The man felt no ties, no loyalty to any country, Claire had emphasized. Nor to any other person. Only to himself. And to his art, which was now a thing of the past.
Or was it?
There was something missing in this picture of Victor Swanset, international financier. Something that didn't add up. Some piece of illogic that nagged at Doc, although he couldn't quite put his finger on it.
In his precise, methodical way, Doc had broken everything they knew about the onetime star down to specific categories of information and tied them together in every possible combination. The trail always led back to Albion. To Swanset's days of glory.
And to a dead cook.
The pieces of the puzzle didn't fit, and Doc was not the kind of man to be satisfied until they did. "Let's go over this again," he said. Paige gave a small groan.
Even Maggie sagged back on the pillows, protesting. "Doc!E...nough."
"We're missing something," he insisted.
"Maybe we'll see what it is if we come at it from a fresh perspective later," Adam commented quietly.
It was a suggestion only, and Doc accepted it as such. Adam had kept in the background throughout the long afternoon, informing them that he had no intention of second-guessing his agents in the fieid. This was their mission. Theirs and Jezebel's.
The slow smile that accompanied that remark had gone a long way toward softening Paige's attitude toward Adam Ridgeway.
After half a day in his company, she still wasn't quite sure she liked him. He was too controlled, too enigmatic. She couldn't tell what he was thinking, and that made her nervous. But she could certainly understand why Maggie was attracted to him. Even after twenty-four hours without sleep, he radiated an unshakable confidence, not to mention an undiluted masculine potency.
Paige knew that she could never handle a man like Adam Ridgeway, and she didn't want to. She had David. All twenty or so different versions of him.
She also had Henri, she remembered belatedly.
"Before we adjourn this meeting," she said, lowering her voice so that it wouldn't carry to the sitting room, "I have another item to place on the agenda."
David paused in the act of gathering his notes. "What's that?"
"Henri."
Frowning, David made an automatic check of his back pocket. Satisfied that his wallet was still in place, he glanced at the red head planted in front of the TV. "What about Henri?"
In her best David manner, Paige ticked off her short list.
"A—he needs clothes. B—he needs shelter. And C— he needs protection. All of which OMEGA is going to provide."
Adam sent her a cool look. "It is?"
"Yes," Paige replied. "It is."
Chapter 14
Henri glanced at the closed bedroom doors of Maggie's suite, then turned to glower at Doc.
"Me, I do not like this."
"So you've said. Several times."
The boy's face settled into stubborn lines. "I should go with you to this villa in the hills. I am the guide."
"Not this time, Henri."
"Someone must watch Mademoiselle Paige while you are busy," he insisted. "I will protect her, as I did last afternoon in the alley."
"I'll take care of her."
Henri's lower lip jutted out. "I do not like this." He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his new jeans, hunched his shoulders and began to pace the sitting room. It was a measure of his agitation that he walked right past a cart laden with silver dishes without giving it more than a passing glance.
Feeling almost as edgy as Henri, Doc glanced at Adam. Sprawled at his ease in an upholstered armchair, the director wore a thoughtful expression as he watched the boy pace. Earlier this afternoon, while Paige and Doc took Henri on an expedition to the Carlton's exclusive gift shops to accomplish the first item on her list, Adam had set Control to working on items two and three. Claire wasn't quite sure what the French authorities would come up with for the boy in terms of shelter and protection, but she'd promised to get back to them as soon as possible.
Doc slid back the cuff of his white dress shirt to check his watch. What in the hell were Maggie and Paige doing in there? Swanset's car would be here at any moment. Doc wanted to go over the contingency plan and the emergency codes with Paige one more time before they left.
As he stared at the closed doors, Doc found himself wondering if he'd recognize the woman who would step through them. Folding his arms across his chest, he considered just how much he'd learned about this incredible, complex woman in the past few days. Far more, he guessed, than she'd learned about him.
His sometimes timid, usually sweet, Paige was showing an inner resilience and stubborn courage that alternately irritated and amazed him.
