She would say the words as if her life depended on it.

Which it might.

Fear of failure sent her pulse thundering in her ears as his face lowered to hers.

Her throat felt bone-dry, unused. “I still love you, Mac.” She repeated the line he had fed her. A lie spun to tell her his name, and imply it was a lot longer than five minutes since they first met.

“That’s better,” he murmured.

The touch of his mouth was cool, dry and almost impersonal, yet, too much. And they were being watched.

Her hand clutched a fistful of supple leather jacket to make it look real. Feeling herself lifted as if she were no bigger than a doll, she clung as she’d never clung to a man before, praying this man named Mac wouldn’t continue the wild scary ride that had begun with her staring down the muzzle of a gun.

Honeymoon with a Stranger
Frances Housden

www.millsandboon.co.uk

FRANCES HOUSDEN

has always been a voracious reader, but she never thought of being a writer until a teacher gave her the encouragement she needed to put pen to paper. As a result, Frances was a finalist in the 1998 Clendon Award and won the award in 1999, which led to the sale of her first book for Silhouette, The Man for Maggie.

Frances’s marriage to a navy man took her from her birthplace in Scotland all the way to the ends of the earth in New Zealand. Now that he’s a landlubber, they try to do most of their traveling together. They live on a ten-acre bush block in the heart of Auckland’s Wine District. She has two large sons, two small grandsons and a tiny granddaughter who can twist her around her finger, as well as a wheaten terrier who thinks she’s boss. Thanks to one teacher’s dedication, Frances now gets to write about the kind of heroes a woman would travel to the ends of the earth for. Frances loves to hear from readers. Get in touch with Frances through her Web site at www.franceshousden.com.

I want to dedicate this book to my editor, Julie Barrett, a lady of infinite patience. Thank you, Julie.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Epilogue

Chapter 1

It was November in Paris, a bleak, damp month when the City of Lights turned petulant, more given to dampen a lover’s shoulder with tears than blow a warm kiss, the way the capital would come spring.

The long nights and foggy weather suited Mac McBride’s calling just fine, but then, Mac wasn’t your typical American in Paris. As an agent for IBIS, the Intelligence Bureau for International Security on call 24/7, his days weren’t anyone’s idea of routine.

A snub-nosed pistol sat comfortably inside his left boot, and a 9 mm Glock, his favorite piece, was tucked neatly under the waistband in the back of his black jeans. Mac felt ready for anything.

His fingertips tingled with edgy anticipation as he fitted the PM53 Makarov pistol into his shoulder holster, knowing all his hard work was about to pay off.

The only important decision now was whether or not he should keep on the gray tie with the black shirt? Did his outward appearance say Jeirgif Makjzajev, Chechen rebel, or did the slick oily sheen of the stuff he’d put on his hair yell Mafia lieutenant instead?

Mulling over the appointment ahead of him, he ditched the tie, then scraped his fingernails through this rough face stubble.

He drew his thick brown eyebrows into a frown that quickly disappeared once he was satisfied his reflection fitted the hard-ass look he’d intended.

The small break that took his nose off the straight and narrow became an asset on gigs like these. Though, he had to admit, he hadn’t thought that at the time when he was training at Annapolis, but then life had been all about girls—women—and what attracted them. Now it was about terrorists.

His face hadn’t seen a razor in more than six days, and the stubble looked darker where a dimple made a hollow in his chin.

Six days of dragging his heels on top of the month he’d already spent inveigling his way into the confidence of the slightly down-at-heel Algerian arms dealer he was setting up.

Meanwhile, his firm had made short work of any competitors without arousing suspicion.

He’d laughed when they told him he’d got this gig because of his razor-sharp cheekbones. Laughed to realize they thought he could pass for Chechen, and him with his true-blue American bloodline and a family history spanning 250-odd years since the first McBride set foot in America.

What the hell, he was more than willing to be involved in one of the craziest operations he’d yet encountered. And it helped that he spoke fluent Russian.

Though the Algerian didn’t, so the odd curse word was enough to fool him.

Luckily, Mac’s ability to finesse a deal speaking French was every bit as effortless as working in English, Russian or any of the other languages he’d picked up while his father’s career took the McBrides to U.S. embassies around the world.

Mac was shrugging his broad shoulders into the soft well-worn creases and shoulder-hugging cut of his black leather bomber jacket, almost ready to leave, when the phone rang.

Without looking, he shot out an arm, snagging the receiver, thankful it no longer took a guessing game to locate things he needed in the Le Sentier apartment. Reciting his number, he heard, “Zukah is on his way up to the apartment.”

The voice was Thierry’s, one of the other IBIS agents—French—working with Mac. “Damn, how far away?”

The importance IBIS placed on this case showed in the amount of money they were willing to commit. Thierry’s assignment was to tail the Algerian and his men; he and three others covered that end, but only Thierry was a master at disguise.

“They entered the building as I punched in your number, three of them. Want me to follow them up?” he asked.

“No, wait. Pick up their trail again when they leave. Zukah probably thinks there’s safety in numbers, but three shouldn’t be a problem now I’ve been warned.”

Mac only stated the facts as he knew them. The word arrogance didn’t raise a ripple on his conscience.

