Paige sent David a helpless look. "What are my coordinates?"
"Reach into my left pocket," he instructed Henri. "Pull out the small flat pocket calculator."
The boy's nimble fingers quickly extracted the device that the waiter-surgeon had passed David after inserting Paige's little tracking chip.
"Press the switch in the upper left corner," David told the boy. "Now read the numbers on the screen aloud. Slowly!"
His faced scrunched up in fierce concentration, the boy started to call out the numbers.
At that moment, Maggie's head lolled sideways. Her eyes seemed to focus for an instant on something over David's shoulder.
"Daf-fid!" she groaned in warning, just as a blood-spattered figure lumbered out of the shadows.
His battered face twisted into a snarl, Antoine charged toward David.
Without thinking, without hesitating, Paige dropped the compact, aimed her mascara and fired.
Chapter 12
His face blank with astonishment, Antoine stumbled back against the rear wall. He looked down at the bright red blood blossoming on his thigh, and then at the unidentifiable object in Paige's hand. His legs bowed, and he slithered down the wall until his butt hit the floor with a solid whump.
"You shoot me?" Dazed, he stared at Paige. "With that?"
"Yes, and I'll do it again, you pig."
She kept the tube pointed at his chest, which took some effort, considering how badly her hand was shaking. For the life of her, she couldn't remember whether the weapon carried more than one projectile, but she figured Antoine wouldn't know, either.
With a savagely controlled gentleness, David eased Maggie into one of the chairs.
"I'll take it from here," he told Paige. A feral light glittered in his eyes as he swung toward Antoine.
He crossed the room in two strides. Reaching down, he wrapped his fists in the man's shirt, hauled him upright, and slammed him back against the wall, with no regard for either his battered face or his bleeding thigh. The powerful muscles in David's shoulders bunched as he pinned the heavy set Antoine to the wall, several inches off the floor.
"You've got five seconds to tell me what you gave her."
"I gave her nothing!" "Four."
"Monsieur! I swear!" "Three."
Blood and sweat rolled down the grooves beside the man's mouth and dripped onto his gore-stained shirt. "She comes into the shop! We talk. She smiles. I invite her to the back room to drink!"
"Two."
"I swear, monsieur! I swear. We drink the pastis! Together! Look, there is the bottle." He gestured wildly toward the middle of the room.
Keeping the man pinned to the wall, David slewed his head around. His narrowed eyes took in the cloudy bottle and glasses that still littered the table beside Maggie.
With a curse that made Paige blink in surprise—she had no idea engineers used such graphic terms!—David dragged Antoine over to the table. He kept a stranglehold on the man's shirt with one hand while he lifted the bottle with the other and sniffed at it.
From her position across the table, Paige sniffed, too, but couldn't detect anything over the strong, tobacco aromas that emanated from the boxes stacked haphazardly around the storeroom. She wasn't sure, but she thought pastis was some kind of a liqueur or local drink. She'd seen it on the menu at both the Carlton and the seaside cafe where they'd had lunch.
"It is pastis/" Antoine choked, clawing at David's hand. "Only pastis, I swear. She took but a sip, then her throat closes like... like an overstuffed sausage, and she struggles for the breath."
"Let's see what it does for your throat," David snarled. Twisting the man's collar even tighter, he poured the remainder of the bottle's contents into his open, gasping mouth. He loosened the pressure enough to allow Antoine to gasp and gag and swallow some of the liquid.
For long, tense moments, the only sounds in the small room were Maggie's shallow, rasping breath and Antoine's frightened pants.
"You see?" Antoine sobbed. "Nothing. There is nothing in the bottle, nothing but pastis."
"Daf-fid." Maggie's weak call jerked everyone's attention to her.
"What did this bastard give you?"
"Naaht... drugs. He.. .had.. .same. Ho-tel. Take me.. .ho-tel."
With an utter lack of compunction, David smashed a fist into Antoine's jaw. The burly, heavyset man crumpled to the floor.
