by Linda Howard
"Very interesting." In the past ten years, old boundaries had been completely obliterated. Politics was in a state of flux, and such an atmosphere was very favorable to his business. Instability was the greatest of motivators to a certain type of person.
"The American ambassador is here, of course," Eduard continued. "His aide is drifting around with his ears on alert."
The ambassador's aide was an employee of their Central Intelligence Agency. Everyone knew who everyone was, but still an astonishing amount of information was passed around at these functions. Intelligence officers were often conduits of information that governments wanted to dispense to other governments, but by back channels. No one, after all, wanted to precipitate a crisis.
"A family friend is visiting the ambassador and his wife. She is the daughter of one of Madame Theriot's oldest friends. A lovely young woman, if I may say so. One always sees the same faces at these things, you know; anyone new is a welcome change."
Ronsard was a man. He was always interested in a lovely young woman, provided she wasn't too young.
He had no interest in giggly adolescents. "Point her out to me," he said idly
Eduard looked around. "There," he finally said. "By the windows. Brunette, dressed in white. She has the loveliest eyes."
Ronsard located the woman in question. She was not, he saw, an adolescent. She was standing beside Madame Theriot, a smile that managed to be both polite and warm on her face as she tilted her head, listening to a minister of finance who was probably expounding on his favorite subject, horse racing.
Ronsard exhaled in appreciation. Eduard had not exaggerated; she was indeed lovely. Not beautiful, not spectacular, but. . . lovely. She wasn't dressed in a manner calculated to draw attention, but somehow she did. Perhaps it was the quiet dignity of her manner, coupled with those stunning eyes. Even from there, Ronsard could appreciate Eduard's comment about her eyes. They were huge and night-dark, the type of eyes a man could look into and forget what he was saying.
Her gown was a simple, unadorned white, relying on its exquisite cut for its charm. Her complexion was pale, so pale he wouldn't have thought she could wear white without looking washed-out, but instead the color seemed to accentuate the faintest of pink flushes that made one think one could see the warmth of her blood under that delicate skin.
She was slender without being thin, as so many fashionable women were these days. The gown skimmed over nicely rounded hips, and her bosom, though not large, was enticingly shaped. She wore a single, gracefully long strand of pearls, which matched the bracelet on her right wrist and the earrings on her lobes. She turned as he watched, and the strand of pearls swung sideways to curl under and frame her left breast.
Unconsciously she touched the strand, restoring it to is previous graceful drape, but the brief image made Ronsard's loins pleasurably tighten.
"Is she married?" The French were sophisticated about such matters, but Americans remained, for the most part, annoyingly prudish.
"Widowed," Eduard supplied.
The orchestra at that moment began playing a gently stirring movement from Beethoven, as the dancing had not yet begun. As Ronsard watched, the lovely widow's head turned toward the orchestra, her expression arrested as she listened to the music. She became very still, and her eyes seemed to fill with an aching sadness. She turned to the ministry employee and said a few words, then inclined her head to Madame Theriot and seemed to whisper something. Madame Theriot looked sympathetic and touched the young woman on the arm. Then the young woman slipped out the open patio doors into the night.
Ronsard had no idea how long she had been widowed, but obviously the music had just brought a painful memory to mind. Sad young women, in his opinion, should always be comforted. "Pardon me," he murmured to Eduard and strode across the ballroom floor.
It was a tedious passage; everyone wanted to speak to him. Women called his name and gave him slumbrous smiles. He shook hands, kissed cheeks, and made graceful escapes while he kept his eye on the patio doors. The minister of finance to whom she had been speaking seemed to dither, but finally found the courage to approach the doors. By that time Ronsard was there, and he deftly stepped in front of the man. "Your solicitude is much appreciated," he murmured, "but won't be necessary."
"Ah ..." The man blinked at him as Ronsard's identity registered. "Yes, of course."
