Undercover Man

by Merline Lovelace

  They chose a small seaside restaurant run by one of the huge hotels on the other side of the Croisette. The tiny open-air cafe was dotted with gaily striped umbrellas and tubs of pink geraniums and white primroses. The aroma of hot bread and mouth-watering sauces made Paige suddenly aware of the fact that she hadn't eaten any­thing since her breakfast with Henri.

  Was that only this morning? She sank into the chair the waiter held out for hers feeling as though she'd aged sev­eral years since then.

  After ordering crabmeat salad and a carafe of wine, David stretched out his legs and folded his hands across his stomach.

  He looked so at ease, she thought with a touch of mingled wonder and resentment. She was still tied up in knots from her encounter with Victor Swanset, and Da­vid appeared so relaxed. And so darned handsome.

  She hadn't missed the looks he'd attracted as they strolled the Croisette. No wonder. That red shirt deep­ened the hue of his skin to a polished oak and brought out the mahogany tints in his thick brown hair. What it did to his powerful, well-sculpted body made her squirm in her seat.

  Strange. Paige had never thought of herself as the kind of woman who could regard a man as a sex object. In fact, she hated the TV ad that showed a bunch of women gathering at an upper-story window every morning at a specified hour to watch some hunk in a hard hat peel off his shirt. She'd always considered the ad sexist and de­meaning to both men and women.

  Since last night, however, she'd come to the conclu­sion that she might just be more susceptible to a man's body—to this particular man's body, anyway—than she'd ever realized. And he, in his infinite, irritating wis­dom, had decided this wasn't the time to indulge in some serious body wrapping.

  Wrenching her gaze, if not her thoughts from David, Paige stared out at the shimmering azure bay. The daz­zling, dancing pinpoints of light reflecting from its sur­face hurt her eyes. She wished she had the deliciously gaudy star-shaped sunglasses Maggie had given her, but they were at the bottom of the bay, with her purse. And her engagement ring.

  "Don't you think you should call Chameleon?" she asked, turning back to face David.

  "No. Not yet. She's probably still nosing around the Allees. With any luck, we'll run into her there."

  "You don't seem nearly as concerned about keeping tabs on her whereabouts as you do mine."

  "Maggie's a pro," he replied with a small shrug. "And I'm not engaged to her."

  "You're not engaged to me, either, remember?"

  "Are you ready to talk about that?"

  Paige rubbed her thumb across the base of her bare ring finger, feeling strangely naked without the familiar white-gold band.

  "I'm sorry I lost the emerald, David."

  "I'm sorry you felt the need to take it off."

  She gnawed on her lower lip, remembering the wrenching unhappiness and insecurity that had caused her to slip the ring over her knuckle.

  "I sensed that you were holding something back from me," she told him slowly.

  "Now you know I was."

  Paige forced herself to articulate the feelings she'd been too shy, too timid, to discuss with him before. "I'm not talking about this secret life you lead, although I'll ad­mit that was a bit of a shock.''

  "Then what?"

  "You were always so much in control, even when we made love. You never seemed to lose yourself. All of yourself." Heat crept up her cheeks, but she met his eyes. "Until last night."

  "Did I hurt you?" he asked, frowning.

  "No!" She shook her head, her face fiery now. "I liked it. A lot. I liked thinking that I was woman enough to push you past the limits you set on yourself. On us. I like what I do to you when I'm wearing satin and se­quins."

  "Dammit, Paige—what you wear doesn't have any­thing to do with what I feel for you." She cocked a brow.

  "Okay, so maybe seeing you in Meredith's working uniform has given me a slightly different perspective."

  "Ha!" She placed one elbow on the table and leaned forward. The golden halter drooped enticingly.

  "A very different perspective," he conceded, with a small grin. "But doesn't that disprove your doubts about us? Evidently I still have as much to discover about you as you think you do about me."

  "What if—what if we never really find the real us, David?"

  "I'm not sure anyone can ever know all there is to know about another person. We're too complex, too changeable. But isn't that what marriage is all about? Long years of learning what works, what doesn't. What pleases you, or irritates me. What makes you sneeze or makes me lose control. Think about it, Paige. Think of all those days and nights of exploration."

