by Vonnie Davis
After giving into Hae-Won, and the far-reaching, terminal fall-out of that period of weakness, he swore he’d never allow himself to fall under the spell of a woman again. He loved Aly. There was no doubt of that. He’d cherish and take care of her, make her his top priority in life, but he could not, would not succumb. He could not be vulnerable to her.
As for the possibility of a pregnancy, that scared him, too. Not fatherhood. He welcomed that. But when Aly decided to stay with him, he wanted her choice based on her love and need for him, not because she felt trapped by a pregnancy.
He walked to the bathroom door and knocked. She was crying. Damn. “Aly, open up.”
“Go to hell!”
With both hands on the door frame, he rested his forehead against the door. “Mon amour, don’t cry. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, you’re sorry, all right. You’re a sorry excuse for a man. You want me to be vulnerable to you, but you can’t stand it if you’re the one who shows any vulnerability. You…you macho fox, you macho creep! What just happened between us was a first for me. A beautiful experience, and you ruined it with your arcane, chauvinistic attitude.”
The shower started running and ancient water pipes rattled. Any further talking was futile.
****
Damn him. The old Alyson would have apologized for enjoying sex, bowed and kow-towed for her daring. She squeezed a dollop of shampoo into her hand and rubbed it into her hair. Yes, the old Alyson would have, but not the new one. Coming to France changed her. Meeting that oaf of a man changed her, too.
Her time in Paris had been a paradox of fantasy and fear. Every time she turned around, someone was getting killed or she was in danger. In between those horrific events, Niko was romancing her just as every woman dreamed of being romanced. The man oozed sex appeal no matter what he was doing.
She rinsed the shampoo from her hair. Although Niko was brash and arrogant, he also showed warm flashes of tenderness. Time and time again, he saw to her needs and wishes. So why had he acted like that? She poured body wash onto her pouf and scrubbed. Maybe the man couldn’t handle a strong woman. That’s what she was now—and, yes, that fact surprised her. She was a strong woman. A desirable woman. A woman who wasn’t afraid to show her sexuality. Hell, she wasn’t afraid of anything anymore. She faced death and fought four terrorists single-handedly—and won, thank you very much. No doubt she could handle a little animosity from Mr. French Arrogance. Turning the water off, she reached for a towel.
Fifteen minutes later, a dressed and made-up Alyson opened the door. She planned to tour the main street of Villerville and do some shopping, with or without her companion.
First, though, she’d let him have a look at her. Simone bought some lovely clothes in figure-revealing styles Alyson would never have chosen for herself. She wore snug white stretch capris and a tight low-cut turquoise sweater. Since French women never wore capris without heels, Simone chose a turquoise pair of mules. Alyson slipped on two turquoise bangles and matching hoop earrings she found in a plastic bag between the folds of the sweater. Simone thought of everything, including a white lace thong.
Niko was sitting on a chair out on the balcony, drinking coffee. Evidently, he heard her stilettos clicking on the hardwood floor because he started talking. “Are you dressed, cherie? I thought we might…” He turned, his jaw dropped and he stood. “My God. You look sensational!”
“Does that surprise you? Look, I’m going shopping. I’ll see you later.” She turned away.
A hand snaked out and grabbed her. “You’re not going anywhere without me. Especially, dressed like that.”
“What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed. I look very French, don’t you think? As you once told me, ‘when one wears capris, they are worn with heels.’” She turned to give him the full effect. “I think I’m quite presentable, and for your information, my opinion is the only one that counts from now on.”
Those words had no sooner rolled off her sex-pink-glossed lips than Niko had her pinned against the wall. His jaw clenched and his eyes flashed anger. “Don’t push me, Aly.”
His masculine scent mingled with a tinge of their sex flooded her nostrils. He grabbed her upper arms, lifted her off the floor and hauled her to him. When his lips captured hers, she knew he sought to dominate her once more. His kiss was brutal, and she mentally fought its effects. He broke the kiss and ran his lips down her neck as he lowered her down the length of him. She gasped when she felt his erection, and he chuckled. Damn him. Two can play this game.