Ronsard went outside into the warm Paris night. The flagstoned patio was lit only by indirect light, from the windows behind him and by the lights strung in the ornamental trees in the garden. Small tables and chairs had been scattered about the patio, providing guests with an opportunity to take fresh air and escape the noise of the ballroom.
The widow sat at one of those tables, her hands quiet in her lap as she looked out over the garden. She hadn't wept, Ronsard saw when he drew near, his footsteps slow and purposeful. She had kept her composure, though he thought he detected a sheen of tears in her eyes, and her mouth had that soft, sad curve that made him want to kiss a smile onto it. A mouth that delectable should always smile.
"Hello," he said gently in English, and the slight start she gave told him that she hadn't been aware of his approach. "Forgive me, I didn't intend to startle you."
She turned those big dark eyes on him, and again he felt that surge in his loins. She looked so sad, so alone and vulnerable. Even as he watched she gathered herself and sought refuge in the social face she had probably been taught to assume from the time she was out of the cradle.
"That's perfectly all right," she said, beginning to stand. Her voice was low and feminine, without the annoying nasal tones of so many Americans. "I was just about to return to the party-"
"No, don't let me displace you," he said quickly, reaching out to gently touch her arm. He was always gentle in his dealings with women, and so many of them were endearingly susceptible to that tenderness, as if they didn't get enough of it in their lives. The widow, however, looked mildly shocked that he had touched her, and she drew back just a little.
"I saw you come out and thought you looked ...upset" He had to be cautious here and ease her wariness.
For a moment she didn't say anything. She turned her head to look out into the garden, and he admired the graceful line of her neck, the curve of her cheekbone. Then she said, "The music reminded me of another time."
That was all. There were no forthcoming details, no expounding. He sensed her reluctance to give him any personal information. He was accustomed to women responding to him, trying to hold his attention; this woman's very lack of response was intriguing.
"My name is Louis Ronsard," he said, settling into the chair beside her.
"I'm pleased to meet you," she said politely. "I'm Niema Jamieson."
"Niema." He said the name slowly, tasting the sound of it. "What a lovely, unusual name."
She gave a small, quick smile. "Too unusual, sometimes. People seldom know how to pronounce it if they see it spelled out-they usually pronounce it 'Neema' instead of 'Nye-ema,' and if they hear it they don't know how to spell it. When I was a child I often wished my mother had named me Jane, or Susan, or anything straightforward." "Is it a family name?"
"Nothing so dignified," she said, and the smile became a chuckle. He was delighted by the transformation of her face, from sadness to humor. "She liked the rhythm of the name Naomi, but not the name itself. So she substituted vowels until she found a combination she liked, and"-she spread her hands- "Niema was invented."
"I think it's lovely."
"Thank you. I've become accustomed to it." She glanced over her shoulder into the ballroom. "It's been nice talking to you. I think I should-"
"Of course," he said, getting to his feet. "You don't know me, and you're uncomfortable being alone with me." He paused a beat to give her an opportunity to demur, but she didn't, and he was amused. "Will you reserve a dance for me, Mademoiselle Jamieson?" He purposefully called her mademoiselle, to give her an opening to tell him she was widowed.
"Mad
ame," she corrected, and he was pleasantly surprised by her accent. He was less pleased when she left it at that, withholding the fact of her widowhood; a woman who was interested would have made her marital status clear.
His own interest increased. Ronsard seldom had the opportunity these days to enjoy the chase. Women were all too willing, which was a nice state of affairs, but sometimes a man wished to be the predator.
His question hung in the air between them. Finally she said, "Yes, of course," but her tone held only politeness, not any eagerness for his company.
He was both piqued and amused. Perhaps he had become spoiled, but he knew he wasn't repulsive. Far from it, in fact. This woman, though, seemed totally unaware of him as a man.
