Honeymoon with a Stranger Page 10

“I can’t say that it…did.” Her voice faltered on the lie.

  She knew he had a ton of secrets she should try her best to delve into, but instead felt content to let him keep them under the pretext that what she didn’t know couldn’t harm her.

  “I suppose it’s what any rational person would do considering the situation we’re in,” was all she could come up with.

  His abrupt laugh came back at her from a dozen directions as it ricocheted of the hard painted walls like a bullet gone wild, leaving nowhere to duck.

  “You could be right, chérie, but no one in their right mind would play a game where if you lose, you’re dead. Not unless the stakes were so high there was no getting out of it.”

  Roxie stayed silent, but in her heart she concurred that no sane person would associate with the Algerian or his cohorts.

  It had been a mad impulse by Mac to save her life, to claim her as his own when discovery meant certain death.

  She remembered the look in Yves’s eyes after her heel had stabbed down on his instep. She’d seen the shock and pain and, yes, murder in them as his hands had reached for her throat.

  If Mac hadn’t intervened she would be dead, no question.

  All the more reason for a sane person to escape.

  Mac’s hand swooped over the dip in her collarbone and came to rest on the curve of her shoulder, covering it like an epaulette.

  She wasn’t ready for the shudder of pleasure that followed, though previous experience should have taught her what to expect from the brush of his hand across her skin.

  They made a great pair. Mac diving into situations without any thought for his health, and she, who couldn’t stay away from him, knowing his touch drove her crazy.

  For heaven’s sake, she was twenty-four, way past puberty, no longer a teenager without a sensible bone in her body.

  Yet she kept coming back for more.

  What was sane about that?

  “You’re shivering. Get back to bed and this time go to sleep. Dream about the fourth member of the quartet turning up tomorrow, so we can all return to Paris.”

  To her it sounded like all the more reason to escape now; she had no wish to meet le patron.

  Then she wondered where Mac’s home was. His French accent was perfect. He was as comfortable in the language as she, and it was only occasionally she noticed a Stateside twang creep in such as when he’d bawled out Yves for molesting her.

  He turned her away from him, but not before she felt the hot, hard length under his shorts trail fire against her hip.

  “Go on now, scoot.” He patted her a couple of times on the butt to send her on her way.

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  She looked up over her shoulder and caught the wry twist of his lips as he said, “No, I was thinking along the lines of a cold shower.”

  Roxie swung round to stare up at him. Without her shoes on she felt tiny, vulnerable even, dwarfed not only by Mac’s height, but the massive width of his shoulders and the depth of his chest.

  She knew what she would see if she followed the light hair covering on his chest downward. Even as she held her breath, an overwhelming urge cried out to be heard.

  Offer to take care of it for him.

  Mac was giving her an out. Sending her away from temptation. Yet part of her, most of her, didn’t want to be protected from the desire that sizzled between the lines of every sentence they spoke.

  The bones of his face molded into a hard mask under the harsh overhead light. She had a feeling he was waiting for her to speak, as if he knew the tug-of-war going on in her brain.

  Her palms itched to smooth the pain of abstinence away.

  What was she waiting for? She only had to reach out.

  And then, what?

  If she gave in to her sexual urges once…she would do it again. Intuition told her that Mac was a man she would never get enough of, never drink her fill.

  When this was over, supposing she was still alive, would she ever get over him?

  She didn’t think so.

  With a Gallic shrug of her shoulders she walked to the exit as if her heart wasn’t pounding nineteen to the dozen, and casually managed to say, “Enjoy your shower.”

  Closing the door behind her, she leaned back against its cold wooden panels and heaved a sigh of relief. When her heart settled down to a more normal rhythm she skipped across the icy floor and dived into bed.

  She would survive another night in the attic.

  As she snuggled under the quilts she concentrated on listening for the shower to run, imagining how he’d look.

  And for a long time all she could hear was the pulse of blood surging through her temple.

