When the sky outside the open balcony doors had darkened to a star-studded black velvet, Paige went into the bathroom to bathe and dress for the casino.
It was almost ten o'clock. No one in Cannes began the evening's pleasures until midnight, David had explained. The city's inhabitants played until the early hours, slept late, then took lunch at one of the elegant seaside hotel restaurants or strolled the Croisette or drifted on the azure sea in one of the fabulous yachts until it was time for a leisurely drink and dinner. Then the cycle began again.
Paige was a morning person. Her energy levels were highest then, her attention was sharpest, her senses were most alive, early in the day. The times she and David had made love in the early dawn, still warm and flushed from sleep, were among her most precious memories.
Yet, as she soaked in a sinfully rich bubble bath and slathered a creamy lotion on her skin, it seemed as though she were slowly coming alive in a way she'd never experienced before. Maybe it was the unaccustomed luxury of the enormous bath. Or the heady mixture of nervousness and excitement that tripped through her veins. Or the knowledge that David was going to see a different Paige tonight. A very different Paige.
After her bath, she brushed her hair back from her face in soft wings and let its shining length fall loosely down her back. She applied the expensive makeup Maggie had left with a heavier hand than usual, then reached for the small crystal bottle on the dressing table.
Just in time, she remembered Maggie's warning. A woman in Meredith's profession didn't use perfume on the job. Her clients didn't want to go home with a woman's scent clinging to their clothes or their skin.
Paige's fingers trembled as she tied the black velvet ribbon around her neck and felt the cool sting of the diamond-studded heart against her skin. When she finished dressing, she clutched her small evening bag to her chest and surveyed herself once more in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors.
This exotic creature in fuchsia and black looked as different from the shy, demure technical librarian who'd left L.A.—was it only a few days ago?—as it was possible to look.
With all her heart, Paige wished David was waiting for her in the sitting room. She wanted to sweep in, to show him this sophisticated side of herself that he'd never seen before. She wanted to take his arm and stroll out to enjoy the sights and sounds and serious pleasures of the Riviera.
She wouldn't be with David tonight, however. She'd be unescorted... until Meredith Ames's nameless, faceless contact finally met with her. Or a prospective client arranged for her services.
Gulping, Paige swept out of the bedroom in a rustle of taffeta skirts.
As the cab pulled away from the Carlton, she stifled the urge to twist around and check the rear window. Her mind told her Maggie wouldn't lose sight of her taxi. Her heart told her David wouldn't lose sight of her. Still, she had to swallow a lump in her throat when the cab turned onto the Croisette and left the stately hotel behind.
After a leisurely drive along the well-lit boulevard, the taxi swept up a curving drive to a gleaming vanilla villa on a high promontory overlooking the sea. A uniformed valet helped Paige out and escorted her inside, where a man who might have doubled for a Russian grand duke bowed over her hand.
"Good evening, mademoiselle," he murmured in flawless English, having clearly identified her age, her marital status, and her nationality in a single glance.
"Good... good evening."
"Welcome to the Grand. May I have your passport, please?" "Oh. Yes. Of course."
Fumbling in the evening bag, Paige dug out Meredith's hastily doctored passport. She checked to make sure the large-denomination bill Maggie had tucked inside it was still in place. It would signal her profession to this sophisticated head croupier more clearly than a printed announcement. Her fingers trembled as she handed the small leather-bound passport over.
With an unruffled savoir faire, the duke pocketed the bill and placed Meredith's passport in an old-fashioned walk-in safe, then gestured her inside with a charming old-world bow.
"Good luck this evening, mademoiselle."
"I beg your pardon?"
"At the tables."
"Oh. Thank you."
That was it! Her first... business contact as Meredith Ames. A little dazed by the smoothness of it all, Paige stood at the top of a wide, curving marble staircase and tried to still her fluttery pulse.
