She peered down into the black water, straining for any sight of him. Her arms wrapped about her waist, tight, as if to hold herself back from jumping into the river and searching for him. Vile as the Thames was, she’d readily swim it to find him and end the doubt that clutched at her stomach. But she couldn’t. She had to stand here in the shadows, her only company a corpse that eerily resembled Jack, and wait.

God—it had been too long. “Where is he?” she muttered. A hundred fears assailed her with their sharp, poisoned claws.

A darker shape appeared in the water. The chains around her stomach eased, then she growled in frustration. Only a large river rat swimming through the refuse that floated atop the Thames.

Then—something broke the surface, gasping. It moved toward the bank.

She threw off her cloak and hurried down the waterman’s steps leading to the river. A man swam toward her. Jack. He didn’t appear to be injured, either. Thank God. Relief robbed her of breath, as though a fist squeezed her lungs.

Dropping to her knees, she reached out, grasping his arms, and attempted to haul him out of the river. She panted with the effort. He did indeed weigh sixteen stone, if not more. Both she and Jack struggled to get him onto the shore. Finally, with a heave and groan, he pushed himself out of the water.

She fell backward, with him sprawled atop her. Long moments passed as they lay like this, him huge and wet, gasping, with enough presence of mind to brace himself on his elbows so his full weight didn’t crush her. The front of her dress was instantly soaked, and clung to her damply. The chill water smelled dank and fetid, but she hardly noticed the scent.

He was on her, his legs between hers, their bodies pressed close. His clothes were plastered to him, and with her own sticking to her skin, she felt everywhere the movement of his muscles, his raw animal strength. Their hearts seemed to be battering their way toward each other. His heat burned away the river’s chill.

They stared at each other, both still panting, their breath mingling, intimate as a confession. Hardly any light reached the riverbank, yet she was powerfully aware of the darkness and ferocity of his eyes, the hard contours of his face. His curved lips, so close to hers.

Pinned as she was beneath him, she could hardly move, yet didn’t want to. Not when he lowered his head just as she raised hers, and their mouths found each other.

Heat and hunger. It felt as though it had been years, not days, since last they kissed. Ravening need tore through her, its edge whetted by the press of his massive body, his demanding mouth. For all that they lay upon a grimy, wet slab of stone beside a musty river, she knew only his taste, his feel. The unfettered power of Jack.

She ought to have been terrified or intimidated. He was so much bigger than her, so phenomenally strong. Yet desire made her strong, too, every bit his equal. She squirmed her hands free and wove her fingers into his wet hair. A low, deep rumble resonated from his chest and into her.

Yet he pulled away with a feral sound. He rolled onto his back, leaving her wet and chilled. They both lay there, panting, staring up at the night sky dulled by clouds, listening to the slap of the water against the stone landing. She risked a look at his groin. His cock was clearly outlined through his damp clothes, and she tucked her hands beneath her to keep from reaching for him.

He laid his arm over his eyes, his hand clenched into a fist. “Bloody buggering hell,” he said roughly.

“Exactly,” she answered.

It would be easy to blame their kiss on the excitement and uncertainty of the night, but she’d been on assignments equally exciting and uncertain with other Nemesis agents. She hadn’t clawed hungrily at any of them afterward. Only Jack roused this mad need, this loss of control.

She struggled upright, her body feeling oddly heavier without him atop her.

“It worked, then,” she said.

“Rockley saw me, his man gave chase, and I made sure he thought he plugged me. I heard him on the edge of the Embankment, looking to see if I surfaced. So I floated like a corpse for a minute—out of shooting distance—before sinking down again.” He grunted as he rose to standing. Wincing, he adjusted his cock, and her cheeks heated at the matter-of-fact way he handled himself. A sudden image of him with his cock in his hand made her mouth dry, her breasts feel tight and sensitive. Did he ever do that? Touch himself in the middle of the night? And did he think of her when he did it?

God, she might lose consciousness if she considered it.

She started to rise. He stuck out his broad hand, offering assistance. Normally, she refused such gestures from men, but she couldn’t seem to pass up any opportunity to touch him. She slid her much smaller hand into his, shivering at the sensation of his rough palm against hers. As easily as he might heft a puff of milkweed, he pulled her to her feet.

