Claimed by the Secret Agent

by Lyn Stone

  “Ah, subject change. You don’t like to talk about your family. Got it. And you’re right, I do need to follow up on that and check in with control.”

  He hesitated, then asked, “Should I tell Mercier that you’re at least interested in the job with COMPASS?”

  Busy testing the comfort of the bed by bouncing on the edge of it, she stopped. “I don’t know. Would you and I be partnered?”

  “I’ve always worked cases alone,” he said. Arms crossed, he leaned against the window frame. “Until this one.”

  She flapped a hand in his direction. “Sorry to intrude on your mission, but I’m here and I’m staying until we’re through, so get over it.”

  “Oh, I’m pretty much over it,” he told her with a grin. He fished his cell phone out of his pocket to make his calls. “I’m even getting used to the distraction and taking orders from you. They might have to retrain me to work on my own when I get back.”

  Marie scoffed, secretly pleased at his teasing. She left him talking on the phone and went down the hall to the bathroom. She needed some space and wanted to be away from him to think.

  Was she getting too involved with this guy? Shouldn’t she be throwing up barriers or something? Maybe she ought to put Grant the man right out of her mind and see him only as Grant the agent, the means to an end.

  How was she supposed to do that when he was being so friendly, talking so frankly to her about his personal relationships and looking at her with such guileless appreciation. And all the while keeping his distance as he promised. She had never met anyone quite like Grant Tyndal.

  When she returned to the room, Grant was tucking away his phone. “The consulate has received a ransom call already. Couldn’t be traced, of course. The demand’s the same but the fuse is shorter and they won’t be stalled. We have until tomorrow night to find her.”

  “What about the number you psyched up?” she asked.

  “Got a name and address for it. It’s a landline, located on Prouter. Belongs to a Dr. Harold Shute. Interpol’s got nothing on him. We’ll need a map to find his place.” He put the laptop case on the bed and unzipped it. “Your turn to work.”

  She went online and quickly found a map. “Prouter’s not listed.” Five more searches gave different maps of the city and surrounding suburbs. “It’s just not on the maps, Grant. Not as a road, street or lane. Must be way out of town.” She did a search on Dr. Harold Shute and found an obituary. “He’s dead. Died years ago.”

  “Dead? And still paying his phone bill? Something’s screwy. I’ll go down and ask around,” he said, and started for the door.

  “I’m coming, too. Wouldn’t want you to get lost.”

  This time she went down the stairs behind him, barely resisting the urge to reach out and touch his hair. Was it soft or bristly? she wondered. What would he do if he felt her hand on his head? Marie expelled a harsh breath, angry at her thoughts.

  At the bottom of the stairs, he reached out and took her hand. Didn’t even stop to think about it, she noticed. He just took it in his as if he had every right. And she didn’t resist.

  He approached the desk clerk and asked for directions to Prouter. The desk clerk’s brow wrinkled as he thought about it. “Sorry, I don’t know of it,” he admitted.

  “Have you ever heard of a Dr. Shute in this area?”

  “No.”

  Grant thanked him and continued on outside. “Somebody has to know where Prouter is,” he muttered.

  They canvassed several shops and asked people on the street but got only puzzled looks and apologies. “The post office,” Marie suggested, spying it up ahead.

  There, they had better luck. Harold Shute was on record, but Prouter was not an address on their books. “Then how would this Shute get his phone bills?” Grant demanded. “They have to send them somewhere.”

  “He has a postal box,” the clerk replied. She checked it and there were two bills in it, one posted two weeks earlier. “The street or road name is probably an old one and has been changed to another,” she said. “Perhaps you should try city hall. They should have records of the property.”

  Even there and at the public library, no one could find the elusive name Prouter.

  “A typo,” Marie guessed finally. “It has to be a bad listing.”

  “Let’s go back to the hotel, get on the computer and search all the possibilities, then.”

  They worked on it the rest of the afternoon.

  “I’m wiped out,” Grant said, his frustration apparent as he stretched out across his bed. “Where the hell is the place?”

  “Take a break and call for room service,” Marie suggested, typing in yet another variation of the word.

  He rang the desk and ordered. They ate in silence, each lost in thoughts of what could be happening to Cynthia the consulate clerk while they scrambled around trying to find her.

  “She’s not going to die,” Marie declared. “We’ll find her.”

  “I wish I knew how,” Grant said, wiping a hand over his face, then letting it rest on his chest. “This is maddening!”

  Marie reached over and laid a hand on his shoulder. “C’mon, Grant. You’re acting as if this is your fault. Look how much you’ve done already, and we won’t stop now. But you need to regroup a little. We both do.”

  He placed a hand over hers and gave it a squeeze. “I like you, you know that? I like how you stay so positive when it looks as if we’re at a dead end here.”

  “We are no such thing,” she assured him. “Something will pop, you’ll see.” Marie leaned over and kissed him. The act surprised her almost as much as it did him.

  She felt his lips tense, then relax and welcome hers. Passion flared, but he banked it quickly.

  He looked up at her as she broke the kiss. “Please tell me you’re releasing me from that stupid promise I made to you.”