  Separated from Mac, she filed away the knowledge that once more she’d had a close escape, though not life-threatening.

  She was no match for Mac under any circumstances.

  He had too much of everything she felt she lacked, not just width and height, but force of character.

  The courage to say what he meant instead of pretending, like her, that she had enough courage to step in front of a gun and save someone’s life.

  Mac had all the qualities of her grandparents’, qualities her papa had emulated and died for. All the dangerous character traits Grandmère had tried to stamp out of Roxie.

  Thank God she hadn’t succeeded.

  Though Roxie’s heart had been pounding when she stepped up and enveloped Yves’s hand in the napkin filled with ice, at least he hadn’t been able to shoot Mac.

  Though, she doubted, acting gallant and brave, the way her grandparents had done in the Resistance, would convince Mac he’d met his match in her.

  Mac’s skin was so cold it was hardly worthwhile slipping into his jeans and jacket. Only the thought of being caught outside the attic by one of the Frenchmen, particularly Yves, sent him scrambling into his clothes.

  Roxie’s even breathing assured him that this time she had fallen asleep. At first glance no one would think Roxie had the guts to do what she had tonight.

  Stealing that metal skewer from under Yves’s nose had either taken skill, or the luck of the devil.

  The Frenchman had been so close to strangling Roxie.

  Damn, he should have realized that Yves hadn’t taken his eyes off her while she finished preparing the evening meal.

  Tonight he’d take the knife in case he ran into Yves.

  So far, nothing about this mission had been easy.

  Mac grunted with relief that Roxie’s efforts hadn’t ruined the lock, and once outside, he locked the door behind him.

  Last night when Thierry informed him who owned the château, he’d explained it lay in the Loire Valley, the vicinity of Angers. With any luck, Thierry would have more for him tonight, such as news about Roxie.

  Mac flicked the blade open.

  Made of a black alloy so it wouldn’t gleam under street or moonlight, it was almost invisible in the dark.

  Should he meet up with Yves, it would be no holds barred. The Frenchman would never see what sliced him, or be able to report whose hand had wielded the knife.

  That was the thing about death—it was ultimately silent.

  Chapter 8

  If anyone was under the impression that the night belonged to lovers, Mac McBride could prove them wrong. In the wee small hours, under the cover of darkness, the Joe Citizens who were up to no good owned the world.

  That’s where people like Mac came in.

  They policed the night.

  Over the years, he had lost track of how many hours he’d racked up between midnight and dawn, when the earth’s denizens came out to play.

  The trick in not being frightened to embrace darkness lay in remembering that night wasn’t an entity in itself, simply an absence of light.

  Leaving the attic, he walked down the stairs to the floor below them and took the corridor that branched to his left, picking a room that was two floors above the kitchen and on the opposite corner of the house.

  He
hadn’t figured out exactly where the video recorder and listening equipment were housed, but it had to be a room on the first floor. Zukah avoided climbing stairs whenever possible.

  From the bedroom window Mac had a lower view of the road that passed the end of the driveway than he had from the attic.

  For all Zukah had rushed them inside when they first arrived, the highway looked to carry few if any vehicles during the night.

  Mac punched in the speed-dial code for Thierry’s number. As he waited for him to respond, he wondered how many country creatures he’d disturbed with the ring tone.

  He counted, one, two, three…four—

  “Thierry here.”

  “Bon soir, Thierry, I hope I haven’t been keeping you up?”

  “What happened? You’re late tonight.”

  “My little companion had trouble falling asleep. In fact, she decided to do a little breaking and entering in reverse. Though, she assured me she would have wakened me to leave with her once she’d picked the lock.”

  Thierry’s laughter echoed through the earpiece. “I thought a man of your considerable charms would have had her around your thumb by now. What happened?”

  Mac told how he’d managed to get them out of the attic, then got down to business. “By the way, her surname is Kincaid. Were you able to get anything on her?”

