Honeymoon with a Stranger Page 8

  For once, he didn’t see the advantage of measuring six foot five. Comme ci, comme ça. You win some, you lose some.

  Roxie was about to ask the way when Mac beat her to it. “Okay, which one of you is going to show the lady the kitchen before we all starve to death?”

  The kitchen looked out on a garden at the back of the house and shone like a new pin, and would have appeared unused if not for lingering smells of burning.

  Her eyes lit up as she spied the oak-fronted cupboards. A nostalgic warmth kindled around her heart, as for a moment she was reminded of Grandmère’s Dorset cottage. “Let me look round to see which ingredients are available.”

  The whole place was poorly stocked.

  Why was she surprised? Frenchwomen prefer shopping daily. Hopefully she would find some staple foods in the pantry.

  She came across milk, dried herbs, pasta and a large bowl of eggs, which wouldn’t last long with four men eating them. Great! That meant they didn’t expect to keep them here too long.

  Hope bloomed at her fingertips. Now, if she could only lay her hands on some sort of weapon.

  Mac’s gut tightened into a knot. He sat down at the kitchen table on a white wrought-iron chair that looked more fragile than it was. This way he had something to lean on as the weight of the world pressed down on his shoulders.

  Forearms braced on the tabletop, he watched Roxie flit from cupboard to cupboard. Would she act so cool if she really knew what the payoff with this deal was?

  Knew what Sevarin was selling?

  At least by tonight he’d be able to give Thierry her surname. Though Mac hoped by then that Thierry might have discovered if anyone called Roxie worked for Charles Fortier.

  Mac expected his theory would prove to be the correct one. Yet, the thought didn’t lift his spirits.

  What if she was as innocent as she acted?

  If this deal got away from him, maybe she’d have been better off if he hadn’t interfered when Yves had held that pistol to her head. Maybe every one of them would be better off dead, for life as they knew it would never be the same.

  If the biotech solution worked as quickly as the Algerian had intimated, that made it one helluva dangerous weapon.

  Unlike Agent Orange, Green Shield wasn’t your everyday household defoliant full of dioxins that killed where it touched.

  No sir, it was a living organism that sucked the chlorophyll out of one plant before moving to the next. Feeding off the land, it would get larger and more unstoppable with every blade of grass or stalk of corn it sucked dry. Discovering all that had made him more determined than ever to stop the bastards in their tracks. Someone had to do it, so it might as well be him.

  Pulling out one of the bottom drawers in the island unit housing the gas hob, Roxie stood on the edge of it to stretch up for an omelet pan hanging on the rack above, but she still couldn’t reach.

  On the way down, she glanced toward the table and caught a flash of hot amber from Mac’s eyes.

  She gulped down a deep breath as a thrill chased through her insides. For a moment when they’d stood at the foot of the stairs, she’d thought Mac was going to kiss her again in front of the whole world, or at least Yves and Jean-Luc.

  Thank goodness she’d managed to avoid him by taking that last step into the foyer.

  Last step, huh. That was a good one.

  The last step would come if she kept letting him touch her. Let him kiss her, until her body was begging to be taken.

  She knew in her head Mac was dangerous—the sort of guy she ought to run a thousand miles from because one mile wouldn’t be enough to keep her safe—but in her heart…

  His touch made her feel more alive than she had in this lifetime. When he kissed her it felt like treading air, floating.

  He was an addiction she needed to fly from.

  Go cold turkey.

  Maybe then she wouldn’t have let him coerce her into feeding this sorry bunch of criminals. “Would you mind?” Roxie asked, looking in Mac’s direction. “I can’t reach the rack.”

  “No problem, I’ll get it down for you.”

  Mac’s journey from the table to the island unit was epitomized by his slow easy way of walking. Yet, she knew he used languor to disguise the intense energy she’d felt radiating from the muscles hiding under black leather.

  At first she’d been fooled, but not anymore.

  Couldn’t Zukah and the others tell? He’d practically let them get away with murder the night before. The only time his eyes had flashed with annoyance was when Yves had laid hands on her.

