Stranded with a Spy (8 page)

“Merci.”

Mallory had learned her lesson with the apple brandy. She took only a few cautious sips, savoring the licorice tang that enhanced the flavors of the olives and prosciutto-wrapped melon slices.

“Care to give me a status report?” Cutter asked when Gilbért had left them to enjoy their aperitifs. “Maybe I can help with the untangling.”

“The status quo hasn’t changed. The rental-car agency is still dithering over liability, American Express says there’s a flag on my account, and you wouldn’t believe the runaround I got from the U.S. Consulate. I called a friend back home who has some pull with the State Department. He should be able to help.”

She tried for a Gallic shrug and was pretty proud of its nonchalance until the import of what she’d just said pierced her breezy facade. Like a backhanded slap, it wiped the smile from her face and knocked the breath from her lungs. Her eyes huge, she stared at Cutter in mounting dismay.

“Mallory?” Frowning, he set aside his glass. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

“I—I just realized…The bureaucratic runaround…All these delays…” She could barely breathe. Swiping her tongue over suddenly dry lips, she croaked out an anguished whisper. “They may be deliberate.”

Cutter went still. She wasn’t surprised at the wary look that leaped into his eyes. He had to be wondering just what the heck he’d gotten himself into.

“What makes you think they’re deliberate?” he asked with a cool edge to his voice.

She had to tell him. Much as it killed her, she had to hang the dirty linen out for him to see.

“I caused a stink back in the States, one that involved a very influential man. I wouldn’t put it past him to retaliate by having one of his pals at the State Department label me in the system as a troublemaker, or worse.”

Mallory couldn’t believe it hadn’t occurred to her before this moment. Like an idiot, she’d asked Dillon to drop his boss’s name and pull a few strings without once considering that Congressman Kent could pull a whole bunch more. He hadn’t spent twenty-plus years in Congress without building a wide circle of cronies who owed him favors.

“That’s how they play the game in Washington,” she said, struggling to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch whatever portion of your anatomy you point in my direction.”

Cutter regarded her for several silent moments. She could only imagine what he was thinking.

“Why don’t you tell me who you crossed and how?” he said slowly.

“My former boss, Congressman Ashton Kent.”

His lips pursed in a soundless whistle. Hers twisted in a wry grimace.

“I know, I know. Nothing like pitting yourself against one of the most powerful men in the United States.”

“What happened?”

“Kent grabbed my ass once too often, so I filed a sexual harassment complaint.”

Blowing out a ragged breath, Mallory stripped weeks of torment down to the sordid basics.

“Kent claimed I dressed too provocatively. That I left the top buttons of my blouse undone to entice him. He even produced a picture of the two of us, taken shortly after I joined his staff. There I was, smiling up at him in what he asserted was an open invitation.”

Try as she might, Mallory couldn’t hold back the tortuous doubts. They swamped her now, as they had so many times in the past weeks.

“I admired the man, Cutter! At first, anyway. Ashton Kent is a living legend in American politics. I was pretty jazzed to be asked to join his staff and probably didn’t hold back when I was with him those first few weeks.”

She cringed now at the memory of her initial, awestruck admiration for the silver-maned legislator. Maybe she
had
flirted a little. Maybe her eagerness to be considered a team player
could
have been interpreted as a come-on.

Then there was that business with her blouse.

“We were working late on draft legislation,” Mallory related. “I’d slipped off my suit jacket. I didn’t notice the top button on my blouse had come undone until Congressman Kent leaned over my shoulder and got an eyeful. That was the first time he fondled me.”

Cutter said nothing, for which Mallory was profoundly grateful. The telling was difficult enough without editorial commentary.

“I was as surprised as I was embarrassed, but made it clear I wasn’t interested. That’s when the congressman informed me that I hadn’t been hired for my brains.”

Her listener broke his silence then. The pithy, one-syllable oath eased the tight knot in Mallory’s chest.

“That’s pretty much what I thought, too. So the second time Kent grabbed me, I filed a complaint. What followed wasn’t pretty.”

“No,” Cutter growled, “I would imagine it wasn’t.”

She slumped against her chair back, relieved she didn’t have to hide her dirty little secret from him any longer. “I’m surprised you didn’t recognize me. My face, my personal history and detailed accounts of my sexual proclivities made just about every paper in the country.”

“I travel a lot.” His glance softened as it swept over her. “I’m guessing the media were a lot harder on you than they were on the congressman.”