Scooping Maggie up in his arms, David strode toward the door.
"Come on." He threw the words at Paige over his shoulder.
She stepped over the unconscious body and hurried after him. "Come on," she called to Henri.
The boy spit on Antoine one final time. "Pig!" he muttered as he followed Paige out the door.
The day and night that followed were the longest Paige had ever spent.
David threw a wad of bills at the driver of the taxi Henri flagged down and told him to move it. During the kamikaze ride along the Croisette, Paige fumbled with the compact and managed to give Control a whispered recap of what had happened. Promising to get a doctor to the hotel immediately, Claire signed off.
Maggie was still dazed and struggling for breath when David laid her on the satin-covered bed.
"Doc," she gasped, and clutched at his arm. "I... The drink..."
"I know," he murmured, brushing the tangled hair back from her temples. "Just hang on, Maggie. The doctor's coming."
As Paige watched David stroke his partner's face, she felt a huge lump forming in her own throat. This was the man she knew. This was the side of his personality he'd always shown her. Tender, gentle, caring. She felt a wash of love for him so strong it overwhelmed her. Sinking down on the other side of the bed, she took Maggie's hand and murmured soft reassurances.
When David smiled at her across Maggie's prone form, Paige's heart melted. The contrast between this David and the one who had tenderized Antoine's face just minutes ago was extraordinary. And almost beyond her comprehension—until she remembered that she, timid little Paige Lawrence, had shot a man. With a mascara wand, it was true, but she'd actually shot someone.
David was right, she thought. No one could ever know every facet of another person's personality. Or even one's own.
She glanced at the man on the opposite side of the bed. His short, usually neat hair now stuck up in uneven patches. His red knit shirt carried a variety of stains. And his hands, those incredible, gentle hands, sported bruised, split knuckles.
She didn't need to know anything more about him, Paige decided in that instant. It was enough that he was David, her David.
* * *
The doctor arrived a few moments later. Not the little waiter-surgeon this time, but a tall, chic woman in a two-piece navy blue Chanel suit and an Hermes scarf. Paige recognized the scarf. She'd seen one similar to it during her brief foray into the boutiques of the Croissette. The price tag had nearly put her into cardiac arrest.
Paige and David, with Henri hovering in the background, stood to one side while the doctor examined Maggie.
"Anaphylactic shock," she announced almost immediately. "It is a severe allergic reaction, similar to what some people experience from bee stings. What has she eaten or drunk?"
"Pastis," David said tersely.
"Ah, yes. It is made from anise, which has carminative and aromatic qualities some people simply cannot tolerate."
At Paige's blank look, the doctor folded her stethoscope and tucked it into her purse.
"Anise, or aniseed, as some call it, is an herb of the carrot family. It's grown locally, and used to make this potent liqueur."
"I... hate... car... rots," Maggie murmured. "Make... me... gag. Al... ways... have."
"Yes, so I would imagine. It's best if you don't talk for awhile."
The doctor extracted a hypodermic syringe and a small vial from her purse.
"It will take at least twenty-four hours for the paralysis of the throat to lessen to where it is not painful, but this will help r
elax the muscles so you can breathe more easily."
Paige shut her eyes as the doctor swabbed Maggie's arm and slid the needle in.
"Someone must stay with her at all times," the woman instructed a few moments later. She drew a package of pills out of that seemingly bottomless pit of a purse.
"She may have water, only a sip at a time, and soft food when she can eat it. And one of these caplets every three hours."
David nodded. "We've got it covered."
"Ova, madame," Henri concurred, reaching gallantly for her bag. "We shall manage. May I escort you out?"
David gave him a warning frown. "I'm sure madame can manage her purse."
Henri's small face assumed a wounded look. "Monsieur! You don't think I would steal from her?"
"I don't?"
Paige intervened hastily. "Why don't you come with me while I show the doctor out, Henri? You can check the room-service menu and decide what to order for Maggie. And for yourself, of course," she added quickly as his eyes lit up.