  Until then, nothing appeared to faze Mac.

  Which was why she wasn’t convinced he’d inveigled them into the kitchen for the sake of his stomach. She’d lay odds he’d eaten a lot worse than Jean-Luc’s sacrifice to the gods.

  In fact, she’d bet good money on him having a cast-iron stomach and enough stamina to keep going for days on a cup of water.

  It wasn’t till Mac coughed that she realized she’d been staring at him. Oh, God, she hoped he didn’t think…

  “Which pan did you want?”

  His glance bathed her in gold and amber, jolting her heart so she couldn’t breathe. It was all she could do to point and say, “The omelet pan.”

  “Make mine with four eggs. I’m peckish.”

  Uh-uh, Roxie knew what Mac hungered for, and it wasn’t eggs.

  It was Roxie Kincaid.

  The thought made her stomach muscles constrict as a sharp thrill shot through them. Somehow the realization was more frightening than the rest of the situation put together.

  The pan Roxie had pointed out wasn’t much of a stretch for Mac.

  He reached up without taking his eyes off Roxie.

  The copper pan wasn’t weighty, though it did ring out a couple of off-key notes as it banged into the ones on either side before he’d unhooked the handle.

  If he hadn’t been busy seducing Roxie, letting the force of their attraction simmer, he might have heard shoes scuffing the stone floor behind him.

  As it was, Roxie’s eyes were his only warning.

  Her startled gaze darted past Mac and he turned in time to avoid a blow from Yves. Instead of chopping the back of Mac’s neck with the edge of his hand, he hit the base of the pan.

  Mac winced as the force of Yves’s blow sent the omelet pan hurling onto the floor. Man, that had to have hurt.

  “Imbécile! You might have damaged the pan,” Roxie snapped.

  Mac had to admit it took a chunk out of his ego that Roxie was more concerned for the pan than his head, but compared to Yves, his pain wasn’t bad. He’d get over it a helluva lot quicker.

  Mac began to think the blow had taken Yves’s breath away. But curses soon turned the air blue, signaling that the Frenchman not only had an inventive flair for invective, but that he couldn’t unholster his pistol and swear at the same time.

  Mac glanced over his shoulder for Jean-Luc, who had suddenly made himself scarce, so he tried, “Sorry, buddy, it was an accident. I didn’t know you were there.”

  Didn’t know you were about to attack me without warning.

  And then he added, “Hey, man, do you really think this is a shooting matter? I don’t think Zukah is going to be too pleased if you shoot his cash cow.”

  When Yves took off the safety, Mac began wishing he’d used the time to jump over the island counter where there was some protection between him and the bullet sliding into the chamber.

  “Get down, chérie. I think he means business,” he said, knowing he was going to have to take the pistol from the lunatic before someone got hurt, namely him or, worse still, Roxie.

  Mac took a swift step into Yves’s line of fire, a step that would make a mockery of the fact that he’d let them take him hostage and cause some speculation that he’d hoped to avoid.

  Fast as he was off the mark, Roxie beat him to Yves.

  Mac broke out in a cold sweat. He could only see one outcome. A yell froze in his throat as he r
ealized what she intended.

  Talk about walking into a lion’s den. He didn’t have half the courage Roxie displayed as she walked between Mac and the bullet and enveloped Yves’s hand, pistol et all, in an ice-filled napkin.

  “Here,” she said, all false concern. “This will make your hand feel better and stop it from bruising.”

  Mac was the only one who caught a glimpse of her raised eyebrow and pursed lips, as if to say his contribution hadn’t been at all helpful.

  Yves was too busy to notice.

  He looked down at his hand as if it had magically turned into a block of ice, though his expression didn’t quite match the astonished expression on his face when his hand had slammed into the copper pan.

  The sweat on Mac’s top lip didn’t get a chance to dry, as next moment she’d taken the gun from Yves’s hand.

  If she threw it to him, he might be forced to use it and that wasn’t part of the plan. He didn’t breathe easy until she placed it on the table.

