Honeymoon with a Stranger Read online

  Heat radiated through the lace of her camisole. Against her crushed breasts, she felt the thud of his heart, slow, steady, strong, a powerhouse driving the blood through his veins.

  Her heart raced to catch up before he left her behind.

  There was an intimacy to being this close to him that went beyond sexual.

  Her breath locked in her throat as his lips brushed the tender skin behind the curve of her jaw, then his teeth pinched her earlobe. It wasn’t pain that brought her back to reality.

  It was Mac’s whisper. “Once more for the cameras.”

  Roxie’s mind knew it was just an act when his mouth covered hers, but it forgot to tell her heart.

  His lips were urgent, compelling. They slipped past her guard without raising a whimper in protest, opening the way for his tongue to forage.

  What that man could do with an instrument designed for eating and speaking was out of this world.

  Her body felt enervated. She lay on top of him like a lax lump of clay he could fashion at will, hardly able to crack open her heavy eyelids once he deprived her of his mouth. He was breathing harder, as if he, too, had gotten caught up in their game.

  The glitter appeared in his gold irises. This close she recognized it as the hard glint of bullion, not the molten metal.

  An icy sheen of inflexibility spilled into his words, sharp enough to score the small space of air between them as if it were made of glass. “Wanna take a shower with me, chérie?”

  She drew a harsh breath through her nose, trapping her true feelings behind her teeth until she could speak without showing them. “Not today, chéri. I don’t feel like sharing this morning.”

  The whole weight of her body was behind the thrust that pushed her to her knees and out of bed onto the cold, bare floorboards.

  She was halfway across the floor, wearing nothing but what she’d slept in, when she realized she was putting on a show for the boys downstairs.

  It was all she could do not to poke a face at the camera in her rush for the safety of the bathroom.

  It wasn’t until hot jets of water pummeled her head and neck that she was able to stop analyzing every wrong move she’d made.

  So she’d gotten carried away, she was only human.

  Only someone who had been on the receiving end of one of Mac’s kisses could know how invasive the sensations his mouth evoked could be.

  She would be foolish to let her conscience drag her over the coals for falling under his spell.

  Roxie Kincaid wouldn’t be the first female to be swayed by his silent powers of persuasion.

  What hurt her most of all was the belief that she wouldn’t be the last.

  The mood in the kitchen wasn’t conducive to cooking quality food. If Roxie had been preparing soufflés they would have come out pancakes.

  Mac’s sullen expression made her stomach sink. He’d spent the day grumbling to Zukah about le patron not showing up.

  Then when the Algerian disappeared, Mac grabbed a bottle of wine from the rack, his dark, ominous glowers daring anyone to question his right to it.

  The farther the wine sank in the bottle, the heavier the atmosphere in the kitchen became.

  Yves prowled, alternatively casting if-looks-could-kill scowls from under his black brows in the direction of her or Mac.

  The least little noise either of them made appeared to provoke his disapproval.

  Jean-Luc seemed the only one oblivious to the gathering storm. She felt as if she’d been sucked into a weather front, forming a low depression filled with ominous black clouds.

  After discovering the cupboards were practically bare, she chopped up what steak and vegetables she could find, intending to make Boeuf bourguignon. To make something out of nothing.

  With five to feed, the last two loaves she’d pulled from the freezer weren’t going to stretch far.

  Hearing the clink of glass, she looked over her shoulder in time to see Mac pour another glass of red wine.

  It ticked her off to think she was slaving away over the clichéd hot stove, browning the meat, while he was drinking his way toward salvation in the bottom of a glass.

  And he would still expect to share her bed.

  That did it.

  Roxie marched up to the kitchen table, filled with enough righteous indignation to swamp all thoughts of self-preservation.

  She snatched up the neck of the dark-green bottle, ending up in a tug-of-war over it as Mac wrapped his fist round the other end. Red wine sloshed around the punt in the bottom of the bottle in a way that should have shown Mac there wasn’t enough left in the vessel worth fighting for.

