Читать книгу Honeymoon With A Stranger - Frances Housden - Страница 9

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.

“Are you always so confrontational when a guy’s holding a gun on you?” she asked as she unbuttoned the top button of her coat.

Mac raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. Maybe she wasn’t as green as he’d thought. “Talk about me? I saw you cut those guys off at the knees with a glance.”

Her small heart-shaped face scrunched into a grimace. “It’s a French thing,” she said reverting to English. “Those guys should be used to it. I learned that look at my grandmother’s knee.”

“Did she teach you to cook as well?”

“As a matter of fact, she did.”

“Now, that’s what I call an asset.”

She pouted, leaning one elbow on the table, as if the sleep she’d had as they traveled hadn’t done much good. “I should have known you were one of those guys who believe in keeping their wives barefoot, pregnant and chained to the kitchen…and talking about plumbing, did anyone mention a bathroom?”

“No one did, but since there is only one possibility, I’d try that door in the corner next to the armoire.”

No sooner said than she was off. “Hey,” she called out, her voice echoing. “There must be a tower on the corner, this room curves on three sides.” Then the door clicked shut behind her.

And then there was one, he thought, remembering an old black-and-white movie set in a remote house.

Mac shivered. Roxie was right about it feeling colder up here, colder still now Roxie had left the room. Her personality could almost be termed sunny when she wasn’t pretending to be scared out of her wits.

He gave the low-ceilinged room the once-over, not that he expected Zukah to be that obvious in his placement of listening devices.

The furniture was about what one would expect in an attic, remnants no longer wanted downstairs. The brass bed was set against a backdrop of faded yellow wallpaper.

Its size hardly made a dent in the open floor space.

Mac sat on the edge of the bed to test the mattress and it complained. Quilts had been piled on top to disguise a thin mattress on an even thinner wire-sprung base. But it was chilly enough to make the down-filled covers necessary.

He huffed out a breath that hung in the air like mist.

It wouldn’t surprise him if they were near a river, the Loire maybe, for he hadn’t noticed the loaded minivan being tested by many hills.

The bed creaked as his weight came off it.

What were the odds of Roxie allowing him to share? That way he wouldn’t be forced to sleep on the lumpy easy chair Zukah had provided, or, God forbid, lie on the floor?

What would it take to convince her that just because she was female and breathing, he had no intention of hitting on her?

When her eyes lit up, she seemed pretty enough. That’s when she wasn’t hiding behind her coat collar.

In fact, once he’d gotten over the annoyance of her arrival, and hauled her out of her jam, he’d wondered if MI6 were so short of volunteers, they’d begun giving their secretaries assignments.

He laughed to himself, imagining her toffee-nosed SAC saying, “Take a note, Roxie. Collect a semiautomatic on your way out, you have a mission in France.”

Yeah, and that was likely. As far as he could see, she hadn’t been armed with anything larger than her cell phone. And for the first time he paused to wonder, why not?

Roxie sat on the commode with the lid down. All she’d wanted was a little privacy to have a nervous breakdown. And now thank heaven, she was over it.

Charles would be having fits tomorrow when she didn’t call in.

She stood up, swiped at her cheeks with the backs of her knuckles, hoping her outburst hadn’t left streaks of mascara.

The mirror was old, freckled with green-mottled patches where dampness had invaded the backing, but it was clear enough to show the giveaway red blotches under her eyes.

Compared to some French bathrooms she’d visited, this one was large, but somewhat utilitarian. It had been a surprise to twist the faucet and feel the water run hot.

The metal bath was so ancient its claw-foot style had been in vogue and out again at least twice since the original was cast.

However, she was pleased to note some thoughtful person had jerry-rigged a shower over the bath, as well as a circular rod and curtain. That was as far as privacy went.

The first thing she’d discovered on entering the bathroom was it had no lock on the door.

Soap and clean towels were piled on the counter by the basin, so she hung her coat on a hook on the back of the door until she tidied up.

