Secret Agent Seduction (22 page)

And then suddenly he was gripping her hair, pulling back her head. His tiger eyes gleamed in the candlelit darkness, fierce with arousal. He sat up, and she quickly climbed onto his lap, wrapping her legs around his hips, locking her feet behind his broad back. He grasped her buttocks, lifting and sliding her onto his erection. Her breath hissed out of her, her back arching at the erotic invasion.

With her body molded perfectly to his, he began thrusting inside her, long, deep, penetrating strokes. She clung to his big shoulders, her fingertips digging into his muscles, her body on fire. He lowered his head, closing his full lips around one distended nipple. Lia moaned, waves of pleasure crashing through her. She reached down behind her, stroking his engorged testicles. He groaned and thrust harder, faster.

As she stared into his hard face, watching his focused intensity, she realized she had never felt closer, more connected to anyone than she did to this man. Whatever happened tomorrow, she would always love him, always long for him.

He gripped her tightly, driving rhythmically inside her. She clawed at his back, driven by a savage, blinding hunger that threatened to consume her. Moments later she came with a violent shudder, her head falling back on a soundless cry as the force of his own release filled her.

They made love long into the night, intensely, passionately, because the future was paved with danger and tomorrow was not promised. And when the end came for both of them in a final shattering climax, Lia buried her face against his chest and closed her eyes as silent, mournful tears rolled down her cheeks.

I love you. Please don't ever leave me.

Thursday, September 11, 2008
0900 hours
Fredericksburg, Virginia
Day 7

T
he next morning after breakfast, Lia pulled out her prepaid cell phone and checked her voice mail.

Still no messages.

She disconnected and stared at the phone, frustration and dread coiling in her gut. The mole was waiting for her to make the first move.

Sooner or later, she'd have no choice.

Beside her in the car, Armand stared through the windshield, a solitary muscle leaping in his jaw. He'd been mostly silent throughout breakfast, his face preoccupied and stony. Even when Lia joked that the waiter was staring at her bruised cheek and probably blaming Armand for it, his answering smile was distracted. Now as they sat in the car, he seemed totally oblivious to her presence. Or so she thought until he suddenly spoke.

“How much do you know about the assassination plot?”

Startled, Lia looked at him. “The one involving Biassou?”

Armand nodded tightly.

“I don't know the details, if that's what you're asking. For assignments like these, protective agents are usually kept on a need-to-know basis. In this instance,
you
are all I need to know. However, based on the hush-hush nature of your extraction and delivery to the United States, I have to assume that Biassou was either plotting to assassinate the president, or the vice president.”

Armand stared at her, vaguely amused. “You never even asked.”

“I'm not supposed to. That's against protocol.” She searched his face, her mouth curving ruefully. “Of course, now that I've broken just about every rule in the book, I might as well go all the way. President or vice president?”

“The president. Biassou despises Grace Fordham. He sees her as a serious threat to his regime. If she's reelected—”

Lia snorted. “That's a foregone conclusion. She's very popular in this country. She has a commanding double-digit lead over her Republican opponent in all the polls. Some are even calling the election a mere formality.”

Armand nodded with a grim smile. “Of course, Biassou knows all this. Which is why he's trying to get rid of her now, before she's reelected. His presidency won't survive four more years of her aggressive campaign against him.”

Lia turned in her seat to face him. “So how did you learn about the assassination plot?”

“Jean-Claude Baptiste, a disgruntled member of Biassou's party, came to me and told me everything. He even provided incontrovertible proof of the plot—tapes, audio recordings from secret meetings.”

“He gave you copies?”

Armand nodded. “Biassou suspects, but doesn't know for sure that I have copies. After he killed Baptiste, he ransacked his house and confiscated everything. Whoever is working with him doesn't know about the copies, either. I suspect he, or she, planted the listening devices in our cabin hoping I would confide in you.”

“Good thing I never asked,” Lia muttered.

Armand smiled blandly. “I wouldn't have told you anyway.”

“Why? Because you don't trust me?”

“No, because I don't want to endanger your life any more than it already is. Why do you always have to think the worst?”

“Force of habit. Anyway, why wait weeks until the hearing? Why not just present the evidence to the Security Council and arrest Biassou now?”

“Because no one knows I have the evidence. No one but President Fordham.”

Lia frowned. “I don't understand.”