Maggie had explained in detail how these matters were arranged among the elite. A note passed to a maitre’d, or in this case the head croupier. A murmur here, a whisper there. A glass of champagne, if she wished it. Perhaps a chip or two tossed onto one of the felt-covered tables. Then either the client himself or perhaps the croupier would approach her. To request her companionship. To arrange a meeting later. Only if mademoiselle wished it, of course.
It was all so civilized. So polite. So seemingly safe.
At this moment, the uglier aspects of Meredith's profession seemed to belong to another world. The somewhat shocking description of the various services a woman in her business might be requested to provide took on a hazy, surreal distance.
Paige stared at the sea of hushed elegance below her, trying to absorb the impact of its opulence. The sounds that drifted up the stairs were far different from those that had assaulted her ears in the Las Vegas casino David had taken her to one weekend. There was no raucous clatter of coins hitting the trays of slot machines. No exultant shouts and delighted exclamations. No loud music blaring from a lounge band to distract the gamblers.
Here, music from a string quartet floated above the low murmurs of laughter and muted conversation. Fine crystal champagne flutes tipped against each other with melodious clinks. The only discordant note was the subdued rattle of little wooden balls in the roulette wheels, and even that was muted by the plush carpeting and the acres of thick felt on the tables.
Paige swallowed, wondering if Meredith's contact was among the guttering crowd that swirled through the high-ceiling room. Gripping her small black evening bag with both hands, she started down the stairs.
Two hours later, she ached in every bone. She'd never realized how much effort it took to appear relaxed when every muscle and tendon in her body was tight with tension. Her mouth hurt from keeping it curved into a small, provocative smile, and her eyes felt dry and strained from trying to search the crowd without appearing to. She wasn't sure whether she'd spent more time looking for David or for her prospective contact.
She hadn't seen either one.
She'd been approached several times, however.
Once by a rather florid-looking man in a tux and a stand-up collar that appeared to be choking him. Her heart had nearly jumped out of her chest when he stared at her from across a felt-covered table, but she'd managed what she hoped was a seductive smile. To her secret, infinite relief, he'd been detoured at the last moment by a chesty woman with short-cropped iron gray hair and a steely glint in her eyes. The man had sent Paige a regretful glance over one shoulder as he was led away.
Another potential client had materialized at her elbow not long after that. Bowing over her hand, he'd presented her with a fresh flute of champagne. After a few moments of murmured conversation—smooth on his side, somewhat stilted on hers—he'd brushed a knuckle down the curve of her cheek and asked if she included a certain rare skill in her repertoire. Paige had stared at him blankly. Smiling, he'd elaborated. When she finally understood exactly what skill he referred to, she could barely contain her shock.
Speechless, she'd shaken her head. Maggie had definitely not included that particular vice on Meredith's list of offered services. With a murmured expression of regret, the disgusting pervert had moved away.
At that moment, the glamour had faded from Paige's grand adventure. For the first time, she'd understood the darker side of this mission. And the danger if she didn't do just as David had instructed.
Her fingers had trembled as she slid them to the back of her neck, searching in vain
for the tiny embedded chip. Suddenly her electronic tracking device felt less like a leash and more like a safety line. Only the knowledge that David was here, close by, a part of this glittering, swirling crowd had given her the courage to lift the crystal goblet to her lips and continue the charade.
Although there were no clocks anywhere in the casino, Paige guessed it was now close to 3:00 a.m. She was feeling the effects of one of the longest, most emotional days of her life. She couldn't believe that just this morning she'd pulled off onto a little overlook and gazed down at the Mediterranean for the first time. That just this morning she'd choked back tears as she slipped David's ring over her knuckle.
Since then, she'd lost her purse, her ring, and a little of her timidity. In return, she'd gained a new wardrobe, a new identity, if only for a short while, and an eye-opening insight into—
"Mademoiselle?"
Paige jumped. Delicate pale gold champagne splashed onto her chest. Blotting it with her palm, she stared at the man she'd labeled the grand duke.