“You got that right. He came out looking like the poster boy for Viagra. I was painted as the promiscuous slut who tempted the poor man to sin.”

Her dinner companion snorted. “Who in their right mind would believe Kent was a helpless victim?”

“His wife, for one. The arbitrator, for another. And a dozen or so jerks like the one who hit on me at Mont St. Michel, all convinced Mallory Dawes was good for some raunchy, no-holds-barred sex.”

Cutter toyed with his aperitif glass. He had strong hands, she thought, big and blunt-fingered.

“You sure that’s why that guy hit on you?”

“I’m sure.”

“He didn’t just spot a beautiful woman sitting by herself and forget his manners?”

“Thanks for the compliment. God knows, I wish that was all it was. He made it clear, though, that he recognized me from the news stories and fully expected me to live up—or down—to my reputation.”

She shrugged, feeling fifty pounds lighter now that she’d unburdened herself. “Sorry, Cutter. I guess I should have warned you that you were hooking up with the next best thing to a porn star.”

She didn’t expect the laughter that rumbled around in his chest. His gray eyes invited her to share in the joke.

“I didn’t know there was a next best thing,” he commented, grinning.

An answering chuckle gurgled up, surprising Mallory. She couldn’t believe she was actually trading jokes about the degrading incident that had left a permanent stain on her psyche.

Okay, maybe not so permanent. The blot seemed to lighten a little more with each hour spent in Cutter’s company. She was searching for a way to express her gratitude when Gilbért returned and held the door open for his wife to roll in a heavily laden cart.

The antipasto tray was whisked away. Wine goblets replaced the pastis glasses. Domes came off an array of silver serving dishes. With a beaming smile for his wife, the majordomo presented a platter garnished with parsley and cleverly carved lemon swans.

“I give you
le veau de la Normandie.
”

M
allory’s account of her run-in with Congressman Kent gave Cutter a good deal more to chew on than Madame Picard’s succulent veal.

Her account, brief as it was, tallied with the detailed summary in the background dossier OMEGA had put together on the Kent incident. She hadn’t tried to gloss things over or minimize her part in the mess. If anything, she seemed to take a disproportionate share of the blame, and that left Cutter quietly seething.

He’d crossed paths with Ashton Kent. Twice. Once while Cutter was still in uniform and Kent had been part of a Congressional junket touring the Middle East. Again at Nick Jensen’s high-priced D.C. restaurant, when Kent had disappeared into one of the private rooms with the well-endowed widow of a wealthy campaign contributor. Both times the old goat had struck Cutter as a walking, talking prick.

He didn’t doubt for a minute Kent had felt up his bright-eyed new staffer. What really pissed Cutter off was that Mallory appeared to have taken most of the heat for it.

Had that made her bitter enough to walk away with a disk containing personal financial data belonging to millions of government workers, up to and including the President of the United States?

No way in hell!

His conviction grew firmer by the hour. Problem was, it was still based more on gut feeling than fact. He needed something definitive to eliminate her as anything more than a possible unwitting courier.

He waited until they’d finished dinner and agreed to Gilbért’s suggestion they take coffee and dessert in the conservatory before steering the conversation back to the subject of retribution.

“So you think Kent may be retaliating against you by asking a pal to hold up your replacement passport?”

“I think it’s a distinct possibility.”

“How would he know you lost it in the first place?”

“Good question.”

Mallory drifted to the tall windows, her gaze on the moonlit seascape outside. Cutter did his best to ignore the play of light and shadow on her profile as she scrunched her forehead and considered the possibilities.

“Maybe the State Department contacted my place of employment to verify my identity before issuing a temporary passport. Or maybe,” she said slowly, “the contact came from American Express. They said there was a flag on my account. Congressman Kent chairs the House Committee on Banking and Trade. He exerts tremendous influence over the entire industry. He also works closely with NSA and Homeland Defense. I wouldn’t put it past him to have flagged the financial records of everyone on his staff. Maybe everyone on the Hill. All in the name of national security.”

“He wields that kind of power?” Cutter asked with a carefully manufactured blend of curiosity and outrage. “What happened to our right to privacy?”

The answer came swiftly and without the least hesitation.

“9/11.”

Abandoning the moon-washed cliffs outside, Mallory turned and jammed her hands in the pockets of her lace-trimmed jacket.