Politely he offered his arm, and she laid a graceful hand on it. Her touch was barely perceptible; she didn't cling, didn't actually hold him. Together they walked back into the ballroom, drawing more than one pair of eyes. Ronsard saw Madame Theriot frown and whisper something to her husband. So, she wasn't pleased that her young friend had become acquainted with the notorious arms dealer?
Ronsard smiled at Madame Theriot, then turned to his prey and made her a small, graceful bow. Something in his manner must have alerted her, because her eyes suddenly widened and her soft lips parted. Before she could pull away he pressed his lips to her hand, a brief salute that he didn't allow to linger, and caressed her with his eyes. "Until later," he murmured.
Chapter Fourteen
Niema took a deep breath as she walked across the ballroom. A major hurdle had been crossed, and so swiftly, so easily, she was astounded. The plan had been for Eleanor to introduce her to people who had spoken with Ronsard, but not to the arms dealer himself. Eventually their paths would have crossed, but it would have looked odd for Eleanor to be the one who made the introductions, as she naturally would not have liked for her best friend's daughter to associate with someone like Ronsard.
None of that had been necessary. Out of the corner of her eye, she had seen him speaking with someone she had already met-his name escaped her- and both of them had been watching her. At that moment the orchestra had begun playing a particularly lovely piece of music and inspiration struck.
She allowed sadness to play across her features for a moment, then excused herself to the gentleman who was something boring in the French government. She leaned over and whispered to Eleanor, "He's watching. I'm going to slip out onto the patio."
Eleanor, whose acting skills were worthy of Hollywood, immediately saw the opportunity and what Niema was doing. She put on a concerned face and touched Niema on the arm-nothing dramatic, but a touch of sympathy that wouldn't go unnoticed.
Then Niema had simply sat on the patio and waited. Within five minutes, Ronsard joined her.
He was remarkably good looking. The photos she'd seen of him didn't compare to the man in the flesh. He was tall, with dark blue eyes set on a slant above his exotic cheekbones, and he wore his long dark hair loose on his broad shoulders. The hint of savage in an elegant tuxedo was a devastating combination.
His voice was smooth and low, his manners impeccable, and his eyes managed to convey both his interest and his concern over her sadness. A romantic, handsome Frenchman at a formal party was enough to give any woman weak knees.
As soon as she reached Eleanor, the older woman gripped her wrist and leaned over to whisper in Niema's ear, all the while frowning at Ronsard, as if she were informing Niema of his reputation. "Mission accomplished?"
Niema put a startled look on her face, then an alarmed one. She darted a quick glance at Ronsard. Yes, he was watching. She quickly looked away. "He asked for a dance," she murmured.
Eleanor, who knew only the basic story and that Niema was to draw Ronsard's attention, turned away with a practiced smile as the prime minister's wife approached, and Niema's attention was claimed by a young staffer from the embassy who was from New Hampshire and was evidently suffering from homesickness. Since Niema had never been to the state, she hoped he didn't start asking specific questions.
The only formal party she had ever been to in her life was her high school prom. This was far out of her league, but to her surprise she felt comfortable. The clothes were better, the food more exotic, the people more serious and aware of their own importance, but all in all the same dynamics applied: polite chitchat, polite laughter, the constant mingling. The politicians worked the room while the lobbyists worked the politicians. Everyone wanted something from someone else.
Her French had rapidly returned, once she heard it spoken again, but then French had been her best language. Ronsard had spoken in English, however, so that was how she had answered him. She doubted he was a man who ever let anything slip, but if he thought she didn't understand him he might be a little careless in what he said. It wasn't her intention to hide the fact that she spoke the language, though, as that was too easy to give away, and he would immediately be suspicious.
She had to avoid any appearance of being interested in him. Quite the opposite, in fact. He had to make all the moves, so he couldn't suspect her of maneuvering for an invitation to his villa. But at the same time she had to show she liked him, or she wouldn't have a reason for accepting.
In her favor was the fact that other women fawned over him. She would stand out in his mind because of her very lack of response. Men liked a challenge, and she was going to give him one.