  “On her, I have nothing, sorry. And Sevarin looks as if he’s hiding in his house, so we haven’t been able to tap his phone.”

  Mac’s mind started racing. “We need to know if he’s in charge or only a tool. Have you checked out others working under him in the Defense Department?”

  “We’re working on it. We know he was the one who supposedly put a stop to the Green Shield trials and destroyed the weapon. Seemingly the project was his bébé.”

  “It must have been tough to destroy something he’d had going for years. Yeah, it would be his baby. Not a disgruntled scientist selling his work as we thought. What about Sevarin’s bank accounts, have we accessed them?”

  “Yes. He’s been spending freely over the last few months. A new mistress, one who, by the way, loves to shop at Charles Fortier’s.”

  An icy blade of pain cut into the back of Mac’s neck. He stalked the empty corner bedroom, stopping by the window. “Not…”

  “No. Not named Roxie. Madeleine Saber.”

  Mac stared into the darkness, surprised by the relief that flooded him. He let his mind drift for a moment.

  Most of the trees in the big garden had already lost their leaves. What would it be like to live in a world where the trees never had leaves again?

  Where there was no spring and no autumn because Green Shield’s microorganism didn’t die with the plants it destroyed. It lay dormant in the ground, waiting to pounce once more.

  “So, Thierry, our SAC, Cliff Eagles, is making progress?”

  “He personally gave me the news.”

  Mac thought about it. What happened if Sevarin was taken out before the Algerian closed the deal? His and Roxie’s lives would be worth a bent nickel.

  “We have to get them all at one swoop, Thierry. Explain to Eagles that there’s still the chance of a civilian casualty if it blows up in our face. I want to get Zukah and Sevarin in the same net,” he instructed.

  “I always wondered how the Algerian made such a leap up the arms-dealer rankings,” Mac mused aloud. “When you think of it, who but an amateur would place their hostages in their own home?”

  Then he remembered the woman he’d left sleeping in his bed. “Write up Roxie Kincaid as top priority. It’s time I knew just who I’m dealing with there.”

  “Don’t worry, Mac, as soon as we hang up, I’ll be on to it. They’ve already made a start. The security in the couturier’s is tight. Guess they have their own kind of spies to deal with.”

  Mac walked to the door, opened it and looked out into the dark corridor. Nothing stirred. “Guess so, Thierry. Later today, I’ll look for a way to contact you.

  “I can’t use the digital phone in the attic, even in the bathroom. It might interfere with the listening devices. If you don’t hear from me within twenty-four hours, or if they take Sevarin in, come and get us,” Mac said, then hung up.

  Swapping the phone for the knife, Mac did some more exploring, looking for the listening equipment, but it was still a mystery.

  He made it back without incident, and within minutes he was shedding his clothes, crawling into bed beside Roxie as the clouds filling the sky outside the window began turning the color of old pewter.

  Roxie was lying on her stomach, cheeks flushed and hair tousled like an innocent child’s. He propped the pillow behind his shoulder and lay there staring at her.

  If the mission went awry, as some of his British counterparts called it, what would happen to her?

  He groaned, thumped the pillow, stuffing it under his neck as he closed his eyes, throwing his arm across them with his elbow up in the air. Soon, it would be light enough for the camera to catch them on tape again.

  Mac could hide his eyes, but he couldn’t run from the thoughts in his head.

  In his mind he reached out and touched Roxie as she had appeared in the bathroom. Skimpy lace pants and camisole. No bra.

  She didn’t need one. Her breasts were high and firm and just the right fit for his palm.

  He skipped that thought and started from the beginning. How long had it taken her to lose her shyness?

  Less than twenty-four hours? But, she wasn’t his hostage, so the Stockholm syndrome didn’t apply. Yet, they had this love-hate relationship going on.

  In one way he was pleased she had enough spunk to attempt an escape, but he couldn’t allow it.