  Chapter 10

  M arie held his gaze. Then she closed her eyes and kissed him again. He’d find out soon enough she wasn’t all she was advertising, but she did want this kiss and she wanted it badly. Whatever happened next would just have to happen.

  Any moment now she’d pull back, put him in his place, show him she wasn’t going to be his lay of the day. But the kiss went on.

  His hands caressed her face, her neck, her shoulders and finally, when she thought she might have to plead, her breasts. He didn’t hurry, and she wished he would. The sooner he reached a point that brought her to her senses, the better.

  But that point seemed really elusive right now, she thought, as she reveled in the way his hands felt on her, sliding beneath her shirt, down the back of her jeans. That groan was meant as a protest, she thought as it emerged, but it sounded like encouragement, even to her. Oh, well, why not?

  He slid her shirt over her head, unsnapped her bra and discarded it. Marie simply closed her eyes and abandoned herself to the feelings, to the mounting need he roused with his hands and mouth.

  She felt him pull her body against his, loving the way they fit together so perfectly if only these clothes weren’t in the way.

  “You know where this is going,” he muttered, interspersing his words with hot kisses that were landing everywhere.

  “I know,” she gasped. “Please don’t be disappointed.”

  He laughed, a growling sound that reverberated through her like a shock wave of pleasure. Sure he found it funny now, but soon…

  He lifted her slightly and unsnapped her jeans. She wriggled them off while he stripped. “Oh, my,” she whispered, her gaze trapped by the sight of him.

  “Flattery will get you anywhere,” he whispered against her neck.

  She melted on top of him, moving every way she could to draw him deeper still. A wildness suffused her, something she had never experienced in all her life. The urge to give and give, to please, to grasp pleasure for herself. Such a selfless, selfish, all-encompassing rushing that went on and on with every thrust, every move.

  She had never really believed in this
kind of pleasure and drew a fleeting comparison to her other experience. Sublime versus mechanical, fulfilling rather than disappointing, sustained wonder instead of heaving abruptness that showed no regard for her. Grant kissed, he touched, he made love as if his one mission in life was to share everything he was. How could she not embrace it, embrace the one who seemed to give without any reservation?

  Retreating into herself never even occurred this time. Full and eager participation was the only option. She writhed against him, bowed beneath him and reveled in how her mind numbed even as the sensations claimed her fully. A glorious, wonderful bursting feeling that stole her every thought and breath.

  The sound he made in his throat triggered more. Aftershocks rippled through her as his palms slid over her back and waist, coming to rest on her hips. His ragged breathing tickled her neck.

  “Damn,” he whispered, grazing his lips over her shoulder. “I knew it.”

  Marie felt his words like a splash of icy water. She pushed up and glared down at his slumberous expression. “Guess I should’ve told you. I’m not good at this.”

  His brow wrinkled in question. “What?”

  She closed her eyes, not wanting to see his frown. “Not much experience. All of it disappointing.”

  “Disappointing to you?” He brushed a tendril of hair off her face with his finger.

  “To all parties concerned,” she admitted. Now he’d leave her alone. “Even the guy who always bragged that the worst he ever had was wonderful changed his mind.”

  “Was it that fiancé of yours?”

  Marie hesitated a second, then nodded.

  “The fool oughta be shot. You know he was lying, right?”

  She shrugged one shoulder. “He accused me of false advertising.”

  “What?” Grant scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief.

  Marie made a face. “He said I looked very sexy, talked that way, too, but I was obviously created by some surgeon and he might as well have bought a plastic doll.”

  Grant laughed. “Ah, honey, let me translate that for you. He beat you across the finish line, and you didn’t complete the race. His fault, of course, and he was afraid you’d complain. Maybe even tell somebody about it. He figured attack was the best defense.”

  “So you think it was manspeak, huh?”

  “At its worst. I apologize for my gender. We can be real jerks.”

  “You’re not.” Marie could have kissed him but knew that would only compound her error. “I didn’t really think he suffered all that much, but neither did I feel it was worth arguing about. Better off without him.”

  “That was your only time?”

  “That’s none of your business! Have I asked you about your love life?”

  “No, but I wouldn’t care if you did. Other than my wife, I was never really involved with anyone for long. Even with her it wasn’t…well, like this. That’s what I meant when I said I knew it. All along I had a feeling that with you it would be different…serious.”

  “Serious? No, Grant. This was sex, plain and simple! That’s all it was.” She refused to meet his eyes. “You’re crazy, aren’t you?”

  “Depends on who you ask.”

  “Well, I think you are,” she declared, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “Maybe so, but I’m telling you the truth. I like you, Marie, maybe even love you. And I think you’re sexy as hell.”

  “I am not!”

  “Sorry, my call. But I don’t think sexy is determined by a woman’s looks, shape or anything else that she’s born with or could be manufactured by a scalpel. That goes for a man, too.” He tapped her forehead. “It’s what’s in here…” Then he placed his hand over her heart. “And in here. It’s what you feel and what you need to give and want to take.”

  Marie didn’t know what to say, how to handle this. She’d never in her life had a conversation to equal it or anything to compare it with.