“You’re all wet,” he said, staring at the front of her dress. His gaze avidly took in how the fabric molded to her body, her breasts and hips.

“Because of you.”

A hot light burned in his eyes. She was certain that same light burned in hers. But there was more to do this night, and she needed her wits. She turned away.

Good Lord, there was a corpse at the top of the waterman’s steps, not fifteen feet away, and she’d been writhing around with Jack, not even caring. He was an opiate.

“Dawn’s nearly here,” she said.

He shook himself like a dog, scattering water, then pushed his wet hair out of his face. “Let’s finish this job.”

They climbed up the slick stairs, his boots squishing with each step. It struck her then how dangerous his part had been tonight. He could just as easily have drowned in the perilous river as been hit by a bullet.

At the top of the stairs, the body waited for them, sprawled upon the ground. The night was cool, but not as cold as it had been in the morgue. Decay would set in soon, and rigor mortis.

“Give me your gun.” Jack held out his hand.

“I’ve shot it before,” she objected. “I’ve even hit people.”

“Shooting a dead man’s a nasty business, and I don’t want you doing it.”

She considered holding on to her revolver, then, sighing, passed the weapon to him. “The bodyguard shot three times.”

“Lost count on my way into the water.” He stood beside the body, cocked the gun’s hammer, and pressed the muzzle to the corpse’s chest.

“Wait!”

Frowning, he lowered the gun. “What?”

She gathered up her cloak, forming it into a bundle. “Put this over the muzzle. It ought to dampen the sound.”

“It’ll ruin your cloak.”

What an odd streak of consideration he possessed. “Need a new one, anyway.”

He did as she suggested, placing the bunched-up cloak between the gun and the body. “Sorry, mate,” he said to the corpse. Then he fired. He put one more bullet into the cadaver’s torso.

“Three shots,” she reminded him.

“I’m going to get him in the face so he’s harder to identify.” He sent her an apologetic look. “It’ll be messy.”

“Do whatever you have to.” Despite her bravado, she shut her eyes when he fired the last shot.

“Keep ’em closed,” he advised.

Though she didn’t quite take his advice, she kept her gaze on the toes of her boots while he picked up the body. From the corner of her eye, she saw him go back down the waterman’s steps, then heave the body into the river.

“All right, love,” he said, after coming back up the steps. “It’s done.” At least he didn’t chide her for not looking.

They both watched as the body drifted out farther into the water, then sank from view.

“Whoever he was,” she murmured, “I hope he absolves us.”

Jack turned away from the river. “That’s the problem with the dead. When we need their forgiveness, only thing they got for us is silence.”

The sun broke over the eastern horizon, spreading light like an illness. Eva and Jack began the long walk back to headquarters as London woke.

*   *   *

Jack studied his face in the cracked mirror as he ran the razor along his jaw. It wasn’t a pretty face, never had been, and he hadn’t been living a life of ease and luxury. Even when he scraped away the last of his stubble, he still looked rough and mean. The sort of man who’d once dominated underground boxing matches, dealing out vicious beatings on a weekly basis, and taking his share of punches, too. Who could shoot a corpse point-blank without a blotch on his conscience.

He’d fallen into bed with the first rays of dawn and slept deeply. His dreams had been only of Eva, and the depraved, filthy things he’d like to do with her.

Bending over his washbasin, he splashed water on his face, rinsing off the shaving soap. Didn’t some faiths believe you could just have a priest or preacher dunk you in water and you were reborn, clean down to your very soul? Religion never called to him, not when he was too busy trying to survive this life to think about the next one, but right now the idea of starting over, utterly spotless, was a tempting thought.

The door to his room opened. Eva stepped inside, her face shuttered. His back was to her, but he could see her in the mirror above the basin.

Her gaze moved over him, hot and quick. All he wore was his unbuttoned shirt and trousers, his braces hanging down. In the mirror, he watched her watching him, how her look caught on the span of his bared chest, then moved lower, lingering over his arse and down his legs. All the way to his bare feet, which made him feel oddly exposed. Big feet, he had, and hairy. More proof he was a brute, not a nice man.