  She was still thinking about those days and nights— particularly the nights—when they strolled through the Allees de la Liberte, a series of delightful avenues shaded by wide, leafy plane trees.

  The Allees teemed with color and humanity. During balmy afternoons such as this, the natives gathered to sip kir, a white wine spiced with black currant liqueur, at open-air caf6s or stroll the flower-filled markets and squares.

  Her arm looped through David's, Paige paused to watch a lively game of boules. The players tossed the heavy, palm-sized balls into a sandy gravel pit some dis­tance away, gesticulating and arguing so vociferously af­ter each throw that she couldn't tell if the object of the game was for the balls to touch or not touch each other when they landed. David was trying to explain the rules when she caught a flash of carroty red hair out of the corner of one eye.

  Paige glanced across the small square, then gripped David's arm. "Look! Isn't that Henri?"

  "So it is."

  As they watched, the boy hurried toward a circular booth plastered with colorful posters advertising every­thing from toothpaste to what was hilled as the most ex­travagant transvestite nightclub act in Cannes.

  "That must be the kiosk he uses as his headquarters," Paige murmured.

  When David didn't reply, she glanced up at him. With a small shock, she saw that her relaxed companion of a moment ago had vanished. In his place was another man, not quite a stranger anymore but not one she felt en­tirely comfortable with.

  Eyes narrowed, David watched the boy dig through his pockets, then begin shoving coins into the phone with a frantic disregard for their denominations. Even from across the square, they could see the controlled despera­tion on his young face.

  "Come on."

  Paige didn't need David's terse order. She was already heading across the tree-shaded plaza, the gravel crunch­ing under her sandals with each quick step.

  When the boy caught sight of them, a look of relief flashed across his freckled face. He slammed the re­ceiver down and rushed to meet them.

  "Monsieur! I try to call you!"

  "Why?"

  "Mademoiselle's friend, the one with the so-lovely legs. She offers me fifty francs to take her to Antoine's shop. I tried to dissuade her, but she insists."

  "Why did you try to dissuade her?"

  Doc kept his voice even, allowing no hint of his sus­picions to color it. His muscles tightened as he noted the worry that sharpened the boy's thin face. If Henri was acting, Doc thought grimly, he was doing a damn fine job of it.

  "Antoine, he is a pig. He has the weakness for beau­tiful women, but they do not always return his regard." The boy hesitated. "Not without some persuasion, you understand?"

  Doc's jaw hardened. "I understand."

  "I cannot go inside the shop, since Antoine and I have severed our business relationship, but I point it out to mademoiselle. She goes in some time ago, and does not come out."

  David ignored Paige's small gasp. "Where is this shop?"

  "Two streets over. I will show you."

  In the space of a single heartbeat, Doc ran through a short mental list.

  A—this could be a setup, an attempt to separate him from Paige so that Henri could retrieve the microdot.

  B—Maggie could be engaging this Antoine in idle chitchat while she scouted out the place.

  O
r C—she could be in serious trouble, even though she hadn't signaled an emergency or requested backup.

  Given the very real possibility of A or C, Doc wasn't about to let Paige out of his sight, and he sure as hell wasn't going to waste any more time.

  "Let's go."

  Without another word, Henri turned and darted off.

  Doc took Paige's arm with one hand and slipped the other into his pocket to activate the transmitter in the gold cigarette case, preset to Maggie's code. If she re­sponded to his signal before they got to Antoine's shop, good. If she didn't, Doc would take it from there.

  Henri led them down a narrow lane and across an in­tersection clogged with afternoon shoppers. He turned right at the next cross street, then skidded to a halt half­way down a block lined with shops and pizzerias. Keep­ing to the shadows, he pointed across the pavement to a narrow facade near the corner.

  "It is there, that tabac."

  Enough afternoon sunlight filtered through the tall windows to illuminate the tabacco-and-sweet shop's in­terior. Even from this distance, they could see that it was deserted. A sign banging crookedly on the front door announced that it was closed until four o'clock.