"Yes?"
"One of our guests much admires your charm." "He... he does?"
"He does. He comes to us well vouchered, you understand? Very well vouchered."
Paige understood. This unnamed patron represented the elite of the elite.
"Do you wish to meet him?"
So sophisticated, she thought. So polite. Unable to speak, she nodded. "At your hotel? Within the hour?"
She swallowed, trying to find her voice. "Within the hour, mademoiselle?" Her powers of speech had completely deserted her. She could only stare at the duke and nod.
Chapter 7
Paige scarcely drew a full breath during the long drive back to the Carlton. The aching exhaustion that had racked her just moments ago was gone. In its place was a shimmering, shivering excitement.
She'd done it! By God, she'd done it!
Paige Lawrence, full-time technical librarian and sometime mouse, had just successfully passed herself off as Meredith Ames, woman of the world.
The gentleman who'd requested her company might not be Meredith's contact, she reminded herself. If he showed no interest in a certain microdot, he might have to be eased out of Meredith's suite, using the ingenious plan David devised earlier.
But then again, he just might be the individual trying to acquire stolen technology that would allow him to transfer millions and millions of bits of data at twice the current capacity. If he was, David would have identified his target, and Paige would have participated in the adventure of her life.
By God, she'd done it!
As the taxi swept along the broad, brightly lit boulevard, a gathering tension gradually replaced her initial spurt of exultation. She wasn't quite home free, she reminded herself. The adventure wasn't over yet.
When the Carlton's caramel-and-cream facade came into view, she quivered with a combination of nervousness and anticipation. Stiff black skirts rustling, she slid out of the taxi and fumbled in her bag for some francs to pay the driver. While the doorman sorted through her wad of notes and bent down to negotiate a respectable fare, a small, slight figure detached itself from the shrubbery along the curved drive.
"So, mademoiselle, you have recovered from your swim in the sea, no?"
Startled, Paige swung around. "Henri?"
"Yes, it is me."
Sauntering forward, the boy hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his rumpled shorts and looked her up and down. A long, low whistle drifted across the night air. "Of a certainty you have recovered."
"What in the world are you doing here? It's almost four in the morning. You should be in bed."
"Me, I do my business at night," he announced with a cheerful insouciance. His red brows waggled. "As do you and your friend, no? The one with the so lovely legs."
"What? Oh, yes."
"Is this boy bothering you, mademoiselle?"
The deep voice at her shoulder made Paige jump. She turned and hurriedly assured the frowning doorman that, no, the boy wasn't bothering her. Rocking back on his heels, Henri waited while the dubious doorman gave her the change, then moved away to assist another patron into the cab. Even at this late hour, a steady stream of limousines and taxis glided along the wide curved drive in front of the hotel, picking up and discharging passengers. Paige wondered if one of those vehicles held David. Or Maggie. Or her prospective client.
Nervously, she turned to bid the boy good-night, only to have him forestall her with a shrewd assessment.
"You have the customer, no?"
She nodded, her face heating. This youngster's frank knowledge of the world astounded her.
Henri smirked and rocked back on his heels. "It is the big man who takes you in his arms this afternoon, no? Of a certainty, he has the passion for you."
Arrested, Paige stared at him. "Really? You saw that, did you?"
"Mais ouif He will be generous, that one, as much as he desires you. You must make sure you ask a proper fee."
"Fee? Oh. Yes. Yes, I will."
A look of complete disgust crossed his freckled face. "Do not say you failed to establish the price before you make the assignation with him?"
"Well, I..."
"Just how long is it that you do this type of work, mademoiselle?" "Not very long."
Paige couldn't believe she was standing outside one of the world's most elegant hotels, discussing such matters with a grubby-faced boy.
"Look, I have to go inside," she said, a little desperately. "It's late and I, uh, have to get ready."
The boy planted himself before her. "No, no, you must not. Not until we decide your fee."
