Stranded with a Spy (14 page)

She left the blue bedroom thirty minutes later. Rather than appear in borrowed feathers, she wore the jeans, white blouse, and navy blazer she’d had on when she arrived in France. Luckily, the ever efficient Madame Picard had restored them to pristine neatness. The ring sparkling on her left hand demanded something better than rubber-soled mocs, however. Making her final appearance in a pair of Yvette d’Marchand’s exclusive designs, Mallory descended the grand staircase.

A brief smile settled around her heart as she remembered going
up
the stairs the night before, but it died when she spotted the equipment cases scattered across the black-and-white tiles of the entry hall. A babble of voices rose from the library, punctuated by intermittent flashes as the camera crews tested their strobes.

Dread coiled and writhed like a living thing in Mallory’s stomach. Dragging in quick, shallow breaths, she forced herself to continue down the stairs.

“Elle est là!”

She had no trouble translating the excited exclamation. Her throat closing, she heard the others pick up the cry.

“There she is!”

“It’s her!

Like baying hounds on the trail of a fox, a dozen or so reporters spilled out of the library into the hall. Mallory froze as still cameras flashed, blinding her with a barrage of white light. The questions flew fast and furious until Cutter’s deep voice sliced through the din.

“Ms. Dawes will be more than happy to answer your questions, but not here in the hall.”

Tall and authoritative, his scars a deliberate and very visible warning that he wasn’t a man to be taken lightly, he mounted the stairs and tucked Mallory’s hand in his arm. She managed not to clutch at his sleeve like a frightened child, but her knees felt like the custard filling in one of Madame Picard’s pastries as they waded into the fray.

“Ladies. Gentlemen,” Cutter said calmly. “In the library, as agreed.”

A battery of TV cameras, some mounted on tripods, some shoulder-held, captured their entrance. Cutter positioned Mallory in front of the gilt-trimmed desk and slipped a lover-like arm around her waist. The modernistic portrait in its lighted alcove formed a dramatic backdrop. The oriental carpet provided a tapestry of jeweled colors at their feet.

Mallory tried not to wince as the klieg lights came on, adding their glare to the flashes from the still cameras. Boom mikes poked over the heads of reporters who machine-gunned the questions at her.

“Mademoiselle Dawes, how do you come to be at Yvette d’Marchand’s château?”

“Did you know Remy Duchette?”

“What happened at Mont St. Michel that caused you to miss the turn of the tide?”

“Have you been in contact with Congressman Kent during your time in France?”

“Is Monsieur Smith your latest lover?”

Mallory knifed the reporter who’d shouted the last question with an icy glare. Before she could respond, however, Cutter drew her closer within the circle of his arm.

“Not her latest,” he corrected.

He smiled at her, playing to the audience yet somehow giving her the sense that his words were for her alone.

“Her last.”

Okay, this was only pretend. A very skillful act for the cameras. Even if it hadn’t been, Mallory knew better than to believe Cutter’s smooth lies. That didn’t prevent a raw, scratchy lump the size of the Eiffel Tower from clogging her throat.

I
f Cutter hadn’t already suspected he was in over his head where Mallory Dawes was concerned, watching her perform for the cameras would have done the trick.

He knew how much she’d dreaded the inquisition. Felt her flinch as the questions went from personal and prying to just plain vicious. Chin high, she responded to those questions she chose to while ignoring the rest.

Cutter deflected as many of the barbs as he could by referring all inquiries about Remy Duchette to the local police. He also played the new man in Mallory’s life to the hilt, staking his claim with every possessive smile. Yet not even this very public branding could protect her from increasingly salacious questions about her alleged affair with Congressman Kent. Finally, he’d had enough.

“That’s it,” he said abruptly, fighting hard to keep his anger in check. “Ms. Dawes and I need to leave for the airport. Gilbért will show you out.”

Leaving the gaggle to pack up their gear under the butler’s watchful eye, Cutter steered Mallory into the hall. She kept her arm tucked in his and a smile pasted on her face as they mounted the stairs. Once out of camera reach, though, she wilted right before his eyes.

“You okay?”

“Yes.” A shudder rippled through her slender frame. “I know they’re only doing their job. They just…kind of get to me.”

“You didn’t let it show.”

“You think?” She gave a small laugh. “I must be getting better at this. God knows I’ve had plenty of practice. When do you want to leave?”

“As soon as you get your things together.”

This time the laugh was a little more genuine. “That won’t take long.”

“Knock on the connecting door when you’re ready.”

Mallory entered the room she’d come to think of as her own and rested her shoulder blades against the door. The circus downstairs had drained and humiliated her, but she regretted more the fact that her stay in this elegant suite with its shimmering azure drapes and four-poster bed was over. That, and the knowledge she would soon say goodbye to Cutter.