  His jaw tight, Doc surveyed the shop. "Is there a back entrance?"

  "Oui. Through the storeroom. But Antoine, he's very cautious. He keeps the door locked at all times." "Show me."

  By the time Henri had led them down a narrow alley studded with malodorous garbage cans and grocer's boxes overflowing with wilted vegetation, Doc knew he was going in.

  He'd spent enough years in the field to recognize when something had gone wrong with an operation, and this situation had all the hallmarks of a major disaster. Mag­gie would've responded to his signal by now—if she could. Doc still suspected Henri's motives, but he didn't believe the boy was lying or trying to lead them into a trap. Not with that scared expression on his face.

  Adding to Doc's worry over Maggie was a gut-wrenching need to shield Paige from what he feared he might find inside the tobacco shop. Every protective in­stinct in him was on red alert, but he didn't dare take the time to send her to safety.

  Edging around an overturned wooden crate spilling soggy, rotting tomatoes onto the cobbles, he glanced down at the woman beside him. She picked her way carefully through the muck in her open-toed sandals, her nose wrinkled and her face pale. Under her evident dis­gust and natural nervousness, however, was a strength of purpose every bit as strong as his own. Seeing the deter­mined set to her chin, Doc suspected she wouldn't leave the alley even if he dared send her back out onto the street alone.

  With a sheer effort of will, he forced himself to accept the fact that Paige, his sweet, delicate Paige, was beside him in this foul-smelling alley. He couldn't shield her from this side of his life any longer. Besides which, she didn't want to be shielded.

  Nevertheless, he halted her a safe distance away from the back entrance to the tobacco shop.

  "You and Henri stay here," he instructed in a low, clipped tone.

  "But, monsieur!" Henri hissed. "You have need of me! To pick the lock."

  Somehow Doc wasn't surprised that the boy included breaking and entering among his many talents.

  "I need you to stay right here, with Mademoiselle Paige."

  The boy frowned, then nodded a reluctant agreement. "Oui, someone must protect her."

  "Take him with you, David," Paige whispered. "I'll be all right. I've... I've got my weapon with me."

  "What weapon?"

  She fumbled in her purse for a moment, then held up the mascara tube.

  "Paige!" Doc shoved her hand to one side. "Watch where you aim that thing."

  "I will stay with her," Henri said, shaking his head. "You need not worry. Me, I have the knife."

  He unfolded one grubby fist to display an innocuous-looking pocketknife. Curling his fingers around the handle, he pressed some hidden mechanism. With a deadly click, a thin stiletto blade slid out of the handle.

  Doc didn't need to ask if Henri knew how to use the switchblade.

  "Both of you, get back in the shadows and stay there."

  Paige pressed backward and tried not to shudder as her bare skin made contact with a dank stone wall. God only knew what was growing between the cracks in the stone. Henri scooted back, as well, gouging one of his bony shoulders into her ribs.

  "If I'm not out in two minutes, or if you hear shots, get the hell out of here, understand?" If he wasn't back?

  Terror clawed at Paige's chest. Any lingering vestige of excitement or adventure was stripped away at that mo­ment. Her fingers dug into Henri's shoulders.

  "I won't leave you here!" she whispered frantically.

  "You will if you want to summon help for Maggie and me. Get in the clear, and as soon as it's safe, send the emergency signal 311. Got that?"

  "David..."

  "Three-one-one. Say it, Paige."

  "Three-one-one. What does it mean?"

  "Agent down, request immediate extraction."

  "Oh, my God."

  "Say it again."

  "Three-one-one. David..."

  "I love you. Say it again."

  "Three-one-one, dammit. I love you, too."

  Incredibly, he grinned. A crooked, slashing grin that showed his white teeth and his heart-stopping hand­someness.

  "We'll finish this discussion later."

  "Right. Later."

  He leaned over Henri to give her a swift, hard kiss. "Three-one-one, Paige."

  "I have it! Just... just be careful."

  Her heart hammering with a painful, erratic beat, Paige watched David move down the alley. He stopped a few feet away from the green-painted door.