She grabbed Niko’s upper arms and, using the strength of her hips to pivot, swung him back against the wall, spreading his legs with her knee. A move she did so quickly, he had no chance to react. She placed her hands on either side of his face, brought his head down to hers and bit his lower lip. Then she plundered his mouth, rubbing herself intimately against his hardened and quivering body. When she heard him groan, she released him and walked away.
Alyson opened the door and glanced back over her shoulder. She fought a grin. Poor schmuck looked like he’d been poleaxed. She cocked an eyebrow just like she saw him do several times. “Well, are you coming or not?” She turned and stepped out of the apartment.
Niko walked her up the street, his arm viced around her waist as if afraid she’d leave him. Alyson allowed it.
In a local artisan’s shop, she found an intriguing piece of pottery. The tall vase shaped like an opening calla lily was decorated with three shades of green glazes. She asked the shopkeeper if he could box it so the piece would survive the flight home. She was going home. She couldn’t stay in Paris forever.
When the shopkeeper assured her he could pack it quite safely, she reached into her purse for her credit card. Niko’s hand covered hers. “Use cash, cherie. Or allow me to pay.”
“Why?”
Niko leaned and whispered in her ear. “Your credit card usage can be traced. You’re dead, remember? We can’t do anything to undo the charade I’ve created. If you don’t have enough cash, I’ll pay. I took plenty out of the bank before we left.”
Her gaze swept to the shopkeeper wrapping the large vase in protective materials. Was he listening? If he was, did he think they were criminals?
The man handed her the box containing the vase. She passed him a handful of euros, afraid to look the shopkeeper in the eye.
She turned to Niko when they stepped back onto the narrow sidewalk. “I think it’s time we talked this through. I need to know everything. You’ve kept me in the dark on many things, and I don’t like it. This is my life, after all. Not yours.”
Niko ran his fingertips down her cheek. “Very well. Do you want to discuss it over a cup of espresso? You should rest a little, too.”
They found a small café across the narrow cobblestone street. The interior was decorated in the traditional beach motif—fishing nets, large plastic fish and seashells. They sat in a wooden booth in the corner. Niko ordered espressos and French onion soup for them both.
After the waitress served them, Alyson stirred sugar into her espresso. “So much has happened since we last had French onion soup. For one, I was still legally alive then.”
Niko nodded. “We’ve lived a lifetime since that day.” He laid his hand over hers. “Look, I’m sorry for my behavior earlier, after our loving. You were fantastic. I was an ass.”
“We’ll talk about that later. Right now I want to know about my untimely demise. Who knows I’m still alive?”
He took a sip of espresso, regarding her over the rim of the tiny white cup. “Gwen and your father. I’ve sworn them to secrecy in case The Red Hand members check your family and home in America. Your obituary was published in newspapers there.”
She was about to pierce the melted cheese with her spoon, stopped and placed the utensil back onto the table. “What? My obituary? Look, you had no right. No right to do something like that!” She leaned toward him. “Niko, what will my employer think? I’ve worked at that school for years.” It all sounded so final. How would pe
ople back home react when they saw her again after reading of her death? Like they were seeing a ghost, no doubt. Would she still have a job?
“I know this is hard for you, but for your safety, Alyson Moore no longer exists.”
Her chest tightened and she fought to take in air. The enormity and finality of things struck her like a twenty-ton steel bar. Was he saying she couldn’t go home—ever? What would this do to her family? “But…but my family. I have family, Niko, and they’re as important to me as yours is to you.”
He blanched as if she’d struck him. “I’m sorry.” His voice was low, almost pain-filled. “I’m sorry, cherie, but there is no other way.”
She swallowed. She was dead. She couldn’t go home. “Rhiannon.” Suddenly her vision field blurred with a veil of tears. “Rhiannon is like my child.” Someone ripped open her heart and poured in a liberal dose of sorrow. Not only didn’t she have a baby of her own, but this delightful five-year-old, who brightened her world, was snatched from her. A keening, mournful sound escaped. “My niece. Are…are you saying I can never see my niece again?”