“For the last two years, Fordham has been monitoring the situation in Muwaiti and working to build a case against Biassou. She's had several meetings with members of the United Nations Security Council to explore the possibility of bringing Biassou to trial for crimes against humanity. When I first contacted the Secret Service to alert them to the assassination plot, it took a while for my message to be screened, authenticated and routed through the proper channels. It was President Fordham herself who contacted me again. She said she'd been praying for that final piece, the linchpin in her case against Biassou. If I didn't know better, I would think she was happy that he was plotting to assassinate her. She said my testimony would give her the ammunition she needed to finally nail the bastard.”

Lia let out a choked laugh. “She actually
said
that?”

Armand chuckled. “Verbatim. And when I told her about the evidence in my possession, I could have sworn she jumped out of her chair and danced around the Oval Office.”

Lia laughed. “That wouldn't surprise me. I've met her several times over the years, even spent a weekend with her at Camp David when I was filling in for one of the members of her protection detail. She's quite a character—warm, charming and feisty as hell.”

Armand smiled a little. “Anyway, we both agreed to keep the evidence concealed until the hearing. The information she filtered through the channels was that I
didn't
have the proof. Fordham knew that Biassou couldn't be acting alone, that he had to have a co-conspirator who was helping him plot her assassination, someone with top-secret clearance and someone who would have access to her itinerary. By waiting until the hearing, she was hoping to flush out the mole.”

Lia's mind was reeling. “And has she? Has she learned the mole's identity?”

Armand stared at her. “That's what you and I have to find out,” he said with quiet gravity. “I've been the bait. Now we just have to lure in the prey.”

Lia held his gaze for a moment, then drew a long, deep breath and nodded. She knew what she had to do.

She dialed Janikowski's cell-phone number. Once again, she got her voice mail. It was as if Janikowski had simply disappeared off the face of the earth.

“Something's wrong,” Lia muttered, disconnecting the call.

“She's still not answering?”

“No. And I don't think it's because she's in on this. I think something has happened to her.”

Armand frowned. “Call the assistant director.”

Lia was already dialing the number to Bill McManus's office. His secretary answered and patched her through almost immediately.

“Special Agent Charles,” McManus greeted her congenially. “I was just about to call you.”

Lia looked at Armand. “You were, sir?”

“Yes. Nancy asked me to pinch-hit for her while she's gone. She had a family emergency and had to leave town suddenly. It was a private matter, from what I understand, so she instructed her secretary to let everyone know she was on a special assignment. Anyway, I've been making my rounds this morning, checking in with all her agents out in the field. You were next on my list.”

“I see.” Lia could hear the dying mercenary's voice in her head.
Quick…silver…Don't…Quick…silver…

What had it meant? Was he thinking of a name? A place? A secret code?

“So how's everything going with Magliore?” McManus inquired, a friendly smile in his voice. “How's he adjusting to life outside of Muwaiti?”

“Oh, well, you know. As well as can be expected.” The voice was growing louder in her head, a persistent buzz.
Failed…Quick…silver…Don't…wanna die…

Closing her eyes, she reached up and rubbed her temple, which was suddenly throbbing.

On the other end, McManus shuffled a stack of papers. “Well, if you don't need anything—”

Lia blurted, “Actually, sir, there is something I need to tell you.”

“Yes? What is it?”

She locked gazes with Armand. “Our location was compromised. I had to get Magliore somewhere safe.”

“What?”
McManus sounded genuinely shocked. “When did this happen, Agent Charles?”

“Yesterday, sir.”

“Yesterday?”
he echoed in disbelief. “And you're just now reporting—”

“Under the circumstances, sir, I felt I had no other choice.”

Quick…silver…Quick…silver.

“Fine,” McManus snapped. “We'll discuss it when you come into the office. I'm dispatching a team to pick up you and Magliore. What is your location?”

Lia hesitated. She could imagine an angry flush suffusing McManus's face. She could see his thin lips pressed together, his gray eyes narrowed in the telltale manner that always warned others when he was not in a good mood. No, wait, Lia amended. Not gray…silver. His eyes were more silver. And something else…Another agent had once described him as having an unpredictable temperament. Calm and friendly one minute, volatile and abusive the next. Because the Secret Service used code names for presidents, first ladies, and other prominent individuals and locations, the agent had joked that if McManus ever had a code name, it would be Quicksilver.

