Unholy Promises by Roxy Harte Page B

emanating merrily from the stereo. A spread of cheese and crackers, various dips, and bowls of dippable fruit and veggies beckon from my tabletop. It seems the office party followed me home.
    “Liam?” I call into the crowded living room, dropping my leather jacket on a wall peg.
    “Hey, love! Where’ve you been?” he asks, dropping a kiss on my cheek as he slides my holster and 9mm off my shoulders. “Sweet Jesus, you’re frozen solid! Go stand by the fire. You went running, didn’t you?”
    “Yeah, I needed … air,” I lie, not willing to divulge any information about my whereabouts tonight. We’re used to each other’s half-truths and outright lies by now. Six months of living together cured both of us of any misguided notions that we could actually be honest with each other.
    I smile, taking my weapon from him and sliding it into the top drawer of a small Queen Anne trestle table that stands beneath the coat hooks. Here, I smile. Here, especially, my smile keeps me alive.
    I have no doubts that his concern is genuine as he pushes me toward the fire, reprimanding me every step of the way for being out so long. Liam is the agency’s mother hen, and his accent, all rolling Rs and so pointedly English, lends well to his mothering.
    Entering the living room, I am relieved to find that the apartment isn’t nearly as crowded as I’d first thought. Matilda, Eric, Ben, James and Suzuki, all close friends, mingled in front of the stereo, arguing companionably over the music selection. None of them true couples, though they come in pairs more often than not. They tend to pair up as mood, base need or circumstances warrant. I envy them.
    They assume Liam and I a couple and, for all intents and purposes, they’d be correct.
    I’m not certain if he is in love. I mean, he proposed, it must be love. I don’t know, it’s an emotion I gave up long ago, but that part hardly matters, even the marriage isn’t the part that matters. It is the trust part, and to be honest, that has been the harder part earned. We are both agents, we lie to keep ourselves alive. It’s kind of hard to turn off and on. Most days, I’m not even sure what is truth and what is lie.
    I don’t love Liam. That I know is truth. I also know I need Liam to trust me, because only in his trust will I get my heart’s desire … Daniel free. That was the deal I made with Henri. Henri will help me extricate Daniel and rehabilitate him and I will make Liam believe that I am in love with him, make him believe that he is in love with me, even go as far as to marry him. Henri’s grand scheme that “will kill so many birds with one round of buckshot”. I’m not so certain about his reasoning on this one, though normally I would never question Henri.
    I shouldn’t feel responsible for Daniel, but I do, he’s Luka’s brother and, as far as I know, Luka was the only family he had, and now … because of me, he has no one. I know if Luka was alive, Daniel would not have made the unwise choices he’s made. I also know what it’s like to be stuck, to be controlled, to no longer be able to make decisions based on self. Yes, Daniel is the right hand of international crime lord, King Cobra, the direct opposite of my cage, top agent at WODC. A cage is a cage, regardless of which side of the law. As far as I’m concerned, we are the same person. I can’t get myself free, but I can and will get Daniel free.
    I will never forget the first time I saw him, or the last.
    The first time was right after Luka died. God, they were identical. I saw him going into a restaurant; I actually followed him inside, grabbing him from behind, and spinning him around and into my arms. I kissed him. That’s when I knew it wasn’t Luka. His kiss.
    So not like Luka. Amazing that two men could look so identical—walking, talking, appearance—but kiss so differently. Not bad, just different.
    The last time I saw him was at Whips. Last week. He is a regular.
    Sometimes, I sneak