The Palm Reader's Last Game

Mara traced the lifeline on Daniel's palm, her finger trembling just enough to sell the pretense. The café in Barcelona was thick with afternoon heat and the scent of oranges—his citrus perfume, she realized, not the fruit bowl between them. Three weeks of surveillance, and she still couldn't decide if he was brilliant or merely careless.

"Your friend," she said, letting the word hang like bait, "the one who hired you for the Valencia project—did you ever wonder why he chose you?"

Daniel laughed, pulling his hand back. He peeled an orange with practiced precision, the zest misting the air between them. "You're not the first spy who's tried to flip me, sweetheart. You're just the first one I actually liked."

Mara's stomach dropped. He'd known. All those late nights swimming in the hotel pool, those confidences shared over wine in the rooftop bar—he'd been playing her the entire time.

"Your employer," he continued, popping an orange segment into his mouth, "thinks I'm selling the bio-diesel formula to China. What they don't know is that I already sold it—to them. Two years ago. Through a shell company their own auditors approved."

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I've been feeding them their own intellectual property and charging them a premium for the privilege. The real question is: do you tell them, or do we split what I've siphoned from the offshore accounts?"

Mara studied him—really looked at him—for the first time since they'd met. His smile was genuine. He wasn't the enemy. He was the shark in the water, and he was offering to teach her how to swim.

"I need a drink," she said.

"I already ordered you one," Daniel said, sliding a glass toward her. "And don't worry about your employer. By the time you file your report, the money will be gone, the trail will be cold, and we'll be somewhere they'll never find us."

He extended his hand across the table, palm open. An invitation.

Mara took it.