She wanted to believe his promise to follow her home as soon as he could. Ached to believe the hours they’d spent locked in each other’s arms last night had seared him as much as they had her. Despite his lies and elaborate deceptions, everything inside her wanted to trust him.

Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she raised her left hand. Cutter had insisted she keep the ring. As a souvenir. Curling her hand into a fist, Mallory tilted it this way and that, setting off colorful sparks as the diamonds caught the light.

Her hand stilled. The rainbow of colors dimmed. Sighing, she went to gather her few things.

“You must come again,” Gilbért pronounced on the steps leading to the cobbled courtyard. His wife endorsed that with a vigorous bob of her head.

“I cook for you,” she promised. “Pears
en croute,
yes? With buttered brandy sauce.”

That alone was enough to make Mallory wish she had more to give them as a parting gift than the bottle of Calvados from Monsieur Villieu’s private stock.

They, in turn, presented a hibiscus-colored shopping bag with gold cord handles and an instantly recognizable logo. A shoebox sat inside the bag.

“These are from madame’s spring collection,” Gilbért said. “She hopes you will accept them with her apologies that you should come to harm while a guest in her home.”

Lust and guilt battled for Mallory’s soul. “I can’t accept such an expensive gift.”

“But you must,” the butler insisted, pressing the bag into her hands. “Madame wishes you to have them.”

She suspected it was Gilbért and his wife who wanted her to return home with something other than a mixed bag of memories and the bruises she’d collected from Remy.

“Thank you.” Going up on tiptoe, she kissed his weathered cheeks. “And you, Madame Picard.”

“
Au revoir,
mademoiselle,
et bonne chance.
”

Cutter stowed his carryall and the small tote holding the items Mallory had purchased in town in the backseat of his rental car. After shaking hands with Gilbért and dropping kisses on Madame Picard’s apple-red cheeks, he settled Mallory in the passenger seat and slid behind the wheel. She twisted around to wave as the car rattled through the arched passageway. Once they were on the sweeping drive, the château dwindled to a fanciful, turreted image in the side mirror.

Mallory said little during the long drive to the airport on the outskirts of Paris. Cutter, by contrast, was a whirlwind of activity. Dividing his attention between the traffic ahead and the road behind, he eliminated every obstacle Mallory had been tripping over for the past week. By the time they nosed into the bumper-to-bumper traffic on the airport loop, he had everything arranged.

“Your temporary passport was delivered to the Delta Business Class reservations desk. It’s waiting for you with your ticket.”

“Okay.”

“There’s an American Express kiosk inside the terminal. They’ll reissue your traveler’s checks.”

Horns blared as he cut the wheel and pulled onto the ramp for short-term parking.

“The rental-car company wants you to sign a release of liability, but you can take care of that when you get home. Mike Callahan will be at the gate when you deplane. Look for a big bear of a man, almost as ugly as I am.”

She smiled dutifully at the sally. She could think of a whole slew of adjectives to describe Cutter Smith.
Ugly
wasn’t one of them.

Scarred,
yes.
Rough around the edges,
definitely. Yet capable of such incredible tenderness that Mallory’s heart ached with the memory of it. Wrenching her gaze from his profile, she let it drop to the filigree band on her finger.

“Mike will be wearing a windbreaker with the insignia of the Military Marksmanship Association on the pocket. Rifles crossed over a bull’s-eye.” He shot her a quick look. “Got that?”

“Rifles crossed over a bull’s-eye. Got it.”

The short-term parking garage was jammed, but Cutter lucked out and found a slot only a few yards from the second-story walkway to the departure terminal.

He carried the tote, Mallory the brightly colored shopping bag. She couldn’t believe she’d crossed this same walkway less than a week ago, blithely unaware she was being stalked by the man at her side. Her little burst of resentment quickly fizzled. Too much had happened, and her feelings for Cutter were too confused, to work up much of a mad at this point.

The replacement passport was waiting at the Delta Business Class desk, as promised, along with a revised return ticket.

“We bumped you up to Business Class,” the helpful clerk advised after issuing a boarding pass. “Do you have any luggage to check?”

With a strangled laugh, Mallory shook her head. “Not this time.”

“Very well. Your aircraft will begin boarding at Gate 42B in approximately one hour. Have a good flight home, Mademoiselle Dawes.”

“Was Business Class your doing?” she asked as Cutter took her arm to weave a path through the throngs of travelers toward the shops at the end of the concourse. The distinctive blue-and-white sign above the American Express kiosk stood out like a beacon.

“I figured you deserved at least that much of a break after…”

He broke off, his grip tightening. When his eyes narrowed on something beyond her, Mallory twisted around to see what had snared his attention. Shock rippled through her as she spotted her face staring back at her from the giant TV screen mounted above the heads of the travelers.