  “Who said you could have a glass?” Mac’s demand was surly, but the gleam in his eye as she tugged the bottle away made her wonder if the alcohol had made a dent in his sobriety.

  “I want it for the sauce. You can’t make Boeuf bourguignon without red wine.”

  “Have it, then.” Mac released his firm grip.

  The bottle was all hers, but as the bottle recoiled she had to step backward to maintain her balance.

  Mac wasn’t looking.

  The legs of his chair scraped across the flagstones as he pushed it back. “Hey, Yves, where’s the nearest little boy’s room? I need to use the john.”

  As if by way of demonstration, Mac staggered a little, leaning both palms flat on the table to stop swaying.

  He might have fooled Yves, but not Roxie.

  “Jean-Luc will show you. There’s a cloakroom off the foyer.”

  Mac was up to something. And it had to be something important if Mac was willing to leave her alone with Yves. She only hoped it wasn’t dangerous.

  She didn’t fancy being left alone in the kitchen with Yves.

  To complete the recipe, she needed a heavy iron Dutch oven to transfer the meat into while she browned the vegetables and made the sauce.

  She’d noticed one on a shelf in the pantry sitting below the high window she’d considered climbing through.

  Yves’s gaze was fixed on Mac and Jean-Luc as they left. She’d feel safer if Zukah was in the kitchen, but she took the opportunity to tuck the small vegetable knife inside her sleeve.

  She ducked into the deep pantry before Yves could turn around.

  The person who had arranged the shelves had to be taller than Roxie. Even in her heels she couldn’t easily reach the double-handled pot, so she dragged out an old wooden crate, carefully checking if it would take her weight before standing on it.

  At full stretch she had just enough height to lift the Dutch oven with both hands.

  Fingers curling round the loops that served as handles, she raised it a few inches above her head.

  Something touched her calf.

  She went dead still. No, it wasn’t her imagination, something was sliding up the inside of her knee. Higher. Something warm.

  Higher.

  Roxie screamed. The Dutch oven glanced off her shoulder as it fell and all hell broke loose.

  Mac had a harder head for wine than he’d made out.

  He kept up the act as Jean-Luc accompanied him into the foyer and pointed out the cloakroom Mac had discovered on his first nighttime reconnaissance.

  The door Jean-Luc had directed him to lay to the left of the entrance, with the toilet facilities through a second door.

  The hand basin and mirror came first, but neither room featured windows. As soon as the lights came on a fan took care of recirculating the air.

  Grabbing the door handle, Mac shouldered his way clumsily through the first of the doors, turning as he reached the second to see Jean-Luc behind him.

  Mac had calculated that problem into his plans when he’d thought of a way to call Thierry on his secure cell phone.

  It had taken most of the afternoon to make a well-thought-out opportunity seem like a natural occurrence.

  The wine in the rack had been a godsend, but knocking off a whole bottle in one fell swoop was too boorish to be realistic, so he’d sipped, taking his time, inst
ead of gulping too fast.

  Pretending to be a melancholy drunk had been entertaining. Boy, had it set Yves’s teeth on edge to watch a slob consume one of the most expensive wines in the rack.

  There wasn’t room for two men in the small cloakroom, but getting angry about it wasn’t the way to get rid of Jean-Luc.

  With the other door half open behind him, Mac looked Jean-Luc up and down and smiled in a way that challenged the Frenchman’s manhood. “You coming to hold my hand?”

  Jean-Luc’s hand went to his pocket, but Mac wasn’t worried. He knew that’s where the guy kept the dark cigarettes that Zukah had forbidden him to smoke inside.

  The Frenchman pulled a soft crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket; they were vaguely reminiscent of the first smokes Mac had tried as a kid, before he knew better.

  “I’ll be right outside the entrance taking a smoke. Don’t try anything stupid.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere,” he drawled. Just to make an important phone call.

  After that morning’s close call in bed, Mac knew he was near breaking point when it came to Roxie. He had to be certain of her identity before crossing a line that might damn him for a fool the rest of his life.