Just as she’d thought, her shoulder-length brown hair was curling at the ends. She tucked the long, loose waves that fell over one eye behind her ear as she washed her face, washing off the results of her disastrous evening while listening to Mac moving around in the next room.

Sucking in a deep breath, she held it till she had no choice but to let go or explode. She’d taken so long that any moment now he would come looking for her.

And she wasn’t certain how to handle that, handle him.

Sure, he’d been kind in a rough sort of way, but there was just no getting away from the fact that his career designation came under the heading Criminal or, even worse, Terrorist.

The knock at the bathroom door came before she’d made up her mind about her companion and now it was too late.

“Hey, Roxie. Are you decent? Can I come in?”

She flashed a glance in the mirror. It was okay, not a trace of red to give her away. Her hands worked at the towel, folding and tucking it over the rail as she called, “It’s not locked.”

The bathroom had seemed fairly large until Mac entered and it shrunk to half its original size.

Feeling small was something she’d grown used to, but his presence was intimidating, a combination of height and breadth, plus she was uncertain about his part in this evening’s events.

Without saying another word, he tilted the mirror to one side to look behind it.

Before she could ask what he was searching for, he put a finger to his lips, then turned on the faucet, letting the water run. That done, he checked out the other fixtures, crouching low to squint behind the pipes.

He was acting more like a plumber than the guy who’d rescued her life like a regulation white knight. Though she knew for sure now that his armor was tarnished.

And knowing that, why did she feel a sudden buzz in her nerve endings as she looked at him?

Sure, he was handsome when you got past the greasy hair and what passed for designer stubble but looked like laziness….

The mental criticism of him ground to a halt as he drawled, “So, what happened to the mouse?”

She spun around, searching the floor. “What mouse, where?”

“You, in that damn coat. The way your nose peeked out the collar. Suddenly you’ve turned into a kingfisher all yellow, black and blue-green.”

A glance in the mirror reassured her there was nothing unusual in her image. This morning, because it had turned cold, she’d worn layers, a short turquoise cardigan sweater she’d buttoned across her breasts, over a yellow tank and hanging under both of those a long black cashmere T.

They picked up the colors in her tweed skirt with its full un-pressed pleats and asymmetrical hemline.

It was a funky design and she’d thought she looked pretty cool when Charles had given it a pleasantly surprised glance. She might work for him, but her personal style was her own.

“I’d rather be a kingfisher than a mouse, so I’ll put that down as a compliment, though I’m not the sort of person who fishes for them….”

She paused as he laughed at her play on words. Crinkles fanned out round his fascinating gold eyes.

On the whole, his description of her was pretty accurate. She loved color.

“I guess in your—” she hesitated, searching for the right word “—chosen profession not many fashion magazines come your way. Believe me, this is cutting-edge fashion, though not what you’d find in girlie magazines or calendars.”

He smiled again, and she was getting more than a little annoyed that he found her information funny.

“Well, I should know. I designed the outfit myself. It’s what I do. I’m an intern with Charles Fortier. You know, the couturier.”

This last earned her a surprised lift of his brown eyebrows and a patronizing nod. “I have heard of him, and no, I don’t go in for girlie magazines.”

He ran his gaze over her from the tip of her boots to the top of her head. “I’m not a voyeur. I prefer my women in the flesh, not paper. But don’t worry, you wear your cover well, Roxie, I’ll give you that.”

She experienced hot and cold flashes of confusion while trying to make up her mind whether he’d given her a compliment or a warning of intent. “I don’t suppose I’m up to your standard, though.”

“Not many are,” he agreed.

She jerked back as he brushed past her and reached over to turn on the shower. Not the response she’d expected.

Roxie had discovered to her cost that she wasn’t any good at reading certain men. And men of Mac’s stature she usually tried to avoid for all the looking up gave her a crick in the neck.