  He seemed to draw in a deep breath, then threw his shoulders against the wood panel. It crashed open on the first thrust and bounced inward against the wall.

  Through the opening, Paige caught a glimpse of a short, heavily muscled man frozen in place beside a fig­ure slumped over a table. Aghast, she saw a cascade of white gold hair spilling across the table.

  "Antoine." Henri spit out the name, just as David launched himself at the man with a snarl of animal fury.

  In the shattering moments that followed, Paige dis­covered yet another David, one she'd never suspected lay beneath his surface. Gone was all trace of the brilliant engineer. Nothing showed of the skilled, considerate lover. What she saw was a powerful, enraged attacker who mowed down his victim with all the finesse of a Mack truck.

  This battle wasn't like those in the Karate Kid and Steven Segal movies Paige had seen, in which the good guys moved with a sort of balletic grace, their arms and legs swinging in slow-motion arcs.

  There wasn't anything balletic about the fist David slammed into the man's face. Nothing graceful about the blow he delivered to the bookie's stomach. They were brutal powerhouse punches, thrown with every ounce of strength David possessed.

  Blood spurted from Antoine's nose with the first hit. He grunted and doubled over at the second, only to con­nect with David's upthrust knee. Paige heard a sicken­ing crunch, then a gurgle as he collapsed in an untidy heap.

  Forgetting David's admonition to stay put, she and Henri ran forward. They rushed through the door just as David gently raised Maggie's face from where it lay amid a litter of cloudy glasses and bottles on the rickety table.

  "Oh, my God..." Paige whispered, stumbling to a halt.

  David went on one knee beside the slack woman. "Chameleon, look at me. Look at me."

  Her eyes wide and unfocused, Maggie stared at him blankly at for a moment, and then her head lolled back limply, like a rag doll's.

  "Son of a bitch." David slid an arm around her waist and dragged her up out of the chair.

  "The pig!" Henri turned and spit on the comatose Antoine. "He has given her the drug."

  "What kind?" David snapped at the boy. "What kind of drugs does he use?"

  "That one? Anything and everything."

  "Son of a bitch." With visible effort, David rei
ned himself in. "Chameleon, can you hear me?"

  Maggie made a pathetic attempt to lift her head from his shoulder. Her dilated pupils tried to line up on Da­vid's face, but couldn't seem to focus.

  "Get out your compact," he snapped at Paige.

  Still clutching the mascara tube with one hand, she tugged at the clasp of her small white shoulder bag and dug inside. After a few frantic moments, she found the diamond-studded compact.

  "Open it and press the center stone," David ordered. "Once to transmit, twice to receive. Once, Paige! Once."

  "Nuuu..." Maggie's protest was so weak and indis­tinct, they almost missed it.

  David shifted her weight in his arms to look down into her face. "Chameleon! Can you hear me? Do you know what he gave you?"

  Maggie tried to swallow. It was a slow, agonizing ef­fort, painful to watch.

  "Nuuu..." she mumbled. "Nhat drrr..." Her hoarse whisper trailed off.

  "Press the stone again," David growled at Paige. "Once to transmit, twice to receive."

  She squeezed the diamond as hard as she could and shouted into the compact. "This is Jezebel! Can you hear me?"

  David began to pace the small room, forcing Maggie to walk with him. "Try again," he told Paige.

  "This is Jezebel. Is anyone there?"

  "Mademoiselle!" Henri reminded her. "You must press the stone twice to hear."

  "Oh. Yes." Paige juggled the mascara to her other hand and squeezed the stone twice in rapid succession.

  "This is Cyrene," a woman announced calmly. "Go ahead, Jezebel."

  Her fingers slick with sweat, Paige engaged the dia­mond once. "I'm with Doc and Chameleon. She's been drugged. We need an ambulance."

  Paige stared at the compact, waiting for a response. Any response.

  "Press the stone, mademoiselle!" Henri shouted. "Twice!"

  As soon as she hit the stone twice, she heard Cyrene's steady voice. "I repeat, Jezebel, give me your coordi­nates."