“We’re at war. An undeclared war, some argue, but everyone agrees that it threatens all Americans. Desperate times call for desperate measures. By following the money trail across international borders, we’ve located countless Al Qaeda cells and their financiers.”

He didn’t miss the collective
we
—or that Mallory Dawes identified with the good guys.

“I can’t speak for anyone else,” she continued, “but I’m more than willing to let Uncle Sam peek into my personal financial dealings if it will help take down bin Laden and his thugs.”

Cutter and the rest of the OMEGA operatives served in the front lines in the war against terror. Personally, he didn’t give a rat’s ass about the rights of a suspected suicide bomber. Professionally, he’d respect those rights for the simple reason that violating them might screw the case against the suspect. He made no comment, however, until Mallory came off her soapbox with a look of embarrassed chagrin.

“I guess I’m just not real thrilled that Kent may be one of the ones doing the peeking.”

“I can understand why.”

As Cutter studied the moonlight dappling her upturned face, he had to admit there was something seriously wrong with this picture. Here they were, surrounded by the earthy perfume of the conservatory’s potted palms, with stars studding the sky outside and the sea crashing against the cliffs below. His overwhelming urge was to take advantage of the exotic setting to kiss Ms. Dawes senseless. Instead, he was doing his damnedest to get her to incriminate herself. Grimly, he plowed ahead.

“Have you thought about getting back at Kent for all he’s put you through? May still be putting you through?”

“God, yes!”

The vehemence sent a sudden chill through him, icing his veins. The rueful shrug that followed started a slow thaw.

“But I tried that once and failed dismally.” She gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I can be pretty stubborn at times, but I’m not into self-flagellation or masochism. I decided before I left for France that I wasn’t going to beat myself up over Congressman Ashton Kent any longer.”

She slanted him a sideways glance and hesitated a moment before adding shyly, “You reinforced that decision, you know.”

“Me? How?”

“By coming to my rescue the way you did. By giving me a glorious afternoon in the sun and two nights like this. But mostly, by reminding me not all men are like Kent.”

Cutter’s conscience started to squirm. He’d done exactly what he’d intended to do. Isolated the woman. Made her dependent on him. Gained her trust. So why the hell was he now feeling like a world-class heel?

“Don’t pin a halo on me, Mallory. Kent and I have more in common than you think. You don’t know how hard it was for me to keep my hands off you this afternoon.”

“There’s one significant difference,” she said quietly. “I
want
your hands on me.”

Sweating now, he was reminding himself of all the reasons why he shouldn’t take her up on her starry-eyed invitation when she drifted closer.

“I liked touching you, Cutter.”

He managed to resist until she dropped her gaze to his mouth.

“And I liked kissing you.”

Well, hell! He’d never made any claims to being a saint. What’s more, he’d given her fair warning.

Slamming the door on his conscience, he did what he’d ached to do earlier that afternoon. His arm snaked around her waist. His stance widened. Cradling her hips against his, he tunneled his free hand into her hair to hold her head steady and took what she offered.

The desire that had bitten into him earlier didn’t compare to the hunger her eager mouth and hands now roused. Tightening his arm, he crushed her lips under his, as if daring her to unleash the beast.

Mallory slid her palms up the lapels of his jacket, felt his muscles straining under the suede, and surrendered to a rush of mindless pleasure.

This
was the way it should happen.
This
was the way it was supposed to be. Desire feeding desire. Heat stroking heat. No politics. No sexual power plays. Only his mouth greedy on hers and her hands frantic to burrow through layers of fabric to get at the hard contours beneath.

She had to smother a curse when the rattle of wheels announced the arrival of Madame Picard and her serving cart. Cutter wasn’t as restrained. With a muttered expletive, he released her and rolled his shoulders to settle his sport coat while Mallory tugged down the jacket that had ridden up over her hips.

They weren’t quite quick enough. Madame Picard’s glance went from one to the other as she rolled her cart across the tiles.

“You wish me to serve dessert?”

“That’s okay,” Cutter said, taking charge. “We’ll serve ourselves.”

With a smile and a small bow, madame departed. The interruption hadn’t lasted more than a few seconds. Just long enough for reason to prevail…if either of them was inclined toward reason.

Mallory certainly wasn’t. After so many weeks of doubting herself, of hiding behind sunglasses and avoiding men’s glances, she reveled in the heat in Cutter’s eyes when they whipped back to her. Her pulse skipping, she scooped a two-tiered plate from the cart.