After focusing most of his adult life training to be the best, able to kill with his bare hands if need be, he now took those abilities for granted.

Roxanne Kincaid looked back over her shoulder, wondering if it was the last time she would see the little Renault.

She hadn’t worried about the car when she’d stolen a heart-racing gap in the traffic from under the wheels of the one alongside her, or while she swerved into the corner to cross the Seine at the Pont Neuf, but parking in Le Sentier?

This dark, dank quartier of Paris was the contrast that proved the rule when they spoke of the City of Lights. It would be just her luck to find the wheels missing when she returned.

She looked along the sidewalk, saw three men walking ahead of her and slowed her pace.

Earlier that evening the couturier Charles Fortier had caught her eye as he spun his bright glance round the avenue Montaigne workroom, and before he could say “Bon soir, Roxie,” she’d known he had a special job for her.

One she couldn’t refuse.

And now here she was, outside a six-story apartment building that hadn’t been on her agenda for this evening’s entertainment.

Gathering the upstanding collar of her charcoal-colored coat closer to her ears, she cast a baleful frown up at the persistent drizzle, sniffing air that had long since lost the dusty scent of autumn.

Everyone said winter had come early this year, but what it meant to Roxie was that all the straightening lotion in Paris wasn’t going stop her hair curling.

Standing under the dismal street lamp, she checked the washed-out number painted on pitted plaster as she swayed against a gust of wind that funneled through the narrow streets. This quartier really hadn’t changed much over the years.

She found it hard to imagine her grandmother growing up not a two-minute walk from this very doorway. Grandmère’s neat Dorset cottage, where Roxie grew up, had been a far cry from the dark, sightless windows crowding the narrow cobbled streets.

Though, if Grandmère were alive to see her now, she wouldn’t be delighted to see Roxie visiting her old haunts.

No, Anastasia Perdieu Kincaid hadn’t been the type of woman who minced words or called a spade a shovel.

A quick twist of the wrist and Mac checked the time on the flashy gold watch—Russian—and checked it against the plain clock, the only piece of decor on his apartment walls. The transient feeling of the place was exactly what he’d had in mind.

The Algerian was thirty minutes early, but if he’d thought to surprise Mac…?

As far as he’d discovered, Ahmed Zukah had only lately begun playing out of his league. Until now the worst crimes listed on the Algerian’s rap sheet were shady arms deals.

But this one was bigger, much bigger, a deal deadly enough to be brought to the attention of the IBIS.

Though Zukah acted as front man and had two Frenchmen working for him, none of them had the cojones to put this together, but the IBIS had still to discover who was running the Algerian.

Mac wondered if tonight would bring him any closer to the man he really wanted to lay hands on, the fourth man. These others were small potatoes compared to the brain behind the scheme.

Right on time, a fist hammered on the door of the third-floor apartment. Mac sniffed; they could wait.

The wooden door received three more poundings while he finished pulling his shirt collar over the neck of his jacket.

His dark gold eyes narrowed, fierce lights burning in them, sparked from his resentment of the impatient demand on his door.

It was a look those who knew him had come to dread, but then, the bad guys outside the door didn’t know that.

Yet.

Roxie’s foot hit the first step of the two leading to the dark aperture of the six-story building. Stairs led to the floors above, but she ignored them.

At the end of the hallway she heard the courtyard gate clang shut and decided it would be wisest to let the men she’d seen get well in front of her.

She’d just mimicked Grandmère, saying, “Better safe than sorry,” when her eyes caught a movement in the darkness ahead that was hardly more than a shift in the dank air.

An uncanny flicker crept up the nape of her neck, and she dragged in a deep calming breath as her pulse fluttered.

The lighting was so poor, the electric globe sticking out from the wall sconce had to be as low wattage as they could buy and still have it give off light.

“So it’s dark, get over it,” she muttered. “It’s not that bad.” She’d heard some Parisians broke their necks trying to find an apartment round here so close to the heart of French culture that the Louvre was a mere ten-minute walk away.

With a couple of twists of the leather strap of her purse, she pulled its weight securely against her knuckles in case she needed a weapon.

She laughed unapologetically under her breath, fanciful maybe, but her instincts never let her down. Setting a brisk pace, she directed her toes toward the silhouette of an iron gate breaking up the gray light pooling in the courtyard.

Clamping her lips shut so the stale smell wouldn’t taint her mouth, Roxie took the last few steps at a run before her lungs exploded.

Almost there, she desperately gulped down air only to be swamped by a miasma of cheap wine and garlic fumes.

With the courtyard less than a yard away, a figure lurched out of the shadows under the stairs. Roxie’s heart leapt up to her throat, reducing her scream of fear to a squeal.

Unfortunately, the sound wasn’t loud enough to drown out the man’s slurred words, or the suggestions she read in them.

He wanted to intimidate her, but he didn’t succeed.

Wine sloshed wildly as she dodged the bottle waved in her face. She batted it out of her way with a forehand swipe of her purse before swooping low to avoid retaliation.

“Missed me,” she taunted under her breath, more for her than for him, and dove into the courtyard like a runner crossing the winning line.

With any luck the drunk would have gone by the time she’d completed her task, and if not, she’d be ready for him.