His close proximity swamped her in feelings of claustrophobia, and as the water pipes clanked and rattled, she edged toward the door, desperate to get out of there, yet nervous that he’d find something to object to.

“Okay, the noise of the shower will stop us being overheard better than the basin faucet, so you can cut out the act. I know it wasn’t any coincidence that you turned up when you did.”

“What? No, I was sent, but I didn’t know you lived there,” she explained truthfully.

She would have added more but he leapt in. “Who sent you?”

“What difference does that make?” she countered. “If you must know, Charles Fortier sent me to see a Madam Billaud, but I got the wrong apartment.”

The bright gold flash of annoyance in his eyes was tempered by a heave of his massive shoulders in a demonstration of supreme control. “All right, have it your way. I guess I should have known you wouldn’t give out.”

The expression tickled her funny bone.

Her offbeat humor had a reputation for springing to life at the most inappropriate moments. “Not on the first date, anyway,” she told him pertly.

“Yeah, you’re right. Why should you? We both have our secrets and it’s best we keep them to ourselves for now.”

Secrets? What were his?

She was annoyed by the notion that Mac hadn’t believed a word she’d said, and that being the case, who had he decided she was?

Mac wasn’t bothered by her silence. Hell, he hadn’t exactly used thumbscrews. Besides, he had his own way of discovering whom she worked for.

That entire story she’d given him about working for Fortier?

She’d put it over reasonably well. Maybe she wasn’t the virgin agent he’d taken her for, but she was still pretty green.

Whichever outfit she worked for, its sources weren’t as good as IBIS’s or they would have known IBIS was on the job and left the field to its agents, instead of interfering.

He couldn’t help the smug feeling in his chest, knowing that when he’d said yes to Jason Hart he’d taken a big step up.

From the Office of Naval Intelligence to a much higher life-form growing on the same family tree.

Mac saw no reason to let Roxie in on the miniature cell phone Thierry had slipped him in secret. It had only taken a quick look to know his fellow agent hadn’t failed him.

The cell phone was a secure digital one, and he had every intention of putting it to good use once Roxie fell asleep.

Not only that, the device could also screen the room for bugs. Listening devices had to be his next priority. But he had to find them in a way that left Roxie unaware of how he’d managed it.

Of course he only wanted to know where the listening devices were hidden. To remove them would be like playing hide-and-seek, then standing up and giving the game away.

Where would be the fun in that?

Though he’d have enjoyed seeing Zukah’s expression.

Face it, he really enjoyed his work, and would have reveled in the situation but for his latest problem.

The problem of his libido doing an about-face where Roxie was concerned. Her stripping off that coat was as mind-blowing as when a butterfly shucked its cocoon. And much more destructive.

No one could have been more surprised than him to feel the quickening in his groin.

He’d been thinking that at least he wouldn’t have to take cold showers. Now, if Roxie could be talked into sharing the bed, chances were he’d need one. Or, maybe a few.

He would have liked to blame his reactions to the way the steam softened her round the edges, making her look more appealing than at first sight.

Take her eyes. Right now they looked misty and vulnerable.

Too much more of that and he’d end up believing the cover story she was using.

“Shall I leave you to it, then?”

“Uh-uh,” he told her, “not before we have a chance to talk.”

“But we just talked.” She reached for the handle, her head turning away from him.

“There are rules to be set.”

Her eyes snapped open as she lifted her head to glare, eyes cool as steel. “Rules!” she protested. “What rules?”

Mac stepped closer and held a finger to her lips. “Shush…”

He bent closer, his lips almost touching her ear, his hand on her shoulder. Without the covering of her coat, Roxie’s bones felt fragile, easily broken.

A surge of regret foreshadowed the emotion of that event coming to pass. For all he’d been rough on her earlier, and carried scars both bodily and mental from Lucia, he couldn’t bring himself to physically hurt Roxie.

No, not him. But Zukah’s men—now, there was a different breed of animal all together.

