Honeymoon with a Stranger Page 3

  But, from the way events were shaping up, it was going to take him a little while longer to discover who she was, and exactly which organization she worked for.

  Hell, in Paris there were almost too many to choose from. Though her French was great, when she’d blurted out “Bloody hell!” in that English accent, MI6 had reached top of his list.

  No one could call him a two-time loser—he’d been suckered by a woman before—but for the life of him he hadn’t been able to throw this gray-eyed mouse to Zukah’s sleek black cats.

  One of whom in particular, Roxie was glaring at now.

  Zukah’s years in France were signaled by his typically Parisian shrug. “Don’t look at it as being taken hostage, petite. Think of it as a trial honeymoon.”

  Mac muttered a mental “oops.” Zukah might think he was being helpful, but he wasn’t doing him any favors.

  The Algerian’s humor didn’t sit well with Roxie. But, for what must be the first time in her life, she kept quiet.

  Not because she’d been struck speechless, because she hadn’t a clue what was happening. Playing dumb meant she couldn’t say the wrong thing or have Mac’s lukewarm rescue blow up in their faces.

  If she gave in to the urge to run zinging through her, it might be the last impulse she ever acted upon. Though, the differences between being shot or facing a so-called honeymoon with a stranger didn’t seem particularly large.

  Neither of them was on her top-ten list of things to do next.

  The one called Yves approached her, once more sparking the fight-or-flight factor through her synapses.

  Tensions coiled in the muscles hidden by her long coat.

  Yves was the man who’d grabbed her as she entered the apartment and he looked like a man who enjoyed his work far too much. She held her breath as he began patting her down.

  Never had she felt so alone, not even when Grandmère died.

  All she’d felt then was numb, until the Fortier family took her under their wing, distracting her with work she loved.

  It took every inch of her control to ignore Yves. Ignore his enjoyment as his hands slid over her. She turned away and watched the other Frenchman relieve Mac of his guns.

  When they totaled three her initial panic segued to deep-seated dread, and its by-product, shudders, ran through her.

  It was impossible to keep fear at bay.

  Her breath hitched as Yves’s fingers circled her ankle and began inching upward.

  Gasping, she took a step back, her gaze flying to Mac for help. But all she saw in response was the glittering warning he’d already verbalized. Blast!

  What had she landed into?

  How had she gotten surrounded by strangers, all of whom looked as if they’d been ripped from the underbelly of Paris?

  Bottom line, it had been her own stupidity, and the urge to impress her bosses.

  God help her, when she didn’t dare trust the best of them. Mac. And he, as the finest of a bad bunch, wasn’t saying much.

  Darn it, the man had had the cheek to call her a bimbo.

  There and then she decided if it were the last thing she did, she’d pay him back. Her spurt of righteous anger replaced fear.

  Only once had a man made her feel like a victim. He’d showed his love with one hand and stolen her designs with the other.

  It wasn’t a sensation she was comfortable with, or intended becoming used to.

  Being a hostage hadn’t exactly been part of Mac’s plans, but crap happened when you least expected. And if Roxie was looking for a hero, she’d picked the wrong quartier of Paris to shop in.

  Out on the landing Zukah lined them both up at the top of the stairs and began issuing orders, sending the Frenchman who’d pawed Roxie off to bring the car round.

  “Enfin, we can go.” Zukah poked Mac in the back with his Mauser. “Remember, I’m right behind you.”

  Beside him, Roxie practically jumped out of her knee-high boots as Zukah barked. Until now, Mac had never come in contact with a female agent whose footwear were impossible to run in, but there was a first time for everything.

  He was curious to know what kind of cover story demanded heels higher than the Eiffel Tower. A couple of inches off them might have given her more of a chance.

  Though it sounded clichéd, in Mac’s line of work he knew to expect the unexpected. That’s why he was prepared to tie a knot in his original plans and turn any new contingency into a plus. He hoped the same could be said for his new lady friend.