Without due haste, Mac flicked his black shirt collar up ’til it brushed the curled ends of his longer-than-usual hair, framing the planes and angles of his hawkish features.

Just as casually, he removed the Makarov from its snug place under his arm, then strode across the sparsely furnished living space of the apartment.

Even in boots his footsteps were soft, silent, those of a hunter. And, as if someone stage left called out, “Lights, cameras, action,” his expression took on the appearance of fierce determination before he wrenched open the door to an enemy who hadn’t heard him coming.

Butt of his pistol held high to knock, Zukah took a couple of involuntary backward steps, landing up against the men with him.

With his forearm resting on top of the door frame, McBride let his broad shoulders fill the doorway. He kept the hand gripping the Makarov hidden alongside his thigh, then slipped it behind a door that wasn’t built to stop a bullet.

Mac eyed the pistol in the Algerian’s red-knuckled fist with a lift of an unimpressed eyebrow, before his gaze dropped to Zukah.

A slovenly dresser, the man always looked as if he’d just stepped off the boat at Marseille, but Mac’s eyes saw beyond the front Zukah put on public view. Zukah was a hell of a lot shrewder than he wanted generally known.

Almost as quickly as he dropped his hand, a peevish frown drew the Algerian’s bushy eyebrows into a saturnine line. Looking foolish obviously wasn’t part of the act he cultivated.

That performance seemed confined to his beige crumpled suit straining over a creased shirt and protruding gut.

Sticking with French so there could be no misunderstanding, Mac said, “I see you brought your calling card, Monsieur Zukah, and some compagnie. There was no need for such diligent precautions. I’m quite aware who I’m dealing with.”

Zukah’s tar-colored mustache quivered above a smirk. “As I do, Makj…pah, your name is unpronounceable.”

“Stick with Mac, everyone does. And forgive me if I’m wrong, hadn’t we arranged to meet at La Grappe d’Orgueil?”

Mac’s eyelids narrowed as he spoke, and his smile when it arrived, though lethal, was a mere feral-baring of white teeth.

Only he knew that the smile was because his cover had withstood the test that he’d assumed the Algerian would put it through.

IBIS was nothing if not thorough when it came to cover stories. If only they’d been as successful at discovering how the Algerian had gotten his hands on a biotech weapon called Green Shield that the French military had supposedly destroyed.

Ahmed’s dark irises disappeared behind a mass of wrinkles as he grunted. No way could the sound erupting be taken for a laugh. “Precisely, mon ami. I decided meeting you here might save time.”

Mac couldn’t summon up any humor.

Though the bureau knew who had designed the weapon Zukah had on offer, no one had discovered how it had come into his hands.

Green Shield—named after a sap-sucking beetle—was a designation that gave no hint of the true nature of the beast.

Even the slick gel in Mac’s hair wasn’t enough to prevent it from lifting at the back of his neck, as he pondered the kind of sick mind it had taken to devise such a weapon.

“A pity you didn’t think to call first,” he said. “I’m particular about whom I invite into my place.”

Mac perused the Algerian’s self-loading pistol, a small Mauser, old, well-cared-for but no longer seen on the streets for sale. “For you, I’ll make an exception,” he said, stepping back, allowing Zukah a view of the Makarov he’d had pointing through the door at an extremely vulnerable target.

He’d never entertained the notion that the two men covering Ahmed’s back wouldn’t be armed. Though they’d hardly make a move with the Algerian’s bulk blocking the line of fire.

That Zukah was aware of the danger in his position showed in a sideways movement of his eyes that revealed their whites.

In or out, there was no way to dodge a bullet.

Mac generously decided to let him off the hook.

It was too late to back off now. The damn biotech weapon was reputed to be of awesome consequence. And no matter what, Mac’s mission was to obtain it at all cost.

He didn’t need telling his life was on the line.

What was one man’s life when millions might face a slow, lingering death from starvation? With that in mind, he said, “Since you and your friends don’t appear overly dangerous, come on in and let’s deal.”

To put a spin of honesty on his announcement, Mac turned his back on the Algerian filling his doorway to return to the living room, wondering, where was a Kevlar vest when you needed one?

Roxie paused, at the other side of the courtyard, winded by her frantic pace. Her boots were made for walking, not the hundred-yard dash.

Besides, she’d heard nothing to suggest the man had followed her, no shambling footsteps that signaled his approach.

The open square she’d crossed appeared dependent on the windows facing down into it for light. Luckily, the bleak weather had kept people at home and the lights showed her the way as she ran.

By now, she’d come to the sensible conclusion that the man was un clochard, one of the homeless, who’d been sheltering in the entrance to escape the worst of the weather.

Still breathing hard, she stood at the foot of the stairs and heard a door close, and wondered which floor the men ahead of her in the gloom had been going to.

As the apartment door closed, Mac decided that for the moment, he had nothing to fear from these wiseguys.

The dealer running Zukah and Co. was asking an arm and two legs for the weapon, and only the wealthiest terrorist groups could afford that kind of lump sum.

Al Qaeda hadn’t come sniffing around as far as IBIS knew, but then they preferred their weapons to go off with a bang, not the whimper of dying vegetation.

