Читать книгу Honeymoon With A Stranger - Frances Housden - Страница 8

At first, Roxie’s shocked eyes merely grazed the others in the room. Now her gaze lit on the largest man, who held it with the fierce, glittering-gold intensity of his own.

She drew a shuddering breath to still the mind-numbing fear crawling under her skin.

The Kincaid family never showed weakness, and Grandmère had bred strong women. Yet she doubted if they’d ever met anyone like the huge, broad-shouldered man dominating the others.

Not with physical force, but by the leashed power of his expression and the glittering light in his eyes.

Consumed by a frantic need for survival, she latched onto the notion that this was the man to deal with. The one who could mend the faux pas she’d made by barging in without permission.

Might this be the time to mention her muddle with the directions?

As though in a dream, she watched the big man’s lips purse, a wry expression softening the sharp angles of ruggedly blocked features. Handsome features.

She felt hypnotized, compelled to react, though her intense response to the fiery shimmer in his eyes lost its impact when she felt the thin guy holding the gun tighten his grip on her.

It was as if she was caught in limbo, between sheer unadulterated terror and bewilderment. Pick one.

Her intuition told her it was entirely reasonable to expect the big guy to take her fear in the palm of one large hand and crush it into extinction.

But what did he want, expect, from her in return?

Yet, he was the antithesis of everything she’d built her career around. Miles away from the tailoring that made her designs work and had caught Charles’s eye at her grandmother’s funeral.

Madame Fortier accompanied Charles to Père-Lachaise, the old Paris cemetery where Grandmère had been buried. It was then Roxie discovered that Grandmère and Charles’s mother went way back, even before they fought together in the French Resistance.

That meeting had changed Roxie’s life.

And though she had left the London School of Design for Charles’s workroom to a chorus of it’s-not-what-you-know-it’s-who, Grandmère had brought her up to be practical, not stupid.

A survival trait she’d always managed to adhere to until now. She stared at the guy with slicked-back hair, designer stubble and a black leather jacket that shouted “Biker!”

She must be mad. Her normal reaction would be to run a mile, not beg for this huge stranger’s help.

“Roxie.” When he spoke, none of the softness she had noticed before lingered in the rasp of his voice, but he knew her name!

It took a second to remember he’d heard her call out.

“Didn’t I tell you I would be out tonight and not to bother me?” Once he’d spoken her name, each dry consonant that followed cut her hopes into rags with the sharpness of a knife.

Through the mists of apprehension clouding her mind, she perceived he expected something in return for the verbal lifeline he had thrown her…but what?

She metaphorically reached out with trembling hands, certain beyond all reason that her future depended on her response. “I saw the light from the courtyard…and, I thought…that, well I would surprise you.”

He strode lazily toward her, as she desperately tried not to cower while watching him pocket a gun that hadn’t registered with her before.

And though her every instinct screamed it was a bad move, her hand flew to her lips as her stomach somersaulted nearer to her mouth.

Behind him, the narrowest hand on the utilitarian clock counted out what might be the last seconds of her life.

His long legs covered the distance in half the steps it would have taken her. But she wasn’t fooled by the perception of indolence; this big man was more dangerous than the razor-jawed creature holding her shoulder.

“So, chérie,” he drawled as he halted in front of her, “I guess I surprised you instead?”

His fingers prized her hand away from her mouth as she nodded, unable to deny the obvious. Then her head whirled as the man she hoped was her savior grabbed the wrist of the one holding her.

Without effort he sent both clinging hand and its owner spinning back a few feet. “Your kind of help we can do without.”

Such blatant force was alien to Roxie. In fact, she’d never encountered even a suggestion of the energized enmity circling, gathering, waiting to ambush them all without provocation.

Her hopes took a dive as the shortest man of the group barked out, “Who is this woman? Why is she here?”

She hoped the big guy had a good explanation up his sleeve, for she was too frightened to see past her blunder, or to worry how annoyed her boss was going to be with her when she reported back, if ever.

With his leather-covered arm casually circling her shoulders, Roxie’s heart raced out of control.

Her designated protector gave the appearance of nonchalance, yet she wasn’t too dumbstruck to notice the hand closest to his gun was kept free, as she stared at the broad-palmed hand cupping her shoulder.

Dark gold hairs softened the wide sinewy shape. His fingers were long, blunt-tipped, more like a carpenter’s than a gunman’s.

As she glanced across at the other armed men, she wondered if his hand was large enough to hold his life as well as her own.

