The Duke's Sins | ongoing

Names and Labels

4~ names and lables

After my night with the man with no name, I couldn't find anyone to light my skin the same way. I looked at Dave and all I saw was two eyes—each a different colour.

"Shit," he groaned, his hold over my hips tightening.

I sighed with the release, dropping down onto the bed in exhaustion.

Pressing a chaste kiss to my shoulder, he slipped off the bed, returning his attention to the file he'd brought me.

My name is Julie Williams. I am a widower and have recently been invited to attend a formal fund-raising event in the name of my late husband.

Bullshit.

"Who's going to believe that I'm a widower?" I stood up, throwing a t-shirt over my head. "Do I look like a Russian's widower?"

"Of course not." Dave chuckled. "But you need some kind of cover."

"Where's the real Julie Williams, anyway?"

He paused for a second. "She's been taken care of."

My eyebrows shot up but I kept my lips sealed, not wanting to know about the dirty laundry of our seniors.

Dave was a friend. One that I occasionally met between the sheets—either his bed or mine—it didn't matter. As a spy, I spent the majority of my years being called Sphinx instead of Delilah and living in hotels instead of the comfort of my own home.

A companion in the bedroom was the least I could ask for.

To the real world and my family, I was Delilah Rossi but, in this industry, Sphinx was my only identity.

I huffed. "Okay fine. I'll go through the rest of the details and then meet you at the airport."

"Sure."

I threw on my reading glasses as soon as he left, burying myself into the pages of Julie William and her sad story.

Dead husband. The owner of billions. And a fund-raising event in Russia. It all sounded simple enough until I remembered what the real task was.

A group of individuals had been responsible for thirty-seven deaths in the UK and one of the members was going to attend the same fundraising event that I—Julie Williams—was holding for her late husband.

•••

I felt my nerves climb, an unfamiliar sense of dread settling in my gut.

"Relax." Dave kept his eyes glued to his phone as we dragged our suitcases behind us. The breeze was cool and bit at my cheeks, the iciness snapping me back to reality. We were in Russia and I was Julie Williams.

Simple.

The driver stepped out of the sleek black vehicle, placing our luggage into the boot. I hurried into the warmth of the car, desperate to flee from the winter air.

"You and Dimitri Borgov met in the French Alps three years ago." Dave read through the script, reminding me of the details. "Although he was twice your age, the two of you hit off immediately. He was very dear to you which is why you're raising money for the awareness of cardiac arrest."

I hummed, fanning myself with a magazine. "Poor Dimitri. Oh, how I miss him."

"Yes, yes. Poor Dimitri. The man we're after is on the second floor, room number five."

I shot him a look.

"Just in case."

Before I knew it, we were checking into the hotel, the spacious lobby silent as the clock struck midnight.