That was one of the few facts on Mac’s side.

The Palestinians couldn’t afford it, and since most of North Africa was pretty barren, anyway, the Israelis weren’t interested.

No, this weapon was designed to turn lush green countries, thanking God for their daily bread, into yellow deserts.

From what he’d been told, one miniscule drop could do more damage than a planeload of Agent Orange had done in Vietnam.

Perching on the arm of the only easy chair, Mac nonchalantly waved Zukah toward the sofa. “Asseyez-vous.”

“I prefer to stand.”

Stubborn, Mac concluded as the Algerian held his ground, the two men with him ranging themselves on either side like a pair of fierce black cats guarding a king’s ransom.

The closemouthed Frenchmen weren’t strangers to Mac. He’d seen them at previous meetings, always dressed like twins in dark suits and ties.

Mac stood, saying, “Your choice. Have you brought the goods?”

Zukah sniffed derisively, and had Mac still been seated he would have looked at him down the length of his nose.

“You think I would carry it around in my pocket? I am not foolish. It would be far too dangerous. I enjoy living in la belle France. If I had a passion for desert sands I could have stayed in Algeria.”

Mac caught a hint of something in Ahmed’s explanation that tightened the skin at the back of his neck.

Damn, the weapon sounded worse than he’d heard. “It’s really that potent?” he probed. “I was led to believe its specifics named grain crops, wheat, corn…?”

The Algerian shrugged. “Believe what you like. I refuse to take chances…and, anyway, I haven’t decided who gets it yet.”

Mac whirled toward the door. “Then don’t waste my time!” he snarled, privately wondering if another buyer had come on the scene to make his life more complicated than it already was.

Roxie took the stairs on the other side of the courtyard entrance and began to climb. A mumble of French drifted down from an upper landing, then cut off abruptly.

Though it was dark enough to make her want to hurry, she took her time, just in case the men she’d seen thought they were being followed. At this time of night most deals being done in Le Sentier would be dirty.

At the top of the first flight, the sign on the door facing read Claudette’s Lingerie. Not as startling as it might sound since Le Sentier was the garment district of Paris.

Halfway up a third flight, she heard raised voices and, nearing the top, was relieved to see light leaking under a door.

Her pace quickened with revived confidence,

Charles had trusted her to do this for him.

She hurried the last few stairs, the four-inch heels of her boots sounding an uneven tattoo on the wooden treads.

The Algerian soon made it known he hadn’t done with Mac. “I want to know what makes this your fight? You tell me you want to bring the Russian bear to its knees, yet you were born in America.”

Zukah spoke urgently, the soft sibilant accent of his home-land making it hard to follow. “The Cold War is over and those two old enemies are already swapping pillow talk. I would be a fool to take you at face value.”

Mac’s tempered flared; though he kept his voice low, it sounded harsh, in keeping with the role he’d taken on. “When you were selling guns, did you always ask who your customer was going to shoot with them?”

Mac had learned to be particular about his cover story, to fit into the skin of the character. Lip curling, he asked, “In your small conflicted world, did you ever hear of Grozny?”

Zukah gave him a blank stare, but Mac noticed one of his men nod as if remembering the siege.

Mac’s nose flared as he looked down on the Algerian. Zukah had a lot of native cunning but obviously wasn’t interested in events that didn’t affect him personally.

“Not that it’s any of your damn business, but my mother’s family were there. Not one of them survived the siege.” A single step brought Mac chest-to-chest with Zukah. “So, you might say I have a large stake in acquiring that weapon.”

It was a one-sided pissing match with only Mac speaking, but he continued, “And before you sell to someone else, it would be in your best interest to discover the punishments we mete out to those who cross us Chechens.”

The uncomprehending expression reminded Mac that a threat was redundant if the one being menaced lived in blissful ignorance, but the same guy shifted his feet as if in discomfort.

Mac reckoned it would pay to remember which one could be more easily unsettled, anything that gave him an edge.

Not to be outdone, the Algerian blustered, “And we have to be sure of your—” All at once Zukah broke off and as one their heads turned in the direction of the swift footsteps outside.

Mac spat out a curse and cast a murderous glance toward the door, wondering what else could go wrong. “If this is another trick, Zukah, it doesn’t sit at all well with me, so be warned.”

It was silent as Roxie crossed the landing, as if someone had turned the sound down on a TV. Roxie put her ear close to the door and heard nothing. Not a sound.

It could be the wrong apartment.

She knocked lightly. Nothing.

About to reach for the handle, she hesitated, thinking it could be very awkward if she was wrong. Then told herself, don’t be a coward. All you have to say is you’re looking for Madame Billaud, the seamstress who’s doing some specialized work for Charles Fortier, the couturier.

Everyone had heard of Charles.

Yes, if she made a mistake, she would simply ask them to redirect her. She tried the handle.

The door to the apartment opened easily. She took a deep breath and called loudly, “Bon soir. C’est Roxie….”

The rest of her announcement stuttered to a halt in the face of a deadly looking gun. She blinked in the bright lights for a few seconds, and still none of the men facing her spoke a word.