Quicksilver.

Lia froze, the muscles in the back of her neck tightening. A clammy sensation settled over her skin.

“Special Agent Charles,” McManus ground out tersely. “What is your location?”

Lia swallowed. “I'm sorry, sir. I can't tell you that.”

“What?”
he exploded. “Special Agent Charles, have you taken leave of your senses? Need I remind you that Armand Magliore is a key witness in an investigation that could have international ramifications? He is a Secret Service asset, not your damn boyfriend!”

“Interesting word choice,” Lia said softly. “I never said anything about him being my boyfriend, sir. Where would you get that idea?”

On the other end, McManus swore loudly and viciously. “For the last time, Agent Charles, I am ordering you to—”

“Does the name Quicksilver mean anything to you?”

Dead silence.

And that was all the confirmation she needed.

“Listen,” McManus said in a low, conciliatory tone, “let's discuss this when you get here. You've obviously had a very trying—”

“Goodbye, sir,” Lia said coldly.

She ended the call and looked over at Armand. He was watching her with a quiet, sympathetic expression.

“I'm sorry,” he murmured.

Lia shook her head, numb with shock. “Bill McManus was responsible for my promotion and transfer to protective services four years ago. Since then, he's been very supportive of my career growth and achievements.” She stiffened, struck by a new realization. “He's the one who assigned me to protect you. He sent me on this mission fully expecting me to be killed alongside you. Like a lamb to the slaughter.”

Armand nodded grimly. “So what do you want to do now?”

Lia's jaw hardened. “I want to make him pay for what he's done.”

“Then I think it's time we reached out to someone who can make that happen.”

Their gazes held. They spoke at the same time: “President Fordham.”

Monday, September 15, 2008
0900 hours
United Nations Headquarters
New York City
Day 11

A
rmand bent over the bathroom sink and splashed cold water over his face and into his eyes, which felt gritty after several days of sleep deprivation. Reaching for a paper towel, he patted his face dry, careful not to drip water onto his well-tailored charcoal suit. Lia had whistled appreciatively when she had come to his hotel room that morning to check up on him. “President Fordham has impeccable taste,” she'd declared when Armand had told her where the suit came from.

Armand had gazed into her eyes as she had fixed his tie, teasing his clumsy handiwork. “Hey, I haven't worn a suit in years,” he'd retorted with a grin. “Knotting a tie wasn't exactly a skill I needed to survive in the jungle.”

She'd laughingly agreed, and as he had held still for her, his mind had been filled with an image of her, cheeks glowing with health and happiness, belly swollen with their first child, smiling at him as she arranged his tie before he left for work. The image was so vivid, so powerful, that a wave of longing had swept through him, making his chest tighten painfully.

At that moment Lia had met his gaze, her smile fading when she saw the raw, naked yearning on his face. An unnamed emotion had filled her eyes before she had glanced away and straightened his collar, murmuring, “You're good to go,” before turning and quietly leaving the room.

It was the last time they'd been alone together this morning.

When they arrived at the United Nations headquarters for the hearing, Lia disappeared with a team of other Secret Service agents to secure the building, leaving Armand in the custody of two senior agents from the president's protection detail. At Grace Fordham's insistence, the two men had pretty much replaced Lia once she and Armand had become guests at the White House. Although the elegant accommodations, sumptuous meals and gracious hospitality were unrivaled, Armand had found himself missing the rustic mountain cabin, even the underground bunker in the woods, where he and Lia had been completely alone, cut off from the rest of the world. In stark contrast, the White House mansion had been a constant beehive of activity, and there had
always
been other people around—stewards, staff, Secret Service agents. After having Lia all to himself for nearly a week, Armand had considered himself lucky if they were left alone for more than five minutes. Even their leisurely stroll through the picturesque Rose Garden had been observed by curious onlookers.

It wasn't the way he'd hoped to spend his final days in America with her.

President Fordham had assured him that, barring any unforeseen circumstances at the hearing, he and his family would be able to return to Muwaiti within a week.

Which meant he had a week to convince Lia to return home with him and marry him—a daunting task further complicated by their lack of privacy. On the few occasions when they were alone, Lia had assiduously avoided talking about their relationship, or the future.