She was as nervous as a cat about tonight, he knew. She'd all but worn a track in the carpet with her pacing during the mission brief. Her color had fluctuated with each mention of Swanset's name, and she'd stumbled more than once over the emergency codes. But she wasn't about to give up on her damned adventure.
If everything went as planned tonight, Paige would have her adventure. If not...
Doc felt his jaw tighten as the urge rose in him to call off this part of the operation. Now, before Paige stepped through those doors. Now, while they still had room to maneuver and time to activate an alternate plan.
In the past forty-eight hours, however, he'd learned to accept the fact that this wasn't the fifteenth century, when a man could shut his wife away in a stone tower to keep her from harm or chain her to his bed, if he wanted to.
Not that this Paige would have allowed him either option, in the fifteenth or the sixteenth or any other century. What was more, Doc acknowledged ruefully, he couldn't have loved a woman who would allow it.
Although his need to protect his mate was as natural to him as breathing, either consciously or otherwise he'd chosen one as strong as he in her own way. One who would not sit quietly on the sidelines while others acted. Despite his reservations about her involvement in this mission, Doc felt a reluctant pride and silent admiration for Paige's determination to see it through.
Still, he admitted, glancing at his watch once more, the idea of those chains did hold a lingering appeal as the minutes until their meeting with Swanset ticked steadily by.
When the bedroom doors finally opened and Maggie walked into the sitting room, Doc straightened. Smiling, she gave him a thumbs-up, then stood aside.
The woman who stepped through the double doors after her was not quite Meredith Ames and not quite Paige Lawrence, but a fascinating combination of both.
A skilled application of Meredith's makeup had heightened Paige's delicate features. Shadows deepened the tint of mossy green eyes and added thickness to the sweep of her lashes. Her full lips were melon ripe and glossy and altogether too alluring for Doc's peace of mind.
The sophisticated Meredith had drawn the wings of her hair back from her face and pinned them up in some kind of elaborate braid, but the rest of Paige's silky mane hung down her back in a shining curtain of pale gold.
The gown she wore could have been designed for either woman. It was elegant, elaborate, seemingly demure and totally erotic. Doc didn't quite understand how a long-sleeved, floor-length creation that, for once, concealed more skin than it showed could engender immediate fantasies in his mind about peeling the thing off, but this one did.
Maybe it was the color, a deep olive green that added a glowing luster to her smooth skin. Or the fitted bodice that hugged her slender form like a glove. Or the tiny crystal beads accenting the gold trim at the neckline and waist and wrist. The beads shimmered and sparkled with each breath she took, each small movement she made, drawing Doc's eyes like tiny beacons of light.
Her only jewelry was a magnificent pair of drop earrings, made from the finest Swarovski crystal. Doc had purchased them this afternoon in one of the hotel's gift shops. Just an hour ago, the left earring had been fitted with a highly sensitive stat
e-of-the-art wireless communications device. Paige had only to murmur the new emergency code words, and the earring would transmit them instantly to Maggie's receiver.
Between this miniaturized communications system and the electronic tracking device implanted under her skin, Paige wouldn't be out of contact for a moment. The knowledge should have reassured Doc, should have eased his knife-edged concern for her safety. But despite her dramatic appearance, this was Paige. His Paige. The small smile she'd plastered on her lips didn't disguise her nervousness. Not from him.
Fear was a healthy emotion for any field operative, Doc reminded himself as he walked across the room. It kept agents alert. Kept their senses tuned to the least fluctuation in the environment, the hidden nuances in a target's voice or behavior. Anyone who didn't experience fear was a fool.
Doc just didn't like seeing that particular emotion in Paige's eyes. He stopped in front of her and reached up to brush back a wispy tendril of hair with one knuckle.
"You take my breath away."
His quiet, confident tone seemed to reassure her far more than the compliment. Her shoulders relaxed a bit, and her mouth curved into a smile.
"You're having a very similar effect on my respiratory system."