It was she who broke the ominous silence by blurting out, “Bloody hell!” in English, the second of the languages she’d grown up speaking.

The gun never wavered an inch.

Not even when the thin, hollow-cheeked man grabbed the shoulder she was desperately trying to ease back through the open door. He pulled her into the room.

Her eyes winced at the sudden transition from dark to light. But all the same, it looked as if she’d stumbled into the middle of a home invasion.

Four strange men and one solitary woman. Latent instincts stirred in her brain, telling her that the danger she felt could come from more than just a gun.

Chapter 2

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?

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.

“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.

Chapter 4

Mac sent up a silent thank-you to his Maker that he discovered the camera on top of the armoire before starting his search.

Guess they hadn’t counted on him being so tall.

His second piece of luck was in knowing the make and model. It recorded in monochrome and was triggered by movement, but it didn’t have a facility for sound.

It irritated him to know that if his mind had been on the job, instead of worrying about Roxie, he would have anticipated its presence.

It made sense that Zukah wouldn’t expect him to go around talking to himself. That didn’t mean he could discount them having placed listening devices.

The camera meant he needed to take a much more subtle approach to searching for the little beasties.

On leaving the bathroom, the first place he’d checked had been behind the armoire. The woodwork was badly scarred and it was too heavy to move without making a noise.

He’d run his fingers down the small gap between it and the wall next to the bathroom door and found nothing. But the armoire wasn’t as high as the bar he used to do chin-ups.

As soon as he raised his head above the contoured wooden ledge, he’d noticed where the dust had been disturbed.

Then again, the wire leading from the miniature camera was a complete giveaway. What bothered him most about the setup was the camera angle. It hit the bed square on.

Roxie was going to give him problems, or maybe not. Maybe the camera had solved that one for him.

His mind raced ahead, planning.

Content with his decision, he took off his jacket, folded it and laid it on the floor by the side of the immense piece of furniture, all this done without moving in front of the camera.

Roxie had to be in the shower by now and the plastic curtain ought to give the illusion she was safe from prying eyes.

Clouds of steam engulfed him when he opened the door. Once inside, he saw a neat pile of folded clothes on the white marble counter surrounding the basin, while her black boots sat on the floor.

Behind the opaque white plastic her shape was a pink blur, an enticing blur. Too bad that the time, the place, the woman and the moment were all wrong.

It hadn’t occurred to him that she might not have heard him enter as he called out, “Roxie?”

She let out a whoop of surprise and for a moment looked as though she might slip. He stepped forward to catch her, but all that happened was the plastic curtain ballooned, then resettled.

Rosy-cheeked, her head appeared around the edge of the shower curtain.

He hadn’t the heart to tell her that the plastic she was clinging to for protection showed the perfect curve of her breasts with their dusky centers as clearly as if it had been fashioned from glass.

“What are you doing here? Can’t I have a shower in private?”

“This is urgent or I wouldn’t have intruded. There’s a camera….”

“What, in here?” The hem of the curtain skidded across the metal bath as she wrapped it closer. Close enough for him to tell that the hair guarding the apex of her thighs was as brown as the damp strands curling against her cheeks.

“No. It’s on top of the armoire and aimed straight at the bed.” While he watched her take in the information, he kept his eyes fixed on her face. Her panic would only escalate if she looked down and saw the view he had of her nude figure.

“Wonderful, we have a permanent Peeping Tom in the bedroom. We’ll never get away with pretending to be lovers.”

“Yes we will.” He needed to persuade her it was imperative they make the show convincing.

“Look, I’m not saying it will be easy. This bathroom is the only place we can let down our guard. But once they suspect that we’re playacting…”

He paused, wondering how he could put it without alarming her more than he already had. “Wouldn’t you enjoy fooling them?”

Her wet eyelashes were clumped together by small droplets that fell as she nodded emphatically. “I’d like that very much.”

From where she stood their eyes were level at last, but it only served to emphasize how tiny she really was, and make him wonder once more what had made her go into the spy business.

But his momentary lapse into empathy now made him even more blunt. “I’m still the man with the money, they need me. If they discover my deception they’ll probably put it down as a hero complex and laugh it off as some stupid act of valor, it’s a guy thing. But you…?”

He gave it to her straight with the certainty that she wouldn’t thank him for treating her like a child.

He’d been correct. She shook fear by the throat and said, “Come on, Mac, spit it out. They’ll kill me, won’t they?”

Reluctant to load her with more bad news, he bit the inside of his cheek, before deciding that this was one aspect of their incarceration he could share with total honesty.

Hell, she was an experienced agent; she should know the score.

Sure, he’d had a moment’s aberration when he’d kissed her and gained a response, but they both knew that was a no-go area.

There was a rueful quality to the sigh that accompanied the shrug of his shoulders. “I hate to admit it, but there is every chance of them taking that way out.”

Damn, since when had he become so namby-pamby? “Chérie, what other choice have the bad guys got? You’ve seen their faces.”

“So have you.” She did the eye-roll thing, a flash of silver that made him wish he could promise nothing would happen to her, and asked him, “Aren’t you frightened they’ll kill you as well?”

He didn’t want to supplant the hope he saw in her eyes with disillusionment, but he had no other choice.