“This is ma petite amie.” Girlfriend. He directed the conversation to the fat man. “If you’d waited where we originally arranged, her being here wouldn’t be a problem. But if it bothers you, Zukah, speak up.”

Roxie was scared out of her wits, yet as she was pressed close to his side as he uttered his unequivocal statement, and though the situation more closely resembled a funeral than a wedding, she wanted to say, “Or forever hold your peace.”

Though trembling inside, she felt grateful this man had ranged his overwhelming presence on her side.

By the tension in the air, she could tell the game they’d been playing when she arrived hadn’t been going too well.

She mentally crossed her fingers.

Dear God, please let her be on the side of the angels.

The Algerian made a grudging concession. “As long as she doesn’t interfere in matters that aren’t her concern, she’d better stay.”

Angels, she decided were in a minority of one.

She looked up, hoping for reassurance as the big guy’s fingers squeezed her arm to attract her attention.

“You’ve always known what I was, chérie,” he said, “Though you tried to ignore it. Now the blinkers are off, tell me once more.”

Utter confusion made her stammer, “T-tell you what?”

“Say, I still love you, Mac.” Wow, she knew his name.

Her heart climbed back to her throat, fluttering in panic.

Uh-uh, this wasn’t the time to be chickenhearted. She would say the words as if her life depended on it.

Which it just might?

Fear of failure sent her pulse thundering in her ears as his face lowered to hers. Massive shoulders loomed, shaded her.

Unpredictably, his open jacket seemed like a place she could hide. Her throat felt bone-dry, unused. “I still love you, Mac.”

“That’s better,” he murmured.

The touch of his mouth was cool, dry and almost impersonal. Yet too much to ask of synapses scattered by feeling herself being lifted as if she were no bigger than a doll.

Her hand clutched a fistful of supple leather to make it look real as well as for support. They were being watched.

She clung as she’d never clung to a man before, praying her association with this man named Mac wouldn’t make her continue the wild, scary ride that had begun with staring down the muzzle of a gun.

Mac was fit to be tied.

It wasn’t often he allowed himself be cornered, and until now he had never been locked into an impossible situation with a woman hardly big enough to be an armful.

He’d brought it all on with his insistence he meet with Zukah’s boss. His mistake was evident the moment the Algerian agreed, saying, “You will of course consider yourselves our guests.”

Right about then, Mac felt the trap close.

Hell, he personally didn’t give a damn. He wanted to meet the fourth man, but he’d lumbered himself with an unknown quantity, albeit a frightened one who trembled like a mouse facing a cat.

All he knew about her was her big gray eyes had made his heart constrict and take pity on her. Bizarre reactions from a guy who hadn’t known he could feel that stupid kind of emotion.

To cap it off, Zukah had failed to mention they would be unarmed guests, though if his head had been on straight he would have realized.

The Algerian waved his pistol around laconically as if directing his foot soldiers was an effort. “Jean-Luc, collect his weapons and, Yves, you can search the woman.”

Comprehension that they were about to be taken hostage had come slowly to Roxie. He caught the first flash of new panic lightening her eyes to silver as she turned, hand tightening on his sleeve while the Algerian concluded his gruff orders to his men with, “Vite, vite.”

If she could read his mind she’d have even more reason to be apprehensive. No way could he allow her to act on the impulse he sensed racing through her.

A moment’s madness on her part could send a month’s work crashing down on him.

This was his game and they’d play it by his rules.

He didn’t have time for niceties, or considering her sensibilities as if she were indeed simply someone who had blundered into a fraught situation, which he didn’t believe for a moment.

He pulled her closer, whispering words as harsh and hard as their meaning in her ear. “Don’t you dare try to escape. They’ll shoot you like a dog and I’ll let them because today’s horoscope said nothing about taking a bullet for a beautiful bimbo.”

So? He wasn’t actually sure about the beautiful, and most likely the bimbo was out of line, but his words had the desired affect.

Her face darkened as he let her go, and now it was a question of which one of them she was more annoyed with, him or Zukah.

Relieved, Mac watched her shoulders straighten as she pulled herself together, instead of hiding her face inside her high-collared coat.

Bottom lip pouting, she lifted her chin. Mac sighed. Looked like he might have whispered the magic words to put some much-needed fire in her belly. Anger suited her better than panic.

About time, too. Mac had never been a great believer in coincidences. Roxie’s arrival at his door couldn’t have been accidental. No woman in her right mind wandered around the back streets of Le Sentier in the dark without a special reason.

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 shook 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?