  The woman posed a huge problem. Hell, she had more unknown quantity in her little finger than the other three put together.

  Sure, she was putting on a good show of being scared. And she’d done right to keep up the act. The hot, resentful sparks she’d shot at Zukah had been her only sign of emotion in a while.

  Talk about sex rearing its ugly head.

  Yves had enjoyed running his hands over her a little too much.

  Carrying out the role he’d assigned himself to the full meant he should have protested. Should have—would have—if her pleading glance hadn’t reminded him of Lucia approximately five minutes before she stuck a six-inch blade in his back.

  That said, he wouldn’t be turning his back on Roxie anytime soon, not until he was certain she wasn’t carrying a knife.

  His trust was on the meager side when it came to beautiful female agents.

  Mac had felt disappointment coming off Roxie in waves, but there was no point in giving too much away to look better in her eyes.

  He’d been there, done that, and learned one helluva huge lesson. One he wouldn’t forget in a hurry. Being a woman didn’t make her any less lethal to his health.

  Happiness came in all guises, and this opportunity to go with Zukah suited him just fine. Damn fine.

  Mac heard the car draw up outside as they splashed across the cold rain-soaked courtyard to the exit.

  Juggling bodies, they ended up dancing the do-si-do, squeezing through the half-open double doors leading to the sidewalk.

  In the watery glow from the street lamp, Mac caught her glance while their bodies brushed close, as if her puzzled eyes wondered what made him tick. Her conclusions would be wrong.

  Hell, tonight he’d done something so off the wall it could take him years to figure it out.

  He was an undercover agent, not anyone’s idea of a knight in shining armor, certainly not Jason Hart’s. When all this was over Mac would have to do some explaining to the chief of IBIS.

  Maybe by then he’d have come up with an answer.

  A blue minivan—the type with three rows of seats that soccer moms used—sat waiting at the edge of the sidewalk.

  It didn’t take a huge leap of imagination to know who’d be sitting in the middle row. “Get in,” Zukah growled, playing the big man, nudging them toward the vehicle with the dangerous end of his pistol.

  The guy was dumber than Mac had given him credit for. A wise man would be wondering if his plans had gone a little too well.

  They’d hardly gone more than a couple of feet when someone staggered out of the shadows and grabbed Zukah’s gun arm.

  Roxie squawked as the gun swung her way, while Zukah cursed roundly through the cloud of cheap-wine fumes as pandemonium ruled.

  In the poor light the drunk could easily be taken for one of the many homeless found sleeping in doorways around Le Sentier and Les Halles.

  But Mac wasn’t deceived.

  He pushed Roxie behind him while the drunk grappled with the Algerian. Zukah rained blows down on the guy’s head and they were all treated to a stream of slurred French invectives.

  Seeking to escape, the guy ducked under Zukah’s arm to clutch the front of Mac’s jacket as if begging for help.

  But that close the drunk couldn’t hide the bright intelligence in his eyes, or the question in them he directed at Mac.

  The smell of garlic breath was a good touch. Trust Thierry to think of it. Mac narrowed his gaze in warning at his fellow agent and slightly shoo
k his head.

  Message received.

  “Get off him!” shouted the Algerian, but before Jean-Luc could pull Thierry away, Mac felt something slide into his pocket.

  Seconds later, Thierry staggered away into the night, leaving Mac curious as to which of their many gadgets his second in command had slipped him.

  Curiosity that would have to remain unsatisfied until they reached their destination.

  “You first.” Zukah gave him a push in the back.

  Mac looked at the smaller seat opposite the door. He couldn’t trust Roxie not to try escaping. “No,” he said, “she can sit by the window. I need more room for my legs.”

  No one argued with him.

  It was Yves who pulled Roxie out of her cat’s-got-her-tongue mode once again. “Cochon!” she yelled, slapping the Frenchman. “Keep your hands off me. I can manage.”