  She was getting through to him. He wanted her the way he’d wanted his first car, a red Mustang.

  He’d lusted after that car for two years.

  He had less patience now and less available time.

  Roxie was either a saint or a sinner, or somewhere in between the two—another agent. He’d take either the first or the last; anything in the middle he’d throw to the wolves.

  The scream echoed along the corridor from the kitchen before he could close the door on Jean-Luc. It was followed by an almighty crash that made the hairs of his neck stand on end.

  Roxie!

  Jean-Luc had a head start, but Mac was faster, shouldering him out the way. At first glance, the kitchen looked empty and he imagined her carted off over Yves’s shoulder.

  A growl came from the pantry. A low female growl, dragged from the throat he’d kissed that morning.

  “Cochon! Crapaud!” The names were delivered with loathing.

  Mac dived for the pantry, Jean-Luc’s footsteps on his heels. He thrust aside the door, bouncing it off the wall.

  The second time he set the barrier aside with more deliberation and took in the scene. Yves clutched Mac’s own gun, the Makarov.

  Damn, did the guy realize how sensitive its trigger was? Mac thought as he noticed a tremor in the hand holding the gun aimed at Roxie’s head.

  She knelt on the floor, surrounded by a welter of pots and broken dishes, defending what Mac presumed was her honor with a small knife.

  For a second that lasted a lifetime, Mac hesitated.

  Then he did exactly what he’d sworn never to do. He stepped between Roxie and the gun.

  Chapter 9

  The Makarov dropped to the floor, firing when it hit, missing Mac’s leg by inches and slamming into the doorjamb.

  Mac’s mouth twisted in contempt as Yves yelped. Satisfied that until he recovered from the paralyzing grip he’d put on the Frenchman’s wrist, Yves wouldn’t be pointing a gun at Roxie again anytime soon.

  As his ears stopping ringing, he heard Roxie moan, but he had no time to check. First he needed to clear the place of Zukah’s wiseguys.

  Putting all his strength behind the blow, he slashed the edge of his hand across Yves’s throat as he began reaching for a knife. In Mac’s book, two cents of prevention was better than a dollar’s worth of cure, any day.

  The guy crumpled without making a sound.

  In one continuous movement, Mac relieved him of the knife, then whirled to face Jean-Luc.

  It was easily seen why Yves had been left in charge. Quick thinking didn’t appear to be part of Jean-Luc’s repertoire.

  The only thing the other Frenchman had in his hands was the pack of cigarettes he’d pulled when Mac ushered him from the cloakroom.

  Mac threw Jean-Luc the same smile that had intimidated him then, but cut it with a lethal edge, flashing the blade of the knife he’d retrieved from Yves. “Are you up for it, mon ami?”

  “I don’t want trouble, Monsieur. I have no quarrel with you.”

  Jean-Luc backed away as he spoke, hands open to show he wasn’t armed. “Yves talks big but he was stupid. He let your woman get under his skin because she made him lose face. Last night all he spoke of was what he’d like to do to her. Now he knows she is as hard to handle as you.”

  Mac threw a quick glance over his shoulder. “How you holding up, chérie?”

  “Just peachy fine, chéri. I wondered when you would be interested.”

  Her voice came from behind him, curling round his senses like a hot woman. His body stirred and he laughed. “Oh, I’m interested, all right. I just had to take care of a few bad guys first, but you might say my interest is riding high and hard. Pass me that gun up from the floor, chérie.”

  Her hand reached between his feet and picked up the gun.

  “Hold it real carefully now,” he told her. “We don’t want it going off again.”

  He had the Makarov back in his fist where it belonged by the time Zukah puffed onto the scene. “What is going on?”

  Mac touched the spring and closed the knife. It went into his pocket. He was certain Yves wasn’t carrying the Glock as well, but it would do no harm to check.

  “Is he carrying anything else dangerous and noisy?” he asked as he reached down to pull Roxie to her feet. She came up easily, placing her hand round his waist.