There she was, backdropped against the stark, modernistic portrait in Madame d’Marchand’s library. Same shoulder-length blond bob. Same wary brown eyes. Same navy blazer. The commentary was in French and muffled by the noise in the terminal but Mallory got the gist of it when the screen split to display Congressman Kent’s image alongside hers. A moment later, both were replaced by a mug shot of Remy Duchette.

“Didn’t take long for them to get the footage on-air,” she commented, her throat tight.

“That was the idea,” Cutter reminded her. “The story’s probably been running every half hour since the interview.”

“Hold this a moment, would you?”

Passing him the shopping bag, she fumbled in her purse for her sunglasses. She hadn’t hidden behind them in days. Something inside her died a little at having to resort to their shield again.

The clerk in the American Express kiosk responded with the same efficiency as the airline representative. It was obvious he’d seen the news flash. Curiosity prompted several sidelong glances, but he refrained from comment except to request Mallory’s signature in several places. She walked out of the kiosk fifteen minutes later with money in her purse for the first time since the day she’d arrived.

“Wonder what happened to the flag on my accounts?” she drawled while she and Cutter once again threaded through the crowds.

“Beats me.”

His totally fake innocence scored a huff from Mallory. A moment later, she bumped to a stop.

“Look.”

Her pointing finger drew his attention to a display of plastic snow globes in the window of a souvenir shop. Amid the bubble-encased Eiffel Towers and Arc de Triomphes was the cathedral of Mont St. Michel, rising from a blue plastic sea.

“I
have
to get one of those.”

She found a boxed globe easily enough, but the long line at the register moved at a snail’s pace. The business with American Express had eaten a chunk out of her hour prior to boarding. The long lines at security would devour the rest. Disappointed, Mallory put the globe back on the shelf.

“I’ll pick one up after I see you aboard the plane,” Cutter promised. “Do you need to make a pit stop before we hit security?”

“I’m okay.”

She assumed they’d say goodbye at the security checkpoint, since only ticketed passengers were allowed beyond. Cutter, evidently, had other plans.

When they approached the checkpoint, he produced an ID and an official-looking document and pulled one of the security inspectors aside. That worthy individual skimmed the paperwork, pursed his lips and gestured to a fellow officer. Mallory caught only snatches of the intense conversations that ensued, but picked up several references to Interpol. Cutter finally broke away and strode back to her.

“Seems to be a problem here with my permit to carry concealed,” he said, his voice low and for her ears only.

“You’re armed?”

His hooked brow made her realize how stupid that sounded. Of course, he had his gun strapped to his ankle. This was his job.
She
was his job.

“I need to talk to the director of security,” Cutter told her. “Wait for me here. Right here.”

“It’s getting close to boarding time.”

“I’ll square this away as quickly as I can. If I’m not back in ten minutes, go on through. I’ll meet you at the gate. If they call your flight, get on board. You know what to do when you deplane.”

She covered her sudden, sinking sensation with a brisk nod. “Look for Mike Callahan. Big. Ugly. Crossed rifles. Bull’s-eye.”

“Be sure to tell him about the ugly part.”

“I will.”

“Just in case, you’d better take this with you.”

She assumed he was referring to the tote he’d carried through the terminal with her. Before she could reach for it, however, he wrapped his hands around her upper arms and pulled her forward for a long, hard kiss.

“Wait here,” he growled, when he released her. “Ten minutes.”

Cutter stalked back to the two security officials, torn between the need to get Mallory on that plane and the equally fierce need to keep her in his sight until she was aboard.

It took one call to Interpol and another to OMEGA to untangle the confusion over the permit. By Cutter’s watch, he was back at the security checkpoint in nine and a half minutes. His brows slashing together, he skimmed the entire vicinity. Mallory wasn’t anywhere in sight.

Spotting the official who’d stopped him in languid conversation with another employee, he thrust through the crowd. “The woman I was with,” he bit out. “The blonde. Did she pass through security?”

“No, monsieur. She waits for you, then goes back to the concourse.”

“Dammit!”

If Mallory had decided to use the delay to buy that snow globe, Cutter would rip her a new one.

“She comes back soon,” the inspector added helpfully. “I hear her tell her friend she has not much time.”

“What friend?”

“The woman who greets her. She carries a shopping bag, too. The same as mademoiselle’s.”

Cutter whirled, his mind racing. Who the hell had Mallory hooked up with? A fellow shoe addict? A representative of Yvette d’Marchand, bearing more gifts? Yvette herself, driven by curiosity about the houseguest who’d generated such a spate of publicity?

Or someone else? Someone who’d tried to use Mallory’s connection to d’Marchand once before to get to her?