Niko pulled several napkins from the napkin holder and gave them to her. She blew her nose and wiped her eyes before another wave of grief washed over her, drowning her joy of life. “Is my life worth living after losing so much? Do you know how important Rhiannon is to me? How much I love her?”
She lowered her head into her hands and sobbed. Her Rhiannon, her surrogate child, was gone. When Gwen’s husband was killed in Iraq, Rhiannon was a toddler. Alyson, already a doting aunt, stepped into the role of second parent, helping to provide for the child and keeping her overnight so Gwen could have a break.
Weekends were often devoted to her niece. They took little trips to visit zoos or art galleries or museums. Rhiannon was such a bright, inquisitive child. A child she might never see again. Her sobbing intensified.
“Don’t do this, cherie, I can’t bear it.”
Her head shot up. “You…you can’t bear it? What have you lost in all of this? Nothing. While I’ve lost everything. Everything, Niko.” She dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose again. “Who else knows about this horrible charade?”
“My maman, my sisters, Simone and Renee, Marie-Clare and Jean-Luc. Eddie and Derrek came to your cremation to pay their respects, but they don’t know.”
Her little cup stilled halfway to her lips. Her mouth went dry from the crying. “My cremation?”
Niko nodded and picked up his soup spoon. “Jean-Luc checked at the morgue and found a dead homeless woman with no identification. The city cremates such people. We cremated her under your name.”
Her cup clattered in its saucer. “Dear Lord! How many lies have you told?”
“Plenty, and I’d tell more to keep you safe. I’ll do anything to keep you alive.” He squeezed her hand. “Anything, mon amour.” His dark eyes were earnest.
“How did Eddie and Derrek know?”
“Eddie read about your attack and subsequent death in the paper. He told Derrek.”
“So they mourned a stranger.” Her stomach clenched. She was going to be sick. “A nameless, homeless woman was cremated under my name.” She hoped the absurdity of it would sink in. She turned her eyes on Niko. “I am a dead woman.”
He nodded. “A living dead woman. Your new name is Cally Aukland. By the time we return to Paris, Jean-Luc will have secured papers for you.
“Cally.” Close enough to the shortened name he typically used for her so if he let it slip, no one would probably notice. How convenient for him. While she…she was expected to make all the changes. She watched him fiddle with his soup spoon. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
“You’ll be the late Pierre Aukland’s niece, which will explain why you take over Marie-Clare’s property on Boulevard Saint Michele. The address on your French papers will be her address. I’m buying her apartment and shop so you can live and work there.”
“Live there.”
He blew out a long breath. “With me. You’ll be living there with me.”
Anguish gripped her. Would she ever see her family again? Would she ever be herself—Alyson Grace Moore? Could she ever return to her predictable life of routines and the comfort of her things about her? This man was determined to keep her in Paris with him, as if her former way of life held no meaning. As if her world—her family, her job, her circle of friends—could be so easily abandoned and forgotten.
She stood, grabbed her shoulder bag and boxed vase. “Go to hell. You have no right to design a new life for me. No right to make these decisions. I want my life back, you hear me? You had no right to steal it.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Niko watched her storm out of the bistro. He hadn’t handled that well, either. First, his reaction to losing himself to her during sex. Now this. Damn if he wasn’t batting zero. He left enough euros to pay their bill and headed for the door. Aly’s fine behind swayed as she marched up the street toward the apartment. By the straightness of her back, she was mad as hell. Guess he couldn’t blame her. One’s identity and name was important. So was one’s family, and truthfully, he hadn’t given any thought to hers. He’d been too focused on her safety.
He jogged to catch up to her, plucking the box from her arms. “I’ll put this in the trunk of the car.”
“One question. How far away is the closest airport? I’m going home.”
“You have no passport.”