He'd told her that he loved her, but so far, she hadn't reciprocated. So he had decided it was time to lay it all on the line. It was time to tell her the whole truth, that he'd been in love with her for the past eight years, ever since he had first laid eyes on her outside that clinic. Surely she couldn't turn him away after hearing a confession like that, he reasoned.

He hoped.

If Armand hadn't been so preoccupied with thoughts of Lia, he might have heard the dull thud of two bodies hitting the floor outside the men's restroom. He might have looked up faster when the door suddenly opened and a dark shape stepped inside the room.

By the time he switched off the tap water and turned his head, Alexandre Biassou stood less than ten feet away.

And he was pointing a silenced pistol right at him.

Armand's mouth went dry.
So this is how it will end,
he thought grimly. Gunned down by his worst enemy in a Manhattan restroom. It shouldn't have surprised him. Hadn't he always known, on some unconscious level, that his own life would end in bloodshed, just as his father and his mentor had died violently?

Slowly, deliberately, he wadded up the used paper towel and dropped it into the trash receptacle built into the counter.

“So we meet again,
diable,
” he murmured, his voice edged with dark humor.

Biassou's cold, black eyes gleamed with malicious satisfaction. “Did you think this was over?” he demanded in deep, thickly accented tones. “Did you think you had won?”

“I have,” Armand said with unerring calm. “At this very moment, the members of the Security Council are listening to audio recordings in which you describe how you intended to assassinate the president of the United States. Bill McManus, your co-conspirator, has already been taken into federal custody and has confessed to everything, including the murder of Nancy Janikowski, who had the misfortune of stumbling upon your assassination plot and confronting him. All of your dirty little secrets have been exposed. This hearing is nothing more than a formality. Your fate has been sealed.”

“You insolent little fool!” Biassou spat, a vein throbbing in his temple. “I could have given you anything you wanted. Wealth, prestige, property, an abundance of beautiful women at your disposal. I could have made you prime minister—second-in-command.”

Armand let out a harsh laugh. “I thought I made it perfectly clear to you before that my soul is not for sale,
diable.
I want nothing to do with you or your corrupt regime.”

Biassou smiled, a slow, sinister smile Armand recognized from his nightmare. “If my fate has been sealed,” the dictator said, raising his gun to eye level, “so has yours.”

A sudden commotion down the hallway made him hesitate for a split second, his head cocked at a listening angle.

Quick as a thought, Armand dove to the tiled floor just as Biassou fired at him. The blast was muffled by the silencer, but the bullet that grazed Armand's left shoulder was very real.

Ignoring the hot stab of pain, he raised his pant leg, seized the small knife strapped to his ankle and hurled it at his adversary. The knife shot through the air and hit Biassou squarely in the chest.

His eyes bulged in shock, then slowly lowered to the pearl-handled knife protruding from his body. Recognizing Francois Seligny's weapon, he coughed and then began to laugh, a dark, menacing rumble that sent chills down Armand's spine and made him wish he could have snuck one of his guns into the building.

Biassou looked up, his malevolent gaze locking with Armand's. “I appreciate your sense of poetic justice, Magliore,” he rasped. “Killing me with the blade of your slain mentor. Perhaps the three of us will meet again in hell.”

He raised his pistol and Armand calmly closed his eyes, bracing for death, thinking of Lia and what would never be.

The next sound he heard was the bathroom door crashing against the wall and the blast of a single gunshot. He opened his eyes in time to see Alexandre Biassou pitch forward like a felled tree, a bullet hole punched neatly through the center of his forehead. His body landed on the floor with a heavy thud and did not move again.

Lia stood in the doorway gripping a 9mm, her nostrils flared, her dark eyes simmering with controlled rage. When her gaze landed on Armand sprawled a few feet away, wounded but very much alive, tears of relief sprang to her eyes. She holstered her weapon and hurried to his side as a flurry of agents rushed in after her, shouting and barking commands into radios and earpieces.

Kneeling on the floor beside Armand, Lia gathered him into her arms with such stunning force she knocked the air from his lungs. “Oh, my God,” she whispered fiercely. “You gave me the scare of my life, damn it!”

Armand tried to laugh, but the sound was strangled, muffled against her fragrant bosom. He could have stayed there forever.

“How the hell did this happen?” another agent demanded, leaning over the dead body of Alexandre Biassou.

