Stranded with a Spy (13 page)

“We don’t have to decide this right now,” he said with a shrug that suggested her imminent return to the States wasn’t a done deal. “Let me dangle the bait, see if we can gin up some media interest. You may be ready to go home after dealing with them.”

“After they start feasting on my flesh again, you mean. You’re probably right.”

Her shoulders slumped under the robe. He could almost hear her desperate hopes for obscurity crash down around her.

“Okay,” she conceded after a long silence, “we’ll play it your way.”

Knowing that his mission took precedence over her vacation plans didn’t stop Cutter from feeling like a total heel.

“You’ll have other opportunities to wander through the countryside, Mallory. I promise.”

Her chin lifted. A healthy anger leapt back into her eyes. “I don’t want your sympathy, Smith, and I sure as hell don’t trust your promises.”

She pushed off the bed, dismissing him with an imperious, impatient flap of her hand.

“Go do whatever you need to do. I’ll start pulling on my body armor. Again.”

Cutter’s strategy worked exactly as planned.

Ordinarily, a botched robbery and the death of a small-time local hood like Remy Duchette wouldn’t stir much interest outside the immediate vicinity. The fact that Duchette had attempted to rob a guest of a famous Paris designer upped the interest considerably. All it took was one call from Hawk to make sure the word leaked to the right ears.

The local stations began calling the château soon after lunch. Following the agreed-on game plan, Mallory refused to grant any interviews. She knew all too well there was nothing like a reluctant subject to rouse the media’s hunting instincts.

Sure enough, by the time the early-evening news hit the airwaves, reporters had linked Mallory to the woman who’d made so many headlines back in the States. A stringer for Reuters had also connected her to the police report filed by the gendarme at Mont St. Michel. The phone rang incessantly from then on.

Every major network carried the story on the late-night news. Writhing inside, Mallory huddled in a corner of the sofa in the downstairs sitting room and watched replays of her exit from the Rayburn Congressional Office Building after the arbitrator’s ruling that there was insufficient evidence to support her allegation of sexual harassment. Sunglasses shielded her eyes, but her rigid shoulders and tight jaw telegraphed her disgust at the decision. The networks followed her terse replies of “No comment” with excerpts of a news conference held by a smug, vindicated Ashton Kent.

“Bastard,” Cutter muttered as the phone shrilled yet again.

As instructed, Gilbért took names and numbers and advised that Mademoiselle Dawes would return the call should she decide to speak about her recent unfortunate experiences. When he delivered the message to the sitting room, Cutter hit the remote to mute the TV.

“We’ve stirred the pot enough. Please call them back and tell them Ms. Dawes will speak to the press tomorrow at eleven.”

“Yes, of course.”

“We’ll leave for Paris shortly after that. Ms. Dawes wishes to return to the States. I’m putting her on a plane tomorrow afternoon.”

“Most understandable.” The butler’s glance shifted to Mallory. “I am so sorry, mademoiselle, that you will take home such unpleasant memories of your visit to Normandy.”

“They’re not all unpleasant.” She dredged up a smile. “I stayed in this beautiful château, had my first taste of Calvados and sampled Madame Picard’s
veau de la Normandie.
Those memories I’ll cherish.”

There were others, ones she wasn’t so sure about. Like the memory of Gilbért crumpling to the ground and skinny, spike-haired Remy Duchette pointing his pistol at her middle. And Cutter…

She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. She knew darn well her memories of him would remain as confused as the emotions he roused in her. Worse, she suspected the remembered feel of his mouth and hands and sleek, powerful body surging into hers would blot out her anger at his lies and deception. Eventually.

But she wasn’t there yet. She wasn’t anywhere near there.

“You must come again,” Gilbért pleaded. “Perhaps in the spring, when the apple and pear trees bloom. They shed their petals and cover the earth like snow.”

“Perhaps I will.”

When he departed the sitting room, Mallory decided to do the same.

“I’m going upstairs. It’s been a long day.”

Long and draining and filled with mounting dread over the ordeal she’d face tomorrow. She refused to link that hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach to the fact that she’d say goodbye to Cutter shortly after the news conference.

He’d lied to her since day one, for pity’s sake! She should be overjoyed to put an ocean between them.