"We?" she echoed weakly.
"But of course. Unless you have the manager to do this for you?" "Er, no."
The boy frowned. "One can tell you need someone to assist you, mademoiselle. One who knows the value of the service you provide.''
He looked her up and down once more, then suggested a figure that almost made Paige gasp. Just in time, she remembered she was supposed to be among the best of the best.
"Yes, that's about what I had considered. Well, good night."
"Wait. You must pay me fifty francs, mademoiselle. "
"For what?"
"For my consultation."
Sure that David would come along at any moment and ask what the hell she was doing, Paige fumbled in her purse. She dragged out a note and thrust it in the boy's hand.
Clucking, he shook his head. "It is too much. Of a certainty, mademoiselle, you have need of the manager."
He reached into a pocket of his shorts and pulled out a fat roll of bills.
Paige blinked in astonishment. "Do your parents know you carry all that money around with you?"
His lips pursed in concentration, he counted out her change with careful deliberation. That done, he stuffed the roll back in his pocket and gave a nonchalant shrug.
"Me, I have no parents. This money is not mine. I deliver it for certain patrons who wish to place the bets with Antoine." He gave her a cheeky grin. "Antoine, he breaks my legs if the money does not arrive intact, you understand."
Paige stared at the boy incredulously. She wasn't exactly sure, but she thought he'd just admitted that he was a runner for the local bookie. Among other things, it soon appeared.
"So, mademoiselle, shall I be your manager?"
"No! No, thank you, Henri." Flustered, Paige knew she had to end this incredible conversation. "I'm, umm, an independent."
With that, she bade him a quick good-night and hurried inside. Her nerves, already strung taut by the interminable ride back to the hotel, were now stretched to their limits.
As the wrought-iron elevator cage creaked and groaned its way to the fifth floor, Paige forced herself to repeat over and over the list of instructions David had prepared for just this situation. Still muttering under her breath, she unlocked the door to the suite and stepped inside.
First, sweep the suite for any devices that might have been planted
in her absence.
She fumbled with the hairbrush handle for a moment, twisting it this way and that, then waited until a small red dot glowed in its end. With a sob of relief, she tossed the brush on the dressing table. No hostiles, as Maggie had termed them, only the devices she herself had planted.
Second, test friendly system.
"This is Jezebel," she whispered to the bedroom at large. "Can you hear me?"
"We have you covered, Jezebel," a feminine voice assured her.
Startled, Paige glanced up at the cherubs atop a high carved chiffonier. One of the plump little angels on the chest of drawers seemed to have spoken directly to her.
"Is.. .is Doc there?"
"He's on his way up."
"Okay."
"Just stay calm."
If she hadn't been rather shy by nature, and speaking to an angel, Paige might have made a very rude response to that comment.
Third...
Oh, Lord, what was the third item on David's list? Or had she already done the third? What was the fourth?
Frantic, Paige searched her mind. Oh, yes. She was supposed to leave the lights dimmed, to keep her client from seeing the nervousness in her face.
And leave the door to the suite unlocked.
David had stated calmly that he could take the door down without much difficulty, but he didn't want even that much of a barrier if Paige needed him. Her skirts swishing, she hurried into the sitting room and turned off all but one lamp. That done, she took the chain off the door.
When someone rapped softly against the door a few moments later, the knowledge that David was watching and listening and waiting just across the hall was the only thing that kept her knees from crumpling under her.
"Come in," she called out, her heart thumping.
The tall oak panel opened with agonizing slowness.
Throat tight, fists clenched in the folds of her full skirt, Paige stared at the figure silhouetted against the glow of the crystal chandelier in the corridor.
He wore a black tuxedo that shaped his broad shoulders like a mantle of night. The diamond studs in his white dress shirt caught the chandelier's light. He stood unmoving for a long moment, yet Paige sensed immediately the coiled power in his tall, muscled frame.
Undercover Man Page 8