Lia answered in angry, staccato tones, “He hired someone to create a diversion in the lobby, and while everyone was distracted, he killed the guards assigned to him and came after Magliore. He had a silencer for the gun he took. The two agents posted outside the restroom probably never even saw him coming. He should have been handcuffed, damn it!”

She drew back from Armand, running one hand over his face, checking his wounded shoulder with the other.

“It's just a flesh wound,” he reassured her, pulling himself into a sitting position as pain lanced through his side. “I can hardly even feel it,” he lied.

But Lia was already removing his suit jacket and ripping off his shirt to assess the damage. He mustered a sheepish grin for the agents who hovered nearby, watching him with concerned expressions.

“You all right, Mr. Magliore?”

Armand nodded, gazing dreamily at Lia. His beautiful avenging angel. “I'm fine, gentlemen. Just fine.”

One week later
Washington, D.C.

Lia sat on a downtown park bench, watching as passersby strolled across the manicured green lawn, sharing carefree laughs that made her envious. Although the afternoon sky was overcast, matching her somber mood, she wore a pair of dark sunglasses to reduce the risk of being recognized.

News of the “deadly showdown at the UN,” as the media had dubbed it, had sent shockwaves around the world. One week later, the conspiracy plot involving Alexandre Biassou, President Fordham, the Secret Service and the Muwaitian rebel leader and whistleblower remained the lead story of every news broadcast and newspaper around the globe. Lia, who had hoped to fly beneath the radar, was stunned to wake up one morning and find her photo splashed across the front page of the
Washington Post.
She began receiving so many calls from reporters that she changed her phone number. When the new number was somehow leaked to the press, she unplugged her phone altogether.

Even if she weren't bound by protocol not to speak to the media, Lia had no desire to rehash what had happened when
she
was still struggling to cope with everything.

According to his deposition, Bill McManus had met Alexandre Biassou two years before, when he had accompanied the U.S. secretary of state on a peacekeeping mission to Muwaiti. Although the peace talks had broken down, Biassou had sensed that he had an ally in the assistant director, who, as it had turned out, was opposed to a female president from the beginning. The two men had begun secretly corresponding, and it wasn't long before the assassination plot was hatched. To ensure that the trail would never lead back to him, McManus had stipulated that his name, identity and the specific nature of his involvement be withheld from members of Biassou's faction. Biassou was simply to tell his men that he had a powerful American informant, nothing more.

McManus had been so determined to cover his own tracks that he had murdered Nancy Janikowski, whom he had known and worked with for years, when she unwittingly intercepted a communiqué from Biassou. He'd shot her in cold blood, then buried her body in the woods and fabricated the story about a family emergency.

Lia blinked back tears, reliving the sight of her former supervisor lying in a coffin at the funeral, her dark hair neatly combed over the gaping bullet wound in her temple. The likelihood that McManus would be convicted of treason did little to assuage the grief and anger Lia felt. The weight of Janikowski's death, on top of everything else that had transpired over the past two weeks, pressed down on her like an anvil. She wondered if she would ever recover from the shock, the pain of betrayal, the senseless loss of a good friend and colleague.

Only time would tell.

She didn't turn her head as Armand walked up the path and joined her on the park bench, deliberately sitting on the opposite end.

“Thanks for agreeing to meet me out here,” he said ruefully. “I know it's probably not a good idea to be seen in public together, but it seemed like the only way to finally get some privacy. Your apartment is crawling with reporters, and even a public park seems more private than the White House.”

Lia smiled softly. “You don't have to thank me for coming. You didn't think I would let you leave without saying goodbye, did you?”

Armand stared down at his hands clasped between his legs. “I was hoping you wouldn't say goodbye at all,” he said in a low voice.

Lia's heart contracted. She kept her eyes trained ahead. “How's your family doing? Are they enjoying their stay at the White House?”

“For the first few days. Now that the novelty is wearing off, they're eager to return home and be reunited with their friends. I am, too.”

Once again Lia felt that painful squeezing in her chest. Forcing herself to ignore it, she said, “That's understandable. How's your shoulder?”

“Good as new. How's your heart?”

She started, caught off guard by the question. She swallowed. “I—I don't know what you mean.”

“Don't you?”

Lia said nothing.

“Take these off,” Armand murmured, reaching across the bench to remove her sunglasses. “I can't see your eyes. And you look like a Secret Service agent.”