Just after midnight, Paige walked through the tall double doors of the bedroom into the sitting room. She was limp with weariness, but relieved that Maggie seemed to be getting back her color, if not her voice.
Inside the sitting room, she leaned tiredly against the wall and crossed her arms over the little beaded vest she'd changed back into earlier. It wasn't the most appropriate sickroom attire, perhaps, but it was comfortable and allowed her ease of movement while tending to Maggie. When he saw it, David had muttered something under his breath about plaids and jumpers, but Paige had been too busy to pay much attention.
Between them, they had worked out an hourly schedule to take care of their patient. During her shifts, Paige helped Maggie into the bathroom and fed her soup or the smooth, exotically flavored ice creams Cannes was famous for.
During his shifts, David administered ice water and the medicines and sat in an armchair pulled up to the little dressing table while she slept. He'd occupied the quiet hours making lists, Paige supposed.
Throughout all shifts, Henri had offered encouragement and advice. Enthusiastically pursuing his duties as procurer of sustenance for the patient, he'd established a personal hot line to the kitchens, sampled everything that came up and gradually stuffed himself into a stupor.
He was now curled up on the sofa, one fist tucked under his cheek and a litter of empty plates on the floor beside him. Paige smiled at the sight and wandered over to tug a light blanket up over his bony shoulders. He'd certainly gotten enough to eat tonight. A steady stream of waiters had knocked on the door of the suite, bringing dish after dish, delicacy after delicacy.
The last had left a pot of rich black coffee and a silver bowl of ripe strawberries. Paige studied the bowl for a moment, then picked out a huge, luscious berry. She took a nibble from the tip and was savoring the sweet flavor when another knock sounded on the door.
Throwing Henri an amused look, she wondered what else he'd ordered before falling asleep. They'd gone through every item on the menu, plus a few he'd requested that the chef improvise. She ambled to the door, nibbling on the ripe berry.
The man who stood on the other side looked like no waiter Paige had ever seen. He was tall and tanned and carried himself with an air of unshakable authority. A faint trace of silver threaded his black hair at the temples, giving him an aristocratic touch. Although he carried a leather flight bag in one hand, his knife-pleated dark slacks and tailored blue shirt were smooth and crisp, as though they wouldn't dare do anything as undignified as wrinkle during travel.
Paige stood rooted to the floor, her mouth pursed around the fruit, her eyes wide.
He took in her surprised expression, her half-eaten strawberry, and her beaded see-through vest. A smile creased his tanned cheeks, and he descended from the aristocratic to the merely devastating.
"Jezebel, I presume?"
If he knew her code name, he was one of the good guys. She hoped. Reminding herself that David was only a scream away, she pulled the fruit out of her mouth and fumbled for an answer.
"Er, I'm not sure. I mean, isn't there some kind of a code or something you're supposed to give first? So I know who you are?"
The smile widened. "I'm Thunder. Adam Ridgeway. We spoke yesterday."
"Oh. Yes."
Paige remembered Mr. Thunder all right. This was David's boss in his secret life, the one who'd given her the choice of being fitted with an electronic leash or being bundled out of Cannes on the next available plane. She eyed him a touch of dislike.
"You know, you have a rather nasty manner over the..." She made a small circle in the air with the strawberry, not quite sure what that diamond-studded compact was. "Over the radio," she said.
"So I've been told." He walked into the suite and deposited the leather flight bag on an armchair. "Where's Maggie?"
Paige gestured toward the high double doors. "In the bedroom. David's with her. You can go—"
He didn't wait for her permission.
There couldn't be any mistake. This was definitely Mr. Thunder. Brows raised, Paige trailed after him as he opened the doors. He stopped on the threshold, his eyes fixed on the still figure in the bed.
"Adam!" David kept his voice low, but his face registered total surprise as he rose from the armchair. "What are you doing here?"
Adam Ridgeway's intent gaze didn't leave the unmoving Maggie. "I had planned to come for your wedding, anyway. I decided to move the trip up a bit."