  As the car pulled into the road Mac decided there was going to be a reckoning between those two. He just hoped Roxie held off long enough for him to accomplish his mission.

  “Lean your head on my shoulder,” he said companionably as the minivan squeezed through the crush in rue Montorgueil. “You might as well try to sleep. God knows how far we’re going.”

  Through the golden haze of a better-lit street it was impossible to miss that her long-suffering look was essentially female. It shouted “I wouldn’t be caught dead.”

  Damn, he thought as he gave a rueful shake of his head. Didn’t the woman realize that if it hadn’t been for him tonight, “dead” had definitely been her short-term destiny?

  Chapter 3

  Roxie woke with a start, her head clunking back against Mac’s shoulder. The car had stopped, but the only illumination came from the headlights. “Where are we?”

  “No idea, but it looks like more than a comfort stop. I’d say we’ve arrived.” Mac sounded more alert than she felt.

  She pushed away from him, annoyed that in sleep she’d taken advantage of the shoulder she’d refused earlier.

  Keeping her voice level to a murmur, she spoke English, hoping Jean-Luc sitting behind wouldn’t understand as she touched the warm spot where her cheek had rested. “That wasn’t intentional, so don’t get the wrong idea.”

  Turning away, she combed her fingers through her hair to fluff it out. But before she could snag another breath his big hand curved round the back of her neck, pulling her close.

  Face-to-face.

  Her heart pounded, thundering in her temple as his lips pressed against her ear. She needn’t have worried.

  Sweet nothings weren’t in Mac’s repertoire. “You mean like Yves? I think the guy has a case for you. Better look out.”

  As he followed her example by using English, his hand forked through her curls, holding her head in an apparently passionate embrace that meant she couldn’t move.

  “Don’t worry, chérie, you’re safe from me. Just take a little time to remember who walked into whose territory.”

  The hand on her neck stroked, a subtle caress that drew a reluctant shudder from her. “Time to compromise, chérie, you help me out and I’ll look after you. Just keep in mind that this is my show, not yours, and everything will turn out fine and dandy.”

  It seemed she had no choice but to follow his lead.

  Earlier, before she’d fallen asleep, she’d stared out into the wine-dark countryside and railed against the impulse that had brought her to this place in time.

  Annoying though it felt, Mac was her lifeline.

  He was big and tough, and at least she was aware that she couldn’t trust him as far as she could throw him.

  While it suited her, she would go along with his suggestions.

  Mac at least acted as if he knew what he was doing.

  Fully awake now, she observed Yves and Zukah exit the front of the minivan, then latched onto a new subject. “How long would you say we’d been on the road?”

  “Without being able to read my watch I’d say around four hours, probably more. It took almost an hour to get out of Paris. But judging by lack of lights and noise, this is pretty rural.”

  Did Mac have to be right all the time?

  The small château they were ushered into didn’t look grand but it was more than a farmhouse deep in the heart of the French countryside. Not a lit window for miles.

  Roxie blinked, blinded as she stepped onto a floor laid in ancient gray flagstones. Compared to outside, this was obviously where the owner had spent his money.

  The rug covering them, although old, glowed like a ruby.

  Half a dozen large sconces lit gold-paneled walls, explaining the glare that had dazzled her as she entered.

  Mac had no such problem, asking, “What, no welcome party?”

  Zukah fussed, as if out of his comfort zone surrounded by impressive antiques. In his crumpled suit, he looked more like a hostage than they did. “Le patron hopes to be here tomorrow.”

  Did that mean she might be back in Paris by tomorrow evening? It felt childish, but she couldn’t help crossing her fingers.

  All she wanted was to get back to her own world.

  She would put up with bitchy models and the complaints of the patternmakers without a murmur if they could leave this place as soon as possible.

  She desperately needed to talk to her boss—to Charles—but Yves had destroyed any hope of that by wrecking the cell phone he’d found in her purse when he searched her.