  A knock at the door jerked them back to the real world. Marie was thankful for the interruption. She had no clue what Grant was talking about and didn’t want to know. At least not until she’d had time to think about what had just happened.

  She scrambled off him and snatched up her jeans. “Get dressed!” she snapped when he just lay there watching her.

  Someone knocked again and he moved, obviously in no great hurry about it. She pulled on her shirt and went to the door, glancing over her shoulder to see if Grant was decent. “Who is it?”

  “Pieter. I have information you wanted.”

  She opened the door, and the desk clerk handed her a rough drawing on a sheet of hotel stationery. “Here is a direction of sorts. I spoke with my grandfather. He once knew a Dr. Shute who lived in an old, rather isolated clinic called Alt Brouten Haus. It lies off the main road to Oudewater. However, he said the doctor has been dead for several years.”

  Marie took the paper and shot a triumphant look at Grant, then turned back to the desk clerk. “This is wonderfully helpful, Pieter. Thank you very much! And thank your grandfather for us, too.”

  “We are glad to be of assistance.” He did look pleased. He also looked knowing as his gaze traveled the length of her and back again.

  She didn’t see how he could possibly guess what they’d been doing, but he seemed to do just that. Ridiculous thought.

  “You are most welcome, Miss Beauclair,” he said, his tone amused. “And if you two need anything else, anything at all, please let me know.”

  She closed the door and dashed over to Grant, offering him a high five. He complied, but he still hadn’t lost that thoughtful look he’d worn before Pieter knocked.

  “It was a misprint. And a house, not a street or road? Brouten, not Prouter!” she exclaimed, hoping to excite him about something other than their all-too-recent tryst.

  She did not want to talk about that anymore. Not yet anyway. Maybe not ever because she had no idea what to say. “I told you something would break!”

  “So you did. Maybe you’re psychic and just don’t know it.”

  “Ha! Get your shoes on and let’s go investigate.”

  He nodded, a small smile playing around his lips, as if he were privy to something she didn’t know.

  “Okay, I will,” he agreed, “but you might want to put your shirt on right side out before we leave.”

  Paris was usually beautiful in the spring, but rain grayed the day. Mamud Bahktar tried to shake off the malaise.

  He turned away from the corner window of his office as his extra cell phone buzzed. He had specified no contact until the job was done. Hopefully, this was it. He flipped the phone open, put it to his ear and waited.

  “We have one. I am sending her photo.”

  Mamud noted there was no mention of background information. “From where?” Mamud demanded, uneasiness creeping up his spine.

  “Amsterdam.”

  “Fool!” Mamud growled. “It is too close to your base of operations.”

  “I had no choice in the matter. My…associate…saw the opportunity and took it.”

  “You did the background, I hope. Two misses are all I will allow.” All he could afford, really.

  A moment of silence ensued as static crackled over the phone. “Of course. Four days at most and I will have what you require.”

  “Or else. You will have to relocate after this. Meet me here on Friday next. Dispose of the local hires before you leave. You know what is at stake, so do not fail this time.” Mamud rang off and shoved the cell phone into his pocket.

  He hated dealing with incompetents, but there had been no mark more suited for this with regard to location and the opportunity to hire. The leverage over this man was perfect, and there would be no ties leading to himself, not even a money trail. He would transfer the accumulated ransoms from the numbered account Shapur had set up, and the funds would go directly to the buyer.

  His record was clear, his import/export business thriving and his nefarious contacts in his own country secure. All of that would
remain as it was so long as he financed the shipments of arms as he had been ordered to do. If he failed, there would be consequences. He had been warned.

  Use and be used—it was the way of the world—but he used his wits. The plan was his and he was arranging the execution of it, true. But he would never actually touch the money, only collect and communicate the number of the account to the proper person. That person, another like himself who valued his place in the world, was to collect and make the buy. His part would be done. Next Friday for certain.

  This mission would be complete and the arms deal could commence. The secondary objective, Mamud’s own brilliant plan for a desired side effect, had already been met. He imagined now that Americans serving abroad were terrified, especially the women. None of those felt safe to remain. The operation of the enemy’s embassies and consulates surely had been thrown into chaos by that fear. Perhaps that benefit would prove temporary and never be publicized, but any blow to the United States was a tribute to his own country even if he was never lauded for it.

  Mamud decided he would use Shapur once more before he got rid of him. It wouldn’t hurt to make an extra strike to feather his own nest with an extra ransom. Who would know or care?

  Mamud would need the additional funds when his future wife was given leave to come to Paris. She was a sweet young plum with excellent connections that should provide a great return on her dowry. He patted his pocket, which held the photo of the carefully guarded morsel that would become the mother of his children.

  There was another photo there—of the woman who had escaped Shapur’s net. Thus far there had been no headlines, as there had been with the others.

  The silence surrounding the abduction worried him.

  He tried to dismiss his troubling thoughts. When he met with Shapur and received the number of the account, perhaps he should dispose of him immediately and forego any further activity. After all, the doctor was the only one who could link Mamud to this.

  Mamud put the pictures of the women away and sat back in his executive chair to consider all the aspects of his plan and make a final decision.