  He wasn’t certain whether or not her actions would have been as successful if Zukah hadn’t chosen that moment to rush into the kitchen with Jean-Luc on his heels, both heavily armed.

  Could that have been relief Mac saw in Zukah’s eyes when he found neither he nor Roxie were sporting bullet holes?

  Sevarin wouldn’t be too pleased to discover that the cash register could only ring up no sale.

  Yves turned to face Zukah, scattering ice cubes as he staggered back from the fierce frown on the Algerian’s face. “He had a weapon,” he said by way of explanation for the kerfuffle that had broken out.

  Roxie wasn’t done. She picked the omelet pan off the flagstones and examined a dent in the copper base. “These are far too expensive to be thrown around the floor, but I don’t suppose it will make any difference to the taste of the omelets.”

  Whatever the outcome of the incident between him and Yves, it had made Mac see Roxie in a new light.

  It just hadn’t reversed the healthy lust that swamped him whenever he got within kissing distance of her. In fact, his admiration for her daring might have made it more potent.

  Only someone with nerves of steel could calmly walk up to a gunman the way she had. Yeah, that woman had more mettle than was needed by any fashion designer.

  It just went to prove, he’d been correct in his assessment. She was a professional. And he could live with that, for at least the next day or so.

  Or however long it took for Sevarin to arrive.

  Roxie’s omelets had drawn an “excellent” from Mac that she felt was tinged with relief, and a “magnifique” from Zukah.

  Not bad, considering she’d still been shaking from her contretemps with Yves, who remained surly.

  Thankfully, most of the ingredients and cooking methods were locked in her memory. She could still hear her grandmother reciting them as she worked while Roxie watched.

  It was a ritual that had started while they were both grieving over the deaths of her father and mother.

  Later, she’d decided this was Grandmère’s way of keeping her from the dark side that had taken her parents, which in her grandmother’s mind equaled danger and excitement. She’d filled her son’s head with stories of her life in the Resistance, which had led to David Kincaid following in his father’s footsteps and joining British Army Intelligence.

  Her parents had been killed when the IRA blew up their house in Belfast where her father had been stationed.

  So long ago, it had taken hindsight to figure out why Grandmère blamed herself and her stories.

  Two years ago her grandmother had died.

  It was as if she’d been waiting to see Roxie’s ambitions firmly set on a career as a fashion designer.

  Once Anastasia Perdieu Kincaid had considered her job done, she’d surrendered to death as eagerly as she had fought to escape it during the war.

  Roxie looked up from her meandering. Zukah had deserted them again, leaving them to the tender mercies of Jean-Luc and Yves, neither of whom she trusted.

  Yves stalked the other side of the farmhouse-style kitchen, prowling the floor like a lean gray wolf.

  His attitude had put paid to any conversation, and Roxie had had to clear up the kitchen alone, since Mac had been forbidden to offer her any more assistance.

  Mac sprawled at the table, his body lithe and long, legs outstretched as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  Roxie knew better. She’d watched his eyes.

  He was aware of every move any of them made.

  “So, chérie,” he drawled now, as if savoring the words, “what gastronomic delight are you going to concoct for dinner?”

  “Something simple with chicken since the options open to me are constrained by a lack of ingredients.”

  Mac gave a slight nod in her direction as if acknowledging their wait at the château mightn’t be overly long. “Let me know if you need help cutting up that chicken. I’m pretty handy with a knife.”

  “Non!” Yves spat out the denial emphatically. “No knives allowed, no pans for you. I’ve told you before, nothing that can be used as a weapon. I will help your woman.”

  “It just so happens I have a name. Mademoiselle Kincaid, feel free to use it….” Or not, she decided. His attention now focused on her instead of Mac as if she’d encouraged him.

  “Lucky for me,” she continued, “the chicken is already in pieces, so I don’t any need help except for hanging the pan up.”

  She pushed the pan across the island counter, hoping he got the message, and turned her back on the rest of the kitchen.