Once she suspected he wasn’t as crooked as the others—that he was just a guy doing his damnedest to keep America and the rest of the world secure from terrorists—she might let her guard slip, and then it would indeed be curtains for Roxie.

And not the see-through shower type, still giving him an occasional glimpse of her womanly charms to stir memories of having them pressed close against him.

“The unfortunate part, chérie, is that I’m the other half of the deal. If they go down, so do I.”

“I wouldn’t dare identify you, Mac. You saved my life.”

“So you say now, Roxie. You could change your mind.”

He couldn’t afford to forget that facet of the operation. Hell, with his training, he couldn’t believe an agent would put accomplishing her mission ahead of everything they’d been taught.

Of course, Roxie could have stashed some sly tricks up her sleeve. He knew he had.

They would be just another of the many things that she wasn’t about to share with the crook she believed him to be.

How could he tell? It was a like a grab bag. Some were willing to confess to anything to stay safe. And against all odds, the most mild-mannered person could turn into a hero or heroine.

Since that shared kiss, a slim thread of doubt lingered in the back of his mind. If Roxie was who she’d claimed, he was already guilty of corrupting an innocent.

Damn, after only six hours. That would be a record.

“What do you want me to do, Mac?”

“Nothing drastic. I need to discover where the bugs are, but I can’t do that with that camera recording my every move.”

He’d already thought the steps out. “Once you’re somewhat decent, come through and slip into bed. I’ll say I’m turning the light out. After that it will be easy to toss my jacket over the camera and switch the light back on so I can search for bugs.”

She nodded at him, wet curls bouncing on her forehead as if this was nothing out of the ordinary. Yeah, she was an agent. The decision made him feel better.

“Look, even if I find the bugs, they’ll have to stay where they are. I don’t want Zukah or his lackeys suspecting anything other than that we’re content to spend some time together.”

She showed him a wry grimace. “Our so-called honeymoon?”

“That’s it in a nutshell. Are you with me, chérie?”

“Of course. What choice do I have?”

“Couple of days, tops, and we should be out of here. Until then…it will have to be make and mend as we go along.”

“Okay, turn your back and let me get out of the shower.”

“No, hang on a minute.” He pulled out his shirt and began to unfasten it.

“Are you going to have a shower after all?”

“No, I’m going to wet my hair and pretend we’ve shared a shower.” He stripped off his shirt, then turned on the faucet.

The water had just begun to run when Roxie cried, “Ow!”

The faucet spun round in his fingers as he shut it off again. “Sorry, forgot these old-fashioned systems wouldn’t have a pressure equalizer. Did I burn you?”

“Not in any way that counts. The water just turned icy. Let me get out first this time.” She turned around and once more all he could see was a flesh-colored blur, but she’d left him wondering what she meant by saying, Not in any way that counts?

He’d just decided if anyone ended up burned by this arrangement it could be him, when she said, “Shower’s off.”

Mac began running hot water into the basin.

“When I leave here, I’ll make a show of looking through the armoire to see if anything useful has been left in it. Just remember not to look straight at the camera. And no matter what, follow my lead. Act as if you love me.”

He almost told her, The way you did when I kissed you. She didn’t seem to have to put on an act then.

Her mouth had simply flowered under his.

In the mirror he watched his own mouth twist in an expression of grim reality. Until he had Thierry check Roxie out, she’d better believe his was simply an act to make sure they both survived.

That way, he might not only get out of this situation alive but with his honor still intact.

“What are you doing, chéri? Come to bed.” Mac heard a sultry ring of impatience in Roxie’s voice. Only the two of them knew it wasn’t the sound of a hot-blooded woman anxiously awaiting her lover.

Or, that having him in bed with her was way down on her wish list, if indeed it made it at all.

“Soon as I switch off the lights.”

Under cover of darkness, he threw his leather jacket over the camera, but before turning them on again there was something he needed to be sure of.

Barefoot, he padded softly toward the window. A pale gold haze bloomed behind the trees like dawn on the horizon. Since it wasn’t anywhere near daybreak, it could only mean a largish town wasn’t too far distant.

Interesting, but that wasn’t what he needed to know. The window overlooked the dark driveway and was unbroken by patches of light.

That meant the other occupied rooms must face the back of the house, which meant it was okay to flick the switch on without anyone noticing there was light coming from the attic while the monitor showing the attic was dark.

“How many extra quilts did you pile on this bed?” Roxie’s voice sounded hot and breathless, though she’d only worn her long black T-shirt to sleep in.

Her words reached out to him through the thick gloom, a reminder that the conversation was lagging.

“Only two.”

“One would have done.” As the light came back on she tossed off the quilts he’d found in the armoire and slipped out of bed. Her dark hair, dry now, had a tousled and sexy appeal, as if someone had just run his hands through it.

For God’s sake, keep your mind on the job, Mac.

He palmed the countersurveillance gadget. Just in time, a second later, she was over at the table standing beside him shivering. “Trust me, we’ll need them.”

“Come under the covers and then tell me that. The sheets are cold as well.”

He knelt down. Keeping his hands hidden, he ran a scan and found a bug. There were so few pieces of furniture this shouldn’t take long as he’d already covered the armoire.