In fact, Paige thought she'd never seen David look quite so devastating. It wasn't so much the crisp white dress shirt, or the stunning black tux that molded his wide shoulders. It was his assured air, his absolute mastery of the tension she knew must be gripping him as it was her. Paige could only marvel at the iron control she'd once resented and now drew strength from.
"You've got the microdot?" Maggie croaked from behind her.
"Yes, in my purse."
"And the mascara?"
Paige paled a little, but nodded. "Yes."
"Pah!" Henri snorted, coming across the room. "That toy! Here, Mademoiselle Paige. Take this."
Paige stared at the worn black knife handle resting on his upturned palm. She knew the deadly blade enclosed by that handle, and didn't want any part of it. But she also knew what it meant for Henri to offer the one possession he valued.
The knife was the only object he'd insisted on keeping after their excursion to the hotel shops this afternoon. He'd gleefully tossed everything else—his ratty sweater, the well-worn shorts, even his sandals and scruffy underwear—into the wastebasket. After a bath and a grooming session supervised by David, the boy had sauntered into the sitting room clothed in new Adidas, designer jeans, a jaunty blue-and-red-striped polo shirt with the Carlton's distinctive crest on the pocket, and a broad grin.
There wasn't any sign of the grin now, and his brown eyes carried a grim knowledge that made Paige's heart ache.
"You press the side of the handle, like so," he said with deadly seriousness. The blade slid out with a soft click. "Hold the knife low, mademoiselle, and go for the gut, like so."
He gripped the knife in one small fist to demonstrate, then bent the blade back into the handle, reversed it, and held it out to Paige.
Wetting her lips, she lifted it gingerly with a thumb and forefinger. "Thank you."
"Remember, mademoiselle, go for the gut."
"The gut," she repeated weakly, dropping the knife into her gold evening bag.
His freckled nose wrinkled. "I do not like this! Me, I should be with you."
The jangle of the telephone sent Paige's heart leaping into her throat and deepened Henri's fierce scowl. Fighting the sudden, craven impulse to slip back into the bedroom and lock the double doors behind her, she watched David move across the suite and lift the receiver.
"Yes?"
After a moment, he replaced the instrument in its old-fashioned cradle. His eyes met hers across the room, and then his cheeks creased in that slashing grin Paige was coming to both love and dread. The one that said she was his partner in what was to come.
"Ready?"
Paige swallowed. "As ready as I'll ever be."
Paige's secret, lingering hope that Victor Swanset was simply a charming, if eccentric, expatriate faded the moment David escorted her out the Carlton's columned main entrance.
As soon as she spotted the swarthy, dark-haired driver who stood beside the silver Rolls, she recognized him. She'd last seen him just before she tumbled off a gangplank into the oily waters of the marina. He'd been sent to pick up Meredith Ames, and had bundled Paige into the silver Rolls-Royce instead.
His face pleasantly blank, the chauffeur touched a gloved hand to his hat.
"Bonsoir, mademoiselle, monsieur."
David returned the greeting, which was just as well, since Paige's throat had closed completely. Her knees felt like unset Jell-O as the driver handed her into the back seat. She sank down with a grateful sigh and was immediately surrounded by soft gray leather and the heady scent of the white roses filling the silver vases attached to the frame on either side of the car.
Surreptitiously Paige wiped her palm on the green satin skirts of her gown. When David joined her, she inched her hand across the soft leather. His fingers folded around hers, warm and strong and infinitely reassuring.
"There is champagne and pato, if you wish it," the driver informed them, sliding behind the wheel. "It will take perhaps an hour to reach the villa. Monsieur Swanset hopes you enjoy the ride and the view."
Paige did not enjoy either.
Her anxiety mounted with each whisper of the tires as the Rolls glided through the twilight traffic along the Croisette with silent, majestic grace. A few minutes later, it turned inland, and headed toward the mountains that rose behind Cannes like sleeping sentinels.