David sent Paige a quick look.
"How is she?"
Adam's question betrayed no emotion, but there was a quiet, almost indiscernible intensity to it that made Paige glance at him quickly.
"She's going to be fine," David assured him. "I gave Claire hourly status reports. Didn't she keep you posted?"
"She did. I got the last report during an in-flight refueling over the channel." His jaw worked. "It appears that Chameleon has a near-fatal aversion to carrots."
"Distilled carrots, anyway. We've been with her every moment, Adam," David said, his voice gentling as he studied his boss's face.
Well, well... Paige thought.
"The doctor says she shouldn't have any lingering aftereffects from the reaction, other than a sore throat as the paralysis wears off. She's supposed to talk as little as possible for a while."
Paige thought she detected a slight softening of the stark lines around Adam's mouth, as if in relief—or was it amusement? Whatever it was, it was gone when he turned to face David.
"I'll take over here," he said with cool authority. "You and Paige had better go across the hall and get some sleep. I understand you have an appointment this evening. With Victor Swanset."
Shock rippled down Paige's bare arms. Good grief, she'd forgotten all about the Baron of the Night and his invitation to dinner!
At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to tell both David and his boss that she was abandoning her role as Meredith Ames. She no longer cared who got the blasted microdot. Or how.Or when. She'd had enough.
In the past twenty-four hours, a world-class pervert had sidled up to her in the casino and offered her an unbelievable amount of money to do things she was sure were anatomically impossible; she'd been frightened out of her wits by an eighty-year-old man who stepped out of a wall wearing his thirty-year-old body; and she'd capped off the day by putting a mascara-wand bullet through Henri's former business partner. What's more, David, her David, had made her repeat over and over again an emergency code to be used in the event he didn't return.
Paige had had more than enough excitement and adventure to last her the rest of her life. She wanted to go home, and she wanted to take David with her.
Unfortunately, he grinned at her then.
It was that slashing, crooked grin he'd given her earlier, just before he went in to make hamburger out of Antoine's face. The grin that finally, unreservedly, said they were in this together. They were a team. Equal partners.
Paige swallowed a sigh and pasted a weak answering smile on her face.
"That's right," David answered, turning to Adam again. "We have an appointment with Swanset tonight. If everything goes as planned, we're going to wrap this mission up, and then..." His glance swung to Paige once more. "And then we're going to arrange that wedding you came for."
She didn't say anything. She didn't have to. David saw the answer to his unspoken question in her eyes. His grin softened into a smile that was for her and her alone.
For a moment, there was just the two of them in the quiet room, Paige and David. Jezebel and Doc. Meredith and...whoever. At this point, Paige was too tired to sort out their growing cast of personalities. All that mattered was the tender smile in David's eyes.
That smile stirred a slow, delicious heat just under her skin. While David gave Adam concise instructions on Maggie's medication, Paige shoved aside her weariness and made a mental list of her own.
First, a bath.
Second, find something sinful enough in Meredith's wardrobe to make David forget both his caution and his control.
Third... Well, she'd improvise on items three through ten.
After all they'd shared today, there was no way in hell she was going to let David occupy the sitting room sofa tonight. Not if he was going to throw emergency codes at her that suggested he might not be around to occupy anything else in the near future. Not if they were getting married.
Which they were. As soon as they could arrange it. As soon as they wrapped up this mission. She'd shed the last of her doubts and insecurities about herself and David somewhere in a dank, garbage-strewn back alley.
Feeling far more determined about the upcoming evening with Victor Swanset than she had a few short moments ago, Paige tucked her hand in David's as they left the bedroom and walked through the sitting room. They were halfway to the door when she caught sight of the small figure curled up on the sofa.
"David! We forgot about Henri."
"So we did."
Turning, he walked back to the door to the double doors of the bedroom.
"The kid on the couch is Henri," he informed Adam. "If he wakes up, make sure you keep one hand on your wallet at all times."
Undercover Man Page 15