She stopped and swung toward him. “Wait just one freakin’ minute, Jean-Luc can get me fake French I.D. papers and a fake birth certificate, but he can’t get me a passport?” She grabbed the front of his brown shirt. “Get me a French passport, you bossy, dictatorial Frenchman. You hear? Now! Or…or…” Tears pooled in her eyes again. She trembled with rage. Her eyes darted and she took a ragged breath, obviously trying to regain control for she teetered on the edge. “I don’t even know who I am anymore. I came to Paris as Alyson. You turned me into Aly. Now you tell me I’m Cally. Why is it so impossible for me to have my life back?”
“I promise to make your new life a happy one.”
“Are you that arrogant or just plain stupid? Would you allow another to tell you how to lead your life? Who you were? How you should live? To insist you couldn’t see your family again?”
Niko took her arm and led her to their car. “We’ll talk while we walk on the beach. We’ll make plans, mon amour.” Maybe he should have included her in making the plans all along, but he wanted, needed to shield her identity.
She jerked her arm from his grasp. “Look, I don’t need your help to make plans. I can make my own, thank you very much.” As they walked up the street, she mumbled under her breath. “I should have kept my fanny in North Carolina, where I belong, but noooooo I had to come to Paris. Had to have a bit of an adventure. Just had to get up early so I could be at the Louvre when it opened. Just had to pull my sketchpad out of my bag to draw her. Just had to look into the eyes of death.”
“Calm down.”
“Calm down, hell! I’ve lost everything. My identity, my name, my family, my job…my little girl.” Another sob escaped.
Dear God, how it hurts to see her like this. “I’ll make it up to you.” He never meant anything more in his life. If she gave him the chance, he would expend every ounce of energy to make her happy, to make her life complete again.
“How, Niko? How are you going to make it up to me?”
“Once we get you a passport, I’ll take you to see your family. Not to Asheville. We’ll meet them elsewhere for the first few times. Then, as time passes, we can go there. You’ll see Rhiannon again. We can take her to special places for little vacations. We’ll be a part of her life, I promise.”
She eyed him warily. “I can see my family again?”
“I’ll make it happen. I promise.”
“You talk like you expect to be a part of my life for a long time.”
Tread softly. “I’m hoping you’ll marry me. Eventually.”
They rea
ched the Citroen, and he unlocked the trunk. She glared at him. “You really are a piece of work, you arrogant Frenchman. How much of all this secrecy is necessary and how much is your manipulating me to get your way?”
“I love you.”
She gave an unladylike snort in response.
He deposited her vase and purse in the trunk. Then he led her toward the beach. “Take off your shoes.” He removed his loafers. Together they stepped onto the sand.
“I know this is a lot to take in.”
She glared at him. Oh, yeah, she’s pissed.
“When I rode with you in the ambulance to the hospital, I knew the only way to throw The Red Hand off your trail was to register you at the hospital as another person, Alice Newman. Doing that gave you a measure of safety. Not enough. So I wrote up a report listing you as deceased and filed it with the police department, as well as my anti-terrorism unit. Jean-Luc found an unknown female at the morgue and used his influence there.” He laid his arm across her shoulder, and she jerked away.
They continued walking, cold waves lapping at their ankles and seagulls crying overhead. “As I told you, we had the woman cremated under your name. This thickened the layer of safety around you. Tell me, was I wrong to do this?” He grabbed her arm and turned her toward him. “Good Lord, mon amour, there was a handprint of your blood on the building’s façade where I found you. Do you have any idea what seeing that did to me? These people aren’t playing games. You have to accept that.”
Her hand trembled as it covered her mouth. “I didn’t know.”
“When you love someone the way I love you and you see their blood running down a wall, believe me, you’ll do anything—anything—to keep that loved one safe. Even if it means bending laws to achieve that purpose.” He glanced out toward the English Channel. “I never thought I’d feel that way. My job always came first. Always. Until I looked into your soft blue eyes. Until you, mon amour, nothing mattered but the job. Now, nothing matters, but you.”
“So I can never be Alyson Moore again?” She stepped closer and regarded him.