He tried to shrug off the thought. Such sentiments on his part were dangerous, the price so high he couldn’t afford to pay it.

Better to remember this was simply an act they’d begun to save her life. “Don’t say anything you wouldn’t say in front of Zukah and his crew, especially out there,” he warned her, voice pitched to add a hard edge to the words.

“The bathroom looks clear, but chances are the other room has been bugged.”

She gave him another of her wide-eyed stares and mouthed one word. “Bugged.”

What had she expected? Hadn’t they taught her the basics? She closed her eyes as if trying to get her head around the notion.

“Look, they believe we’re lovers and that’s the way we have to play it, okay?”

Beneath his palm, he felt a shiver accompany the nod she gave in reply. “Chérie, you’re freezing. Why don’t you take a shower while I look to see if they’ve provided anything useful apart from the bed? There doesn’t appear to be much in the way of heating so we’ll just have to cuddle up.”

There was only one bed.

Of course, Roxie understood that Mac’s suggestion was for the Algerian’s benefit, but she had to clamp her teeth down on a nervous stutter. “W-we’ll, what?”

Mac raised a warm smile and she knew why; he expected her to share that bed with him.

She wanted to ask, “What kind of illegal deal are you brokering that warrants us being threatened with guns and knives as well as taken prisoner?”

But that was obviously one of the secrets he’d mentioned so she saved her breath. She wasn’t completely stupid.

Mac was probably from the Russian mafia buying weapons from…

Her thoughts faltered. She could feel Mac’s large, strong hand on her shoulder, strong enough to kill her with one blow.

Darn, she needed to find a scenario that wasn’t so scary, but she couldn’t get it out of her mind and panic surfaced at the speed of light.

Her chest expanded as she looked from his hand to him, and a scream built in her lungs.

Mac cut it off with a kiss, and for a minute she couldn’t breathe never mind think. The kiss deepened, and before she knew what had happened she began to enjoy it. This wasn’t good.

No. This was very bad.

Her head was still spinning when he lifted his lips from hers. She’d just discovered what it meant to become putty in someone’s hands, but she wished they hadn’t belonged to Mac.

“Better now?” His voice was gentle, as was the hand rubbing her back. Soft. Gentle. Sexy. “Believe me, you’ll get used to it in time.”

She nodded, ignoring an urgent desire to melt into his arms and throw every particle of moral decency she believed in out of the window.

“All you have to remember is no matter what I do or say, play along. They think we’re lovers. We have only to keep up the charade and everything will be okay.”

As his breath grazed her cheek, she was struck by the absurdity of them standing so close, when he’d said they could speak freely without being overheard.

Yet, she stayed where she was, steam billowing like sea fog round an island, hiding them from the rest of the world. “You really believe that we’ll get out of this with our skins?”

“Yes, and you better believe it, too. So far, you’ve handled it like a pro. Be proud of that.”

In a way he was correct. It was one thing letting him know she was frightened, but she had hidden it from the others. Mac aside, that’s what had kept her alive. “I’ll try.”

He patted her shoulder, an action that ought to have reassured her. “Have that shower now,” he said, “and try to get warm while I check the rest of the attic. If I find a bug we’ll put it to good use.”

“You mean misinformation?”

“Exactly. And by the way, while I’m gone, get used to the idea of sharing the bed.”

So much for him treating her like a niece.

She spluttered, but he didn’t give her a chance to object.

“I’ve no intention of freezing my butt on the floor, so we share the bed and the warmth and that’s all. However, if I find any bugs next door we might have to do a little pretending. Make the bed squeak and moan a little. Put on a show to stop arousing their suspicions.”

Mac left before she could let rip. Put on a show? She hadn’t signed up for this. In fact, she hadn’t signed up for being intimidated by Mac, or being taken hostage.

And she definitely hadn’t signed up for sharing a bed with a man she’d known less than six hours.