  That presented more dangers than keeping her in his bed.

  He was questioning whether to tell her the truth about himself. Civilian or agent, would she give him away if the dice fell badly?

  Could he trust her not to sell him out for a get-home-free pass?

  Mac didn’t think so.

  Could he—no, should he—bind her to him emotionally?

  It wouldn’t be hard—they were already sleeping together, and she was attracted—but it smacked of the dirty-tricks brigade.

  He’d never been one of those guys who rated their performance in bed, though he’d never had many complaints, always remembering it was ladies first, and sometimes second and third.

  He’d had good manners drummed into him. McBrides do this and McBrides don’t do that. There was a lot of family history riding on his back and surprisingly some of it had stuck.

  Of course he had sense enough to save the pretty-pleases for the ladies. The terrorists and others he dealt with never saw that side of him. He was as hard-assed an agent as any around.

  That came with the territory.

  The problem with Roxie was, he still hadn’t decided which category she fell under.

  She had this annoying trend he hadn’t come up against before. Roxie could turn his loins hard with a touch or drive him crazy to possess her with a look.

  In Mac’s books, that made her a dangerous proposition.

  Yeah, he was more than heavily into lust, he was entrenched in it. Which could make things awkward if Thierry discovered the Roxie she’d told him about didn’t exist.

  Did it make Roxie Kincaid a pathetic case because she was happy Mac was still sleeping beside her when she woke up?

  She’d been dreaming about him.

  One of those dreams where the person you were trying to catch took off on a bus or a train before you could board it. But now she was awake and he was still here.

  She rolled onto her back before he could wake up and catch her gawping at him. When she thought through her escape attempt, she felt humiliated that it had been so poorly done.

  A better plan was needed. One she could present to Mac for his approval before putting it into action.

  For a few minutes she thought of Grandmère. Such a long stretch of time had passed since her grandmother’s day
. Wars were simpler then. The electronic age had taken the excitement out of close escapes and stealing people away from under the noses of the Gestapo.

  Her grandparents’ adventures seemed mixed with the innocence of youth—Grandmère had been fifteen when the British Army Intelligence sent her grandfather to France.

  These were harsher, more complicated times where you wouldn’t recognize your enemy if you saw him on the street.

  If only she knew what was behind Mac’s reluctance to leave.

  Her thoughts darted around, unable to settle. She had no idea of the time. With no sun in the sky, it was impossible to guess how far into another dull, gray day they had progressed.

  Mac’s left arm came up across his eyes.

  He was wearing his watch. If she sat up she could read the large face and see whether it was closer to nine than noon.

  Pulling the sheet with her to cover her body, she pushed up on one arm, leaning over to check Mac’s watch.

  Almost eleven. That’s what happened when half the night had been spent in an abortive attempt to pick a lock.

  “Hey, how you holding up?” Mac’s arm slid away and his gaze held her hers. His eyes were plain amber this morning, sleepy, bracketed by laughter lines at the corners, and too darn sexy for his own good.

  “Phew.” A sigh echoed in her head. It looked like he wasn’t holding a grudge over her abortive effort to fly the coop.

  Roxie lifted his wrist. “According to your watch I slept well. Breakfast time has come and gone.”

  A smile teased his mouth, which made her insides thrill and shortened her breath. “Looks like we’ll be doing brunch today.”

  So this was what it would feel like to wake up in bed with a lover. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to lean over and brush his lips with hers, and she made it halfway there and back again when she remembered.

  This wasn’t her lover.

  She flicked her aberration off with a slick remark. “Or maybe I’ll do a Marie Antoinette and tell them to eat cake.”

  Mac’s hand shot out to cup her neck, destroying the fragile balance she’d achieved on one arm.

  His breath grazed her cheek, then her ear as she tumbled on top of his chest. Her weight wasn’t enough to make him flinch, and she wished she could summon up the same kind of nonchalance Mac exuded.