That left the easy chair and the bed. His concentration focused on one thing alone, and again Roxie had to fill in the conversation. “Isn’t this the most uncomfortable bed we’ve ever slept in?”

She’d gone back to the bed and was jiggling the edge of the mattress.

“I don’t remember doing much sleeping,” he said from the end of the bed as he knelt to check underneath and got a faint signal.

He moved to the other side. Roxie followed by rolling across the quilts, achieving a few satisfactory squeaks of the mattress.

They were eye to eye as she inquired, “Don’t you know a euphemism when you hear it?”

“You mean you’d prefer me to use a much more earthy term?” he asked, then ducked his head, quick to hide his grin. And there it was, a bug behind the antique iron frame supporting the sway-backed spring base.

Damn Zukah. That one would have to go. Somehow he’d have to make it look like an accident, so that the Algerian kept thinking he was as dumb as they were both acting at the moment.

Her voice came down to him, “Actually, I meant instead of making love.”

“With you, chérie—” he punctuated his words with a couple of crude kissing noises “—I always make love.” Then putting a finger to his lip, he pointed behind the headboard.

He had to admit she was quick on the uptake. While he turned the attic into a pool of darkness for a second time, she contrived to make smooching noises on the back of her hand.

Within two minutes he’d shed his jeans and was slipping into bed beside her.

Tonight, though it might be uncomfortable, he kept his shorts on as a concession to Roxie, the first time he’d worn a stitch to bed since junior high.

He felt her body heat seeping under the covers, calling him closer, or maybe that was the dip in the mattress.

It took him a couple of seconds to realize she had been lying there rigid from the moment he hit the sheets. Time to take up the slack before his macho reputation took a dive with whoever was listening. “Chérie, I want you out of those clothes.”

He sat up making the bed groan and finished with “Now isn’t that better?”

Better for whom, Roxie wanted to ask, but instead infused her voice with steam heat. “Much better. Come closer, I want to feel you against me,” she told him, counting on his promise not to jump her bones. After all, they were in this together.

The gasp he uttered satisfied the devil in her, but she wondered if he felt all that kissing of the back of her hand was worth the effort he put into it.

Then all thought vanished as he moved his lips to the fine skin inside her wrist.

Her pulse raced. Darn, she knew he could feel it hiccup when his lips lingered on that particular spot before moving to the inside of her elbow.

No better. Her skin was so sensitive there that his tongue felt as rough as a cat’s as he licked at it.

His breathing became labored and heavy and all too real, the sound of it making her head swim as her own breaths mimicked the noises he made.

This had to stop. He could forget trying to seduce her, she wasn’t about to roll over and think of England or even France for that matter.

“Oooh, Mac,” she groaned, thrusting off his hand so she could reach for a mental life raft.

Whoa, Mac told himself as he came up for air.

The sensation of her pulse jolting against his tongue was enough to tempt a saint to forget his vows.

It was a small leap from there to remembering the view he’d had through the shower curtain. Blood rushed into his groin.

Instead of sipping, Mac wanted to plunder. Wanted to feel her body under and over his, while he discovered some of the many delights Roxie had to offer.

Thank God one of them had some sense.

But it should have been him who pulled away, not Roxie.

He’d come up against some fantastic-looking women in his time. It was one of the hazards of his occupation. Damn, he couldn’t count the number of bad beautiful women who worked for the enemy.

Only one had gotten past his defenses, though, and he couldn’t let that happen again.

And why would he? He wasn’t a fool, and he wasn’t about to risk blowing his cover by sweeping Roxie into his arms and really making love to her.

Time to get back to playacting.

“How’s that feel, chérie?”

“Wonderful.” The word seemed to tremble from her lips as he moved up higher in the bed. Her breath feathered across his shoulder as the dip in the mattress threw them together. Double damn.

He pushed her away and sat up, but worse was to come. She eased up, elbow resting on her pillow and, in an impassioned whisper that rippled across the last threads of his control, said, “Oh, Mac, take me, take me now.”

Thank God, he felt her shoulders shake. She was laughing.

A small miracle, but he grasped it in both hands.

Action. That’s what he needed. Holding the brass headboard with one hand, he began to bounce. Desperate times called for desperate measures, the occasional grunts from his efforts would have to pass for passion.

When the headboard accidentally banged against the wall, he did it a few more times. Serve them right if he deafened the pervert listening and made Yves of the many hands go crazy with lust.

That thought led straight to another, a brilliant explanation for the bug at the head of the bed breaking.

He heard an odd hiccup from Roxie, somewhere between laughter and tears. He gave her a nudge in reply with his knee and the game was on, Mac thumping the wall while Roxie kept time.

It was he who had trouble muffling his laughter as she did the classic coffee-shop scene of exaggerated moans. And Mac’s body felt exhilarated and exhausted at once, as if they’d really made love.

The headboard hit the wall another couple of times, as he yelled loud enough to deafen anyone listening. Out of breath, he slid under the covers that no longer felt cold. “Was that good for you, chérie?”

Roxie sounded genuinely sleepy. “Mac, you’re the best. Night…” He felt her roll onto her side, facing away from him.