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

Cutter nodded. Much as he ached to take her in his arms and kiss away her weariness, it was better this way. She’d be on her way home tomorrow, out of his reach until he wrapped up this op.

Now if only he could get her out of his head.

He stayed downstairs until well past midnight. No light showed under the connecting door when he let himself into his suite. Wavering between relief and regret, Cutter stripped down to his shorts, slid between the sheets, and locked his hands under his head.

The sea murmured restlessly outside. Inside, the castle settled into sleepy semisilence. The wind whistled down stone chimneys. An occasional water pipe pinged. The clock on the mantel bonged the quarter hour, then the half.

Cutter had resigned himself to another long night when one sound separated itself from the rest. His glance zinged to the connecting door. Not so much as a sliver of light showed under the sill.

He picked up another soft creak. Two seconds later he was out of bed and dragging on his slacks. His head told him that it was probably Gilbért or his wife coming up the stairs with such a stealthy tread, trying not to disturb the guests. His gut said different. Sliding his Glock from its holder, he put his back to the wall and cracked the bedroom door.

A shadow slid over the top step. Elongated. Danced along the darkened hallway.

The shape was stretched and distorted. Cutter could see it belonged to neither Picard. Eyes narrowed, blood pumping, he thumbed the Glock’s safety but didn’t shove through the door until a loud clatter shattered the silence.

“D
ammit!”

As if tripping over a creaking stair wasn’t bad enough, Mallory hit the oak railing on her way down and landed on her butt with a jarring thud.

Her late-night snack flew off the plate she’d carried up with her. The cheese slices she’d cut from the towel-wrapped wheel Madame Picard had left out landed in her lap. The round-bladed knife she’d brought to spread it with scattered with a half dozen or so crackers. A ripe, juicy apple bounced down the stair, ponging noisily on each tread.

Mallory managed to catch the pear before it suffered a similar fate, then lost her grip on it when a nasty snarl came out of the darkness behind her.

“What the hell are you doing, creeping around at this time of night?”

“Me!” Her heart pinging, she threw an indignant glance over her shoulder at the half-naked male who materialized out of the shadows. “You just took five years off my life…and no doubt bruised my pear!”

“Was that what went airborne?” The taut set to his shoulders relaxed. “Hang loose, I’ll retrieve it for you.”

First he detoured to the lacquered chest at the top of the stairs and deposited an object that gleamed dully in the faint light. Mallory’s pulse bumped when she realized he’d come into the hall armed.

“There’s an apple down there somewhere, too.”

He descended the stairs like a sleek jungle cat. His bare feet didn’t raise so much as a creak on the stairs that had protested
her
weight. The dim light made a moonscape of his back and shoulders and deepened the gap that appeared between his low-riding slacks and the small of his back when he stooped to retrieve the runaway fruit.

“What did you do?” he asked, dropping down to sit knee-to-knee with her on the step. “Raid the fridge?”

“The kitchen table. Madame Picard left a platter of goodies out.”

“I’m going to miss that woman.” Cutter eyed the recovered stash hopefully. “Got enough for two?”

“If you don’t mind broken crackers and slightly dented fruit.”

“Feed me, woman.”

So much had happened since Mallory boarded the plane to Paris that she would have sworn she was beyond being surprised by anything. Yet here she was, huddled on the stairs of a centuries-old château in a borrowed bathrobe with a man who’d lied to her from their first meeting. What surprised her even more was that she was in no hurry to end their late night tête-à-tête.

Frowning, she tried to rekindle her earlier anger. She was still seriously ticked at Cutter. Not to mention hurt that he’d used her as a pawn in his dangerous game. So why was she spreading cheese flavored with crunchy hickory nuts for him?

Because she was leaving tomorrow, the nasty voice of reality mocked. Leaving France. Leaving Yvette d’Marchand’s château. Leaving him. Her dream-vacation-that-never-quite-was would be over. All she had left of it was a few more hours and this temporary, fragile truce with Cutter.

Refusing to dwell on the grim reality of going home to hunt for a job and an employer who’d hire someone who’d made allegations against her previous boss, she spread a cracker with the soft, creamy cheese.

“Here.”

Cutter popped the cracker into his mouth. While he crunched down, Mallory cut and peeled a slice of pear with the blunt-tipped knife. The fruit was firm and succulent. Juice dribbled onto her palm with each cut.