“I’ve got the chocolate truffles and strawberries. You bring the whipped cream.”

Dessert was the last thing on Cutter’s mind as he snatched up the silver pot containing fresh, frothy cream. Visions of where and how he would spread the stuff damned near had him tripping over his own feet.

He maintained his balance and enough presence of mind to snag their unfinished bottle of wine from the cooler as he followed Mallory through the grand dining salon. Once they’d mounted the stairs and closed the door to her sitting room behind them, however, the bottle, silver pot and two-tiered plate were set aside and forgotten.

Mallory came into his arms with unrestrained eagerness. The ugly insinuations and allegations of promiscuity flashed through Cutter’s mind, only to die an instant death the moment she went up on tiptoe and locked her arms around his neck. She gave as much as she took, but the giving was warm and generous, the taking anything but rapacious.

He
was the one who yanked open the buttons of her jacket.
He
almost choked when he peeled down the denim and saw the lacy camisole beneath.
His
heart jackhammered against his chest when she angled her head and nibbled her way from his lower lip to his chin to his throat.

Cutter had to fight to keep from tossing her over his shoulder and hauling her to the bed in the next room. The instincts she stirred in him were primitive, almost primeval. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted a woman as much as he wanted this one. Hell, he’d
never
wanted one as much as he did Mallory.

Not even the Danish beauty who’d arched and panted and hooked her legs around his waist only hours before she triggered the device that created such carnage and devastation.

The realization locked Cutter’s jaw. He stepped back, fists balled, every muscle and tendon in his body raw with the memory.

“I’m so sorry.” Stricken, Mallory touched a featherlight finger to the scars she’d just kissed. “I didn’t think…I didn’t realize…Do they still hurt you?”

They did, but not in the way she thought.

Cutter almost ended things then. He was pretty sure he would have, too, if she hadn’t proceeded to yank the rug out from under his feet.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, leaning forward to drop a tender kiss on the underside of his chin. “I’ll be more gentle. I promise.”

The irony of it hit before the absurdity. In her own words, she’d been publicly branded as the next thing to a whore. Yet she stood there with sympathy swimming in her big brown eyes, reining in her natural urges, promising to go easy on him.

On
him!

His doubts sank out of sight. Insides turning to mush, he chuckled and tugged her against him.

“You just let rip, sweetheart. I’ll do my best to grin and bear it.”

All inclination toward laughter had disappeared by the time he scooped her up and carried her into the bedroom. So had any pretense that he was a passive player in the game. He was rock-hard and hurting when he dragged down the silken coverlet.

Stretching her out on the pale-blue sheets, he stripped off her lacy camisole and briefs. The need to possess her made his hands unsteady as he shed his own clothes, but he managed to fish a condom from his wallet.

A strangled sound came from the bed. Throwing a quick glance over his shoulder, he saw Mallory propped up on one elbow.

“What’s that slogan?” she choked out as he joined her on sheets as soft as snow. “‘Never leave home without them?’ Reminds me of a certain financial institution that shall remain nameless at this…Oh!”

Cutter smiled at her breathless gasp and shifted his weight. They fitted together perfectly, her mouth within easy reach of his, her breasts flattened against his chest. He shifted a little more to the side and stroked his hand from her breasts to her belly and back again.

She was incredible, he thought while he could still think at all. Her skin was smooth and creamy and flushed with heat. Her belly hollowed under his palm. The pale hair of her mound was soft and silky to his touch.

Cutter fully intended to draw out the foreplay as long as possible, priming her, testing his own limits. But when he found the slick flesh between her thighs, his mind shut down and his body took over. Fitting himself against her, he locked his mouth on hers and sank into her wet, welcoming heat.

They found a rhythm as old as time. Mallory’s skin grew damp with sweat. Her nipples ached from Cutter’s nipping, sucking kisses. She rolled atop him to return the favor and had contorted to work her way down to his chest when her entire body went taut.

She jerked upright. Hands, teeth and thighs clenched as her climax slammed into her. Wave after wave of pleasure ricocheted through her belly. She thought she heard Cutter groan. She knew his muscles bunched under her bottom just before he thrust upward.

She collapsed onto his chest seconds later. Or maybe it was hours. She didn’t have a clue. The only reality that penetrated her sensual haze was the hammer of his heart under her ear.