When they entered the foothills, the city gradually fell away. The road swirled and curved, backtracking on itself in an endless series of hairpin turns. Through gaps in the stands of fragrant eucalyptus and fir trees, Paige caught glimpses of a stunning panorama.
Far out on the bay, the last of the sun's rays painted a kaleidoscope of colors across the distant horizon. Brilliant pink, deep magenta and royal purple clouds all swirled together above an indigo sea. Lights strung from the masts of the yachts anchored in the bay bobbed slowly in the ebbing tide.
It was a scene she might have drunk in with wonder if she hadn't been clutching David's hand in a death grip and holding her breath each time the long, sleek vehicle swung around another of those impossible turns.
"This car is not designed for roads like this!" she gasped, staring into the stretch of dark, empty space just outside her window with the morbid fascination of a rabbit gazing into the wide-stretched mouth of a cobra.
David smiled a reassurance. "As a matter of fact, a car like this is much safer on these roads than a mini. With its heavy engine and armor plating, the Rolls has a center of gravity well forward of the driver's seat. It's not going to go over unless he loses control—or sends it over deliberately."
"Oh, that's comforting."
Paige closed her eyes as they swung around another curve and the vehicle's rear end seemed to hang suspended in thin air.
"Have a little champagne," David advised her. "It will help you relax."
Gently easing his hand from her clawlike hold, he poured a small amount into a gold-rimmed crystal flute. He poured some for himself, as well. Leaning back, he touched his glass to hers.
"To us."
He'd warned her that the Rolls would be wired with the latest in electronic listening and recording devices. In her role as Meredith Ames, his paid companion during his stay in Cannes, Paige couldn't answer his toast as she so desperately wanted to.
She couldn't tell him that she loved him with every comer of her heart and soul. That she knew all she ever needed to know about him. That when this night was over, she was marching him straight to the American consulate on the Croisette and forcing the first official they came across to marry them on the spot.
"To us," she replied, holding his eyes with hers. "And to tomorrow."
His teeth gleamed in the gathering darkness. "To tomorrow."
Pa
ige took a sip of her champagne and willed herself not to doing anything as unadventurous as stain the underarms of her shimmering ball gown with nervous perspiration.
Just when she was sure neither the champagne nor the lingering effects of David's rakish grin would protect her or her gown much longer, the car's headlights illuminated tail stone pillars and a pair of massive wrought-iron gates. Am ornate S in gleaming brass was entwined amid the iron grillwork on either side.
At their approach, the gates swung open and the Rolls swept through. Paige sagged in relief at leaving the narrow cliffside road behind, only to discover a moment later that she'd relaxed too soon. More hairpin turns followed as they climbed even higher. When they finally passed through the arch of what looked like a medieval gatehouse set into a high stone wall, her jaw sagged in sheer astonishment.
Victor Swanset's mountaintop villa looked like something right out of one of his movies. Which one, Paige didn't know, but it was too perfect, too stunningly beautiful, to be real.
A cluster of outbuildings roofed in red Mediterranean tiles circled a wide, cobbled courtyard. At the west end of the yard was a long building that had obviously been a stable in a previous century, but had been converted to a garage for Swanset's collection of vintage luxury automobiles. Another low building, connected to the central structure by a graceful arched walkway, housed the kitchens. That much Paige remembered from her study of the floor plan.
But it was the main residence that drew her awed gaze. Washed a pale yellow in the moonlight, the red-tiled villa boasted a central tower and two sweeping wings. Light spilled out of the many leaded-glass windows and illuminated a magnificent stone portico that might have been sculpted by Michelangelo himself. Muscular Roman gods stood with one arm upraised, supporting an arched pediment. Beneath the pediment was a set of massive timber doors that looked as though they could withstand any medieval battering ram ever constructed.
When the Rolls purred to a halt at the steps of the portico, the huge doors swung open, and more light cascaded onto the cobbles. A butler or majordomo or whatever the dignified individual in black tails was called came forward with a measured tread to open the Rolls's rear door.
Undercover Man Page 17
