ah…dealing with…meeting my parents.”

She glanced up at his profile and saw the crease of a wry smile in his cheek, even as his narrowed eyes roamed the street and sidewalk ahead, missing nothing. “I thought they were wonderful,” she said sincerely, then shrugged. “Your mother especially. She seemed much younger than I know she must be. Your parents would be in their seventies, right? I assume-”

“Mother is seventy-six,” Corbett said. “My father will be seventy-nine in February.” He glanced at her, smiling that same wry smile. “By the way, I thought you did an admirable job of not bursting into a fit of giggles when he kissed your hand.”

“I wouldn’t have!”

“I was watching your face. You were on the verge, don’t tell me you weren’t.”

“He caught me by surprise,” Lucia said with dignity. “And his moustache tickled.”

Corbett laughed softly and gave her arm another of those strangely intimate little squeezes. Lucia felt the same shiver, and this time knew without a doubt that it was pleasure.

“I could have done without that little comment he made about me being-what was it? Oh, yes-‘a nice, healthy-looking vooman. Vith some meat on her bones.’ What, exactly, did he mean by that?”