  Yves might have banned Mac from anything he considered lethal, but she was a different matter. One he didn’t consider a threat, though she had noticed him counting the knives in the wooden block to make sure all the slots were filled.

  That didn’t mean she couldn’t steal something, and she’d noticed some fine steel lacing skewers.

  Not for a weapon, but maybe she could use it to pick the locks and escape while the others slept. She had yet to decide whether taking Mac with her, if she succeeded, was a good idea or not.

  He had more or less admitted he was a criminal, and every bit as bad as the men he was dealing with.

  Her good sense told her to get the hell away from him as soon as she was able…but there was something about him that lifted him above Zukah and his men. She hadn’t come to that conclusion simply because he’d saved her life.

  Something about him called to her in a way that was more than gratitude and every bit as potent as sex, but went beyond that level—higher, much higher.

  She couldn’t explain it.

  She only knew that if she survived this, her work for Charles would change. Become more than an elegant sweep of lines with a pencil as she drew her ideas.

  Yes, for all he’d said he wouldn’t save her again, she trusted Mac, and she no longer trusted easily, so maybe she was losing her grip on reality.

  And heaven help her, their situation had more in common with Alice and rabbit holes than real life.

  Water splashed into the white butler’s sink as Roxie rinsed her hands. The room and everyone in it were reflected in a window mirrored by the darkness on the outside.

  The coq au vin, simmering in the oven, smelled pretty good.

  From time to time she’d caught one or another of the men scenting the air like a lion with food on its mind and was sure dinner would pass the test.

  What she hadn’t liked was the way Yves had confiscated the bottle of wine. She’d only used one cupful to give the dish that final dash of panache, but now he was down to the last glass.

  Dinner would be ready as soon as she grabbed a loaf of bread from the freezer. She’d warm it in the oven to eat with the chicken.

  Picking up a towel to dry her hands, she stopped staring at the reflection in the window and turned around to a room that was suddenly in full Technicolor.

  Mac had the sullen expression on his face that schoolboys affected when they were bored with a subje
ct.

  If he’d been allowed a knife he’d be carving his initials on the tabletop to pass the time.

  And if someone had told her she’d feel relieved to go back to the attic, she would have denied it point-blank. Yet that’s where she’d rather be now.

  And from the look of him, so would Mac.

  She tucked the towel over the rail and caught Yves staring at her. No, she couldn’t get out of the kitchen soon enough.

  Slipping into the pantry, she opened the freezer door. The choice wasn’t prodigious. There was a chunk of beef that would do for roasting if they were still stuck in the château tomorrow evening and two or three loaves of crusty bread.

  Roxie picked up the bag of frozen croissants and began counting. She’d run out of eggs so they were all she had for petit déjeuner.

  She’d counted eight when she felt a hand slide over her hip. Mac, she decided, and turned with a smile on her lips.

  Wrong. She was so wrong.

  “You like that, bébé? You like Yves?”

  She gulped as a cloud of wine fumes filled the air. “Keep your filthy hands to yourself, cochon!”

  “I have seen you watching me, you want Yves, eh, bébé,” he said boldly, not exactly drunk, but the wine had taken the edge of his inhibitions as he crowded her into the shelves of the freezer.

  If she could have managed, she would have climbed inside the freezer to get away from his wandering hands.

  Twisting, she sank an elbow into his ribs, but he appeared oblivious. Didn’t even grunt. She’d been afraid before, but it had been manageable. Now terror surfaced.

  His long, bony fingers gripped her wrists, lifting her arms above her head. The breath locked in her throat, and though her mouth opened wide, the scream she let rip was silent as his mouth dipped closer to her neck.

  She thought she might faint if he kissed her.

  The knowledge that if she gave in to fear he might have his way with her before anyone discovered gave her the strength to move.

  She bent her knee, raising it high for greater momentum. Driven by the damp breath grazing her neck, at last her scream broke free. It went on and on, mingling with a yell of pure pain from Yves as her heel tromped hard on his instep.