  He could feel her tremble, but she was braving it out. She flicked Yves’s jacket open with the toe of her boot, but there was no sign of a shoulder holster.

  Flattening her mouth against her teeth as if in distaste, she rolled the man on the floor over with an upward thrust of her foot under his shoulder then tromped on the small of his back.

  “No gun, only this,” she said grimly, picking up the key off the floor.

  Her voice was low and slightly shaky, without its earlier bravado, as she looked up at him to whisper, “Mac, he touched me.”

  A low growl let loose from the back of Mac’s throat. Zukah backed away, giving as wide a berth to the fire in Mac’s eyes as he did the pistol in his hand, as he and Roxie stepped over Yves.

  “You ought to choose your friends with more care, Monsieur Zukah. Yves has been putting his hands where he shouldn’t. Trying to get into the cookie jar, if you get my meaning.”

  Flustered, the Algerian began blowing hot air, “I assure you I had no idea….”

  “Can it, no excuses. For you the fun part is now over. Come on, chérie, let’s get out of here.” Mac swung her up into his arms, for the second day in a row, achieving his goal without losing his grip on the pistol.

  Zukah went pale, and for him that was saying something. “You are leaving?” he asked cautiously.

  “No, Zukah. I’m not leaving till I get what I came for, but this little game is definitely over. No more cameras. No more bugged beds to put ideas into crazy Yves’s head. We’ll keep the same room, but we won’t be locked in and Roxie won’t cook unless I’m hungry, got it?”

  Zukah nodded. “Understood.”

  “I still don’t know who your patron is,” he lied, “but tell him from me he needs to hire better help. We could have been out of here the night we arrived. Would have, if you didn’t have something I want.”

  He glanced down at Roxie and caught her eye, taking the warm look she gave him deep inside and holding it close to his heart.

  He wanted her out of here, even if it was only to the attic. “Tell le patron I’ve been patient long enough. I give him thirty-six hours, after that just let me say, my people will find another less civilized way to gain what we’re after.”

  Carrying Roxie in his arms, Mac strode to the foot of the first flight of stairs. He could feel her shaking and it really pissed him off.

  But the aftershocks of her experien
ce faded as he put his foot on the first step. She looked up at him as if he’d lost all his marbles. “You’re not really considering carrying me up all those stairs.”

  He squinted up at them as if counting. “I see what you mean, I could be seriously winded before I reach the top.”

  Truth be told, Roxie felt light as a feather in his arms. He could carry her up a thousand such flights if she promised him he’d never have to listen to her scream like that again.

  Panic had crowded in on him from the walls of the small cloakroom, and ice had swum in his veins at the thought of reaching her too late.

  Mac was taking no more chances. He wanted the living, breathing woman in his arms, and he’d almost left it too late. Thank God the woman had guts.

  He didn’t know what kind of crazy revenge he’d have enacted if, when he dived into that pantry, he’d found her lying dead on the floor.

  He swung around and faced the way he’d come. The Algerian and Jean-Luc were watching from the end of the corridor. Neither of them had thought to check up on Yves.

  The guy had just lost his mana. Whenever they looked at him now, they would see a loser. Too bad, so sad, never mind, eh?

  Tongue in cheek, he told her, “Maybe I should have asked them for a better room.”

  “No! No, don’t. We’re fine where we are.”

  He started up the stairs. “We could do better.”

  She stared at him, a misty-gray clouding her eyes with puzzlement or mistrust. “How do you know?”

  “Chérie, look at this place, we could do better. You always can.” He wasn’t particularly winded by the top of the first flight so he threw caution to the wind and carried on.

  By the time he reached the second landing, Zukah and Jean-Luc had come to the foot of the stairs and were looking up at him.

  Neither of them appeared to be on the offensive, so he took that as a good sign and called down to them, “We’re going to catch up on that trial honeymoon you promised us, so we don’t want to be disturbed.”

  Outside the attic, Roxie asked, “Did you really mean that?”