She gave Cutter the first bite and nibbled on the second. He munched contentedly, his elbows resting on the stair behind him. Mallory licked the juice from her fingers and let her glance slide along his outstretched length.

Shadows played across his flat belly and sculpted the planes of his chest. The air in the drafty hall was cool enough to make her grateful for the fluffy robe, but Cutter seemed impervious to the chill.

“I’ve arranged to have someone meet you at the airport in D.C.,” he told her, breaking the stillness.

“Why?”

“I thought you might need a friend.”

“A friend? Or a watchdog?”

“Both,” he admitted without a trace of apology. “His name is Mike Callahan. He’ll keep you safe until I wrap things up over here.”

She didn’t particularly care for the idea that she had to be “kept” by anyone, but the incident in the woods had shaken her more than she was ready to admit.

“What happens when you wrap things up?” she asked. “You resume watchdog duties yourself?”

“If we haven’t nailed whoever slipped that disk into your suitcase.”

“And if you have?”

“Then I’m hoping you might still want a friend.”

She didn’t have many of those left, Mallory acknowledged silently. Yet the idea of being Cutter’s pal turned the sweet taste of pear sour and left an empty feeling in the pit of her stomach.

She was still trying to deal with the hollow sensation when he levered upright. His shoulder nudging hers, he angled around and removed the knife from her sticky hands.

“Just a precaution,” he said when she raised a brow. “The thing is, I’d like to be more than friends. And I really want to kiss you right now.”

“We both know that’s not a good idea.”

“Granted. That doesn’t make the want go away.”

He cupped her cheek. His palm was warm against her skin, his breath a soft wash that mingled with hers. Mere inches separated them. Tomorrow, it would be an ocean. After that, who knew?

Maybe that was why Mallory didn’t pull back when he leaned in, why her head tilted and her lids drifted down. Tomorrow, she decided as his lips brushed hers, would just have to take care of itself.

His mouth moved over hers, tasting, tempting. Heat stirred in her veins. The muscles low in her belly clenched. Then Cutter slid his palm from her cheek to her nape, anchoring her head, and molded his mouth to hers.

The half-eaten pear rolled off Mallory’s lap and thumped down the stairs again. The broken crackers scattered. She had no idea where the cheese slices went and didn’t care. Her body eager, her hands greedy, she matched him move for move.

Within moments she was semiprone on the wide wooden stairs. His free hand yanked at the tie to her robe. The lapels parted, exposing her to chill air and Cutter’s smooth, hot flesh.

She could feel him hard and straining against her hip. Wiggling a little, she added to the pressure on his fly. The sensual friction soon had him grunting and dragging his mouth from hers.

“If we’re going to stop,” he rasped, “it had better be now.”

Her blood pumped in heavy spurts. Desire raced like liquid fire through her veins. She wanted him naked and locked between her thighs.

“If we
don’t
stop, we need to change positions. Or geography. This stair tread is putting a permanent dent in my spine.”

“That, Ms. Dawes, is easily remedied.”

He scooped her up and took the stairs two at a time, reminding Mallory of that powerful scene from
Gone with the Wind.
Except she wasn’t Vivien Leigh, fighting him every step of the way and her Clark Gable retained presence of mind enough to retrieve his gun before striding down the hall toward his half-open bedroom door.

The hard butt of the pistol handle against her hip sobered Mallory and reminded her again why Cutter was here…until he kicked the door shut and carried her to bed in the finest Rhett Butler style.

The scent of fresh-baked croissants pulled Mallory from total unconsciousness. Lifting her face from the satin-covered pillow, she blinked owlishly and followed the general direction of her nose until her sleepy gaze collided with Cutter’s.

“’Bout time you woke up.”

He, obviously, had been up for some time. His jogging suit lay over the arm of the chair. Muddy sneakers sat on the floor beside it. He must have gotten in an early run, showered and changed while she remained dead to the world.

As he deposited a tray on the bedside table, the tang of his aftershave teased Mallory’s nostrils and vied for supremacy with the yeasty scent of the rolls. Wiggling upright, she shoved her hair out of her eyes and helped herself.

“What time is it?” she asked around a flaky mouthful.

“Almost ten.”