Too bad his performance hadn’t done anything to cull his aching need. Listening to her moan had exacerbated his condition to the point of torture.

But wondering how it felt to be inside her, to be the one who made her sigh and gasp, would be more kill than cure, and his mother never raised a masochist. No sir.

True American patriots, his mother and father had served their country with diplomacy in embassies set in some of the most far-flung countries of the world.

Serving the United States had become ingrained in him from the time he was a small child. That’s what had made him the man he was today, a man of honor. As for the different roles he played, the lies he told, they didn’t count.

At first the pretense had simply been a way to serve his country, but after meeting Jason Hart, they had become a means of keeping the world safe from terrorism.

He turned his back to Roxie.

Sleep wouldn’t find him as easily as it had her. He still had work to do, Thierry to contact. An hour passed slowly in the heavy silence.

Finally, at 3:00 a.m., he slipped from under the covers, hardly disturbing them as he left her sleeping, and dressed in his jeans and jacket, then unfastened his watch to retrieve a fine tungsten lock pick from the back of it.

Mac had checked the door to the attic earlier and been quietly pleased to discover Yves had made it easy for him by removing the key. The lock turned with hardly a sound.

Easing the door open, he slipped out onto the top landing and down the stairs, confident of being back before she even knew he was gone.

As well as contacting Thierry, there was the layout of the house to reconnoiter and an escape route to plan. This time, he would be prepared, and should another gorgeous woman chance to cross his path, he’d step aside and let her go on by.

With Roxie, he was sailing too close to the wind.

Let her believe he was a criminal. He didn’t care. Nor would he let her know that no matter what he’d told her, he wouldn’t stand by and watch anyone harm her.

It took him thirty minutes to reconnoiter the house and talk to Thierry. The question uppermost in his mind had been answered.

The identity of the fourth man.

IBIS had identified the owner of the house, Monsieur Victoire Sevarin, deputy minister of France’s Department of Defense.

No matter how deeply some internal security agencies scrutinized the backgrounds of their employees, one rotten apple always managed to taint the whole barrel.

Sevarin’s had been the hand that controlled France’s biotech weapons research. Who better to acquire Green Shield than the man who was supposed to control its destruction?

One problem solved, a thousand to go.

Already aware of Sevarin, Thierry’s priorities took an oblique angle. “Who was the girl?”

He gave Thierry all the information he had, which didn’t include her surname. How to explain that the blood running hot in his veins had put a little thing like surnames out of his mind.

It wasn’t the type of information Mac wanted to get around.

Back in the attic, Mac locked the door, with no one the wiser that he’d been gone. Quickly discarding his clothes, he padded over to the bed and slid under the pile of quilts covering Roxie.

As soon as his body hit the mattress, the extra weight sent her rolling toward him. She snuggled against him without waking. Then wrapped around him, tangling her legs with his as if they always slept that way.

It was a long night.

Roxie’s head rested serenely on his chest as the sky began to turn from blue-black to gray. He hadn’t slept, but that was something he was used to. It hadn’t taken him long to discover she’d ditched the T-shirt she’d been wearing in the half hour he’d been gone. Now the soft swell of her lace-covered breasts presented him with a tease he didn’t dare respond to.

He was totally firm about that in his mind.

His body had no such scruples.

Mac discovered when it came to Roxie, no amount of reciting times tables or logarithms could suppress the erection lying between them. It pressed into the welcoming curve of her belly as if it had a mind of its own.

As soon as the sun came up, he would leave her in bed and treat his libido to a cold shower, since that looked like being the only reprimand it understood.

Chapter 5

Bars of pale watery sunlight slipped through the bars on the window, painting stripes on the faded blue quilt covering Roxie.

Memory hit her the moment she opened her eyes and surveyed her prison. She leapt out of bed, checking her watch.

It was 8:00 a.m. and she was alone.

Roxie glanced down at the lacy camisole revealing her breasts, and from it to the little-boy short panties that matched. The T-shirt she’d gone to bed in was on the floor, and she couldn’t remember taking it off, but at least she was halfway decent.

It took several moments more to recall the camera that watched her every move, and less time than that to pick up the black T-shirt and pull it over her head.

Trying not to glance the camera’s way, she ran her palm across the rumpled sheets on the other side of the bed. There was still a dent in the feather pillow from Mac’s head.

The sheets were still warm. Almost as warm as the memory of the act she’d put on the night before.

She could hear the shower running on the other side of the bathroom door. Hoping Mac was discreetly tucked behind its curtain as she dashed to the bathroom, with a perfunctory knock she dived through the door without waiting for a reply.

Eyes closed, Roxie leaned back against the coat she’d left hanging from the hook, to catch her breath.

It must have been Mac leaving the bed they were sharing that wakened her, since he couldn’t have been showering long, for the steam still hadn’t filled the bathroom.

She could see Mac’s tall shape through the opaque plastic curtain, the top of his head level with the curtain rail.

Although his outline was blurred, she made out that it tapered nicely from shoulder to waist, six-pack abs but no unnecessary mass to his muscles.

Heat scored her cheekbones as she remembered curving her hand round his arm while pressing against his chest. But she had no time to dwell on the memory as Mac asked, “Come to join me?”

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