  Mac’s reaction to the news was “Might as well go to our room, then, since there’s nothing to be gained here. No point in talking to the dummy when the man you need is the ventriloquist.”

  To herself, Roxie admitted she was in awe of Mac. All that air of control should have been on the other side.

  They were armed, he wasn’t.

  She wished she could take a leaf from his rule book and act as if she were a VIP instead of a hostage.

  “Everything is ready for you, though we weren’t expecting your petite amie. The bed will be a squeeze, but I don’t suppose you’ll mind.”

  The bed, as in one bed?

  She was caught up in her own nervous interpretation of what that meant, when she realized Mac wasn’t overjoyed with the arrangement, either.

  A soft growl issued from his throat that throttled back into a curse. “You’re a twisted bastard, Zukah. If you wanted me here, I only needed an invitation, not this French farce. When word gets out, no one will want to deal with you. And it’ll get out.”

  Mac left the words, “And I’ll see about it,” unsaid.

  “Calm yourself. I’m only granting your wish to meet the head of our organization.” Zukah’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Of course, word will only get out if you leave the château.”

  She would never understand why Mac had trusted this guy in the first place. One look convinced her Zukah was the kind of guy she would rather cross the street than pass on the sidewalk.

  She watched Mac’s whole demeanor poker-up as he noted the threat. His big body loomed over Zukah, and Roxie’s stomach sank level with the tops of her knee-high boots.

  She would never understand men, and men like Mac had never come within whistling distance of her before tonight.

  Which meant she had no idea how to handle him.

  No idea how to handle sharing a room with a virtual stranger. A man who might be no better than the thugs he was dealing with. A man looking as if he was about to create mayhem.

  “When you threaten someone, Zukah, you have to be prepared to back it up. You can thank Roxie for the fact you’re still breathing. I don’t like to see her upset.”

  She knew his words comprised an explicit warning, though his tone and expression scared her most.

  Maybe she should have ignored Mac’s advice and taken a chance on being shot. Something told her it might have been wiser than taking a chance on Mac.

  They’d located them in the attic, which Mac found promising. It showed him that even unarmed Zukah considered him dangerous.

  The window
was barred and behind it lay a sheer drop, at least forty feet straight down. The only way out was through the door that Yves and Jean-Luc would more than likely lock as they left.

  As he looked around, the Frenchmen remained standing immediately inside the threshold, Yves armed with Mac’s own Glock.

  Narrowing his gaze to laser intensity, Mac dismissed Jean-Luc’s status and took a dig at Yves’s manhood. He glanced down at Roxie to emphasize her lack of inches. “Well, I’ll be…don’t tell me you’re in awe of an unarmed man and woman?”

  Yves’s glance slanted in Jean-Luc’s direction. “We will leave you in peace. What can you do? There is no way to escape. We will quell any attempt you make. So save your energy.”

  “Never entered my mind,” Mac lied. “I’m willing to stay here as Zukah’s guest until the boss man arrives to negotiate the deal. Just remind him that, though my resources are almost limitless, my patience has a use-by date.”

  He let the indictment hang in the air for a moment then turned the tables on them. “We’ll expect breakfast around seven-thirty, eight o’clock at the latest. Lock the door on the way out, we’d like a little privacy.”

  Before they could leave, Roxie asked, “Hey, this place is like an icebox. What do we do for heat?”

  Yves smiled, the first one to cross his face since he’d followed the Algerian into Mac’s apartment. “You have each other,” he mocked, earning a ferocious look for his trouble.

  Walking desultorily, Roxie left Mac’s side and sat down on one of the small blue-painted wooden chairs on either side of a table that had been placed in front of the uncurtained window.

  Though his back was to the door, he heard it close, listening with interest to the tumblers clicking in the old-fashioned lock.

  So, two covert agents alone at last.

  He wondered which one of them would break their cover first?

  Mac shrugged off the notion it would be him, but he hoped Roxie knew better than to reveal the nature of her mission while every little thing they said was most likely being recorded.