“Ten!”
The croissant lodged partway down her throat. With a painful gulp, she swallowed the half-chewed bite. “I’m supposed to go in front of the cameras at eleven! Why did you let me sleep?”

“You told me to. Remember?”

Now
she did. She’d mumbled the order sometime after her second out-of-body experience. Or was it her third? As best as Mallory could recall, every inch of her had shivered with delight and exhaustion.

Those emotions contrasted starkly with the ones that crept over her now. The prospect of facing a barrage of reporters stripped away all trace of morning-after joy. Her arms as heavy as lead, she dropped the roll back onto the tray.

“I’d better get dressed. Think I could fit into one of those suits of armor in the hall?”

Cutter was well aware of her reluctance to put herself out there again, but her attempt at levity brought home just how deeply she dreaded it. Nudging her aside, he sat on the edge of the mattress.

“I’ll be right there with you.”

“That’s another thing. How do I explain you?” Frowning, she plucked at the bedcovers. “What’s our story, Cutter? Do we have a history, or are you just one more notch on my bedpost?”

“If the subject comes up…”

“Trust me,” she said bitterly, “it will.”

“…we tell them we met in France, fell for each other and aren’t worried about the past, only the future.”

“They won’t buy it.” Dragging the covers with her, she slumped against the padded headboard. “We’ve known each other less than a week. Hardly long enough to fall in love.”

For her, maybe. Cutter wasn’t sure when he’d taken the plunge.

He suspected it was there in Monsieur Villieu’s orchard, with the sunlight on her face and her laughter as potent as the apple brandy. Whenever it had happened, he knew he wanted her safe and this op over more than he’d ever wanted anything. Or anyone.

He’d loved only once before, or thought he had. Jogging along the mist-shrouded cliffs this morning he’d realized that whatever he’d felt for Eva Hendricks didn’t come close to the protective and fiercely primitive instincts Mallory Dawes roused in him.

Which was only one of the reasons he’d made a quick trip into town after his run. The other was the horde that would descend on her in less than an hour.

“Maybe this will convince the reporters we’re serious.”

He positioned the jeweler’s box on the tray beside the basket of croissants. Her brow snapping into a line, she stared at the blue velvet box suspiciously.

“What’s that?”

“Your protective armor.”

The ring was an antique, its square-cut diamond mounted on a wide, white-gold filigree band that looked like old Victorian lace. Smaller baguettes circled the central stone in a delicate swirl.

“There was only one jeweler in town, so I didn’t have much of a selection to choose from.”

With Mallory watching in slack-jawed surprise, Cutter slipped the ring out of the box and onto her finger. The band was a little loose. He’d had to guess at the size.

“You didn’t have to do this,” she said, still frowning.

“Yeah, I did.”

Feeling as though the moment required a more extravagant gesture, Cutter raised her hand and dropped a kiss on her fingers.

“If you look at the filigree closely, you’ll see it’s carved in the shape of vines and fruit. Apropos, wouldn’t you say?”

She studied it in silence for several moments before lifting her gaze to his. “It’s beautiful, Cutter, and will certainly add credibility to our story. I’ll give it back to you right after the press conference.”

“The ring is yours, Mallory. A souvenir of your trip to France.”

Ignoring her protests, he dropped another kiss on her hand and pushed off the bed.

“You’d better get dressed. A couple of TV crews have already arrived to set up their equipment.”

For long moments after the door closed behind Cutter, Mallory simply sat amid the rumpled covers and stared at the white-gold band.

If she’d searched every store in Paris, she couldn’t have found a ring that delighted her more. She loved the antique look to it, with the graceful swirl of baguettes anchoring the center stone. But it was the delicate filigree band that filled her heart with a bittersweet ache.

The intricate vines, the tiny leaves, the fruit—as Cutter said, so very apropos of Normandy and the short time they’d spent here. She couldn’t believe he’d gone to so much trouble to erect the facade they’d present to the media, or that he’d found such a perfect vehicle to do it.

Then presented it to her here, she thought on a sigh. Amid the rumpled covers, with her hair a tangled mess and her eyes still gritty from sleep. The man needed to work on his timing, if not his technique. Even a fake engagement warranted brushed hair and teeth. With another sigh, she threw off the covers and padded to the bathroom.