The dancing started, and she let herself be steered around the floor by the first person who asked, who happened to be the boring gentleman she had been talking to earlier. He pumped her arm as if he expected her to spout water out of her mouth, and all the while he enthused about thoroughbred racing. She smiled and made an occasional comment, and he was happy.
Next the ambassador claimed a dance. He was a stately gentleman with silver hair and a sweet smile, a little shorter than his wife, but with a smooth tact that made her instantly comfortable. He spoke to her as if she were indeed an old friend of the family, chatting on about friends they supposedly had in common, a vacation their families had once spent together when she was a child. She wondered if one of the qualifications to an ambassadorship was to be a consummate liar, because he excelled.
After the dance with the ambassador ended, she excused herself and went to the ladies' room, where she killed as much time as she could. She didn't immediately return to the ballroom, but mingled in the other rooms, speaking to those people to whom she had already been introduced. If Ronsard really wanted to dance with her, he was going to have to find her.
He did. A warm hand closed around her elbow and he said, "You promised me a dance."
Niema hesitated. A small silence fell around them. Everyone knew who he was, of course, and waited to see if she would snub him. She saw his eyes begin to narrow, and into the silence she said, "Are you certain you want to risk your toes?"
Relieved chuckles rippled around them. His face relaxed, and a slight smile curved his lips. "My toes would be honored." He held out his hand, indicating the direction of the ballroom.
She walked calmly by his side, ignoring the hand that settled on the small of her back. The orchestra was just beginning a number slower than the others had been, and she realized that he had waited and chosen his moment-either that or bribed the orchestra.
"I thought you were going to refuse me," he said in a low voice as his arm closed about her waist and he swept her into a gliding circle. He held her closely enough that she could feel the warmth of his body, the movement of his legs against hers, but not so close that she would be alarmed and pull back.
"I was."
One dark eyebrow arched, his expression sardonic. "Why didn't you?"
"A dance won't hurt me," she said calmly.
"Neither will I." He looked down into her face, his tone gentle. "I assume Madame Theriot warned you against me."
"Understandable, don't you think?"
"Understandable, but unnecessary. I mean you no harm."
She didn't respond to that, her e
xpression serene as he swept her around the floor. He danced with a grace that made the exercise effortless, and she thanked God that her parents had insisted she take dance lessons in high school even though she would much rather have learned how to hang glide; at least she wouldn't embarrass herself. A socialite would know how to dance, after all.
When she made no effort to pick up the conversational ball, he asked, "Are you just visiting, or have you been employed at the embassy?"
"Gracious, no!" She looked amused. "Visiting, only."
"For how long?"
"No definite time. A few weeks."
"That isn't much time," he complained softly, looking down at her with such apparent masculine interest that a woman would have to be blind to miss it.
"Monsieur Ronsard-"
"Please don't be alarmed. "You're a lovely woman, and I would like very much to see you while you're in Paris. That is all."
"There's no point in it." She looked away, staring at a point over his shoulder. She made her tone gentle and faintly sad.
He firmed the guiding touch of his hand on her back, pressing his palm against her. Her gown was fairly low cut in back, and his fingers brushed her bare skin. "There is always a point to pleasure."
"I don't seem to be very good at pleasure these days."
"Then you must learn how to enjoy yourself again."
Her lips trembled, and a look of pain haunted her eyes. He saw it, as she had meant for him to. "Forgive my clumsiness," he murmured, dipping his head so his mouth was close to her temple. "I never intended to distress you."
She firmed her lips and lifted her chin. "The orchestra is very good, isn't it? I love this piece."
He allowed her to steer the conversation into mundane waters, but she felt his unswerving gaze on her face the entire time. Louis Ronsard was definitely a man on the hunt. So far, she thought, she had done a credible job of appearing reluctant without insulting him.
The dance ended, she thanked him for it, and turned to leave. He fell into step beside her. "Have you been to Paris before?"
