Having met Mr. Smith first, Whitney had dismissed the idea that the tour guide or driver could have been the father of Christine’s baby. One look at the two foreign men and she realized more than ever that her sister couldn’t possibly have been attracted to them.
As for the other male teachers traveling on their bus, they were too old to have interested any woman under the age of forty. Mr. Bowen hadn’t quite reached that point, but he was getting there. Whitney found them all rather homely.
“Board the bus, please. Montez, s’il vous plaît!
Needing no urging, every student including Roger and Jeff clamored to get on first so they could grab a seat in the rear. Not in any hurry to get crushed, Whitney waited for Mr. Smith to finish his conversation with one of the other teachers.
After the intimacy the plane afforded, it seemed odd to have to share him with other people. Literally the most attractive man around, and the most attractive man she’d ever met, Whitney noticed how the boys vied for his attention while the girls used one pretext or another to flirt with him.
She could easily picture Christine as one of those eager, excited teens dancing attendance on him. He had the charm and sophistication of an urbane host who put young and old at ease. Only Ms. Ashton, no longer enchanted with him, kept her distance. Whitney might have experienced more guilt for having sabotaged things if Mr. Smith hadn’t told her that he didn’t return the other woman’s ardor.
In order to get on the bus, Whitney had to pass by the two men who stood outside the door speaking French while gesticulating with their hands.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle.” This from Jean-Luc whose bold appraisal warned her she was in for more of the same unsolicited attention during the trip.
The Italian gave her a lopsided grin, eyeing her from tip to toe. “Bellisima, signorina.”
Whitney had been forced to put up with the same male behavior when she’d been to Mexico on several spring vacations. This was nothing new, just irritating.
The tour guide’s gaze dropped to the name tag pinned to her blouse. “Wheet-nee. That’s a preetty name for a very beauteeful girl.”
From somewhere behind her she heard Mr. Smith address both men in French. Whatever he said caused a change in them. They shrugged and left her alone.
During unpleasant moments like this, Whitney would be the first to admit she enjoyed a man’s protection, but considering it was Mr. Smith, she was filled with irreconcilable conflicts. Could anything be more hypocritical than for him to chastise them for flirting with her when he had every intention of seducing her at the first opportunity?
“Let’s get on, Whitney.”
At his terse command, which secretly delighted her because it meant he was feeling territorial about her, she climbed on board only to discover that neither Jeff nor Roger had been able to save them seats. She was left with two options—either sit by Mr. Grimshaw or Mr. Bowen, who were both up in front on either side of the aisle.
Though Mr. Smith had promised to sit by her on the bus, there would be occasions like this one where circumstances dictated otherwise.
Now that she knew her chaperone desired her and was becoming more protective of her all the time, Whitney decided to take advantage of the situation to make him jealous.
There was nothing like a little healthy competition to keep the fires burning until she had maneuvered him into a corner he couldn’t get out of. Since she knew instinctively that he didn’t care for Mr. Bowen, Whitney purposely took her seat next to Christine’s old French teacher.
The gesture must have surprised Mr. Bowen whose face broke out in a welcoming smile. In fact he showed such enthusiasm to have her for a traveling companion, he appeared younger. For the first time she could understand how that enthusiasm impacted his adoring students and kept Christine one of his fans. Things couldn’t have been more perfect if Whitney had orchestrated his reaction herself.
Throughout the drive to Fontainebleau, she gave him her exclusive attention. The occasional shuttered glance in Mr. Smith’s direction told her he wasn’t at all happy about the situation, at least not if his hardened facial features were any indicator of his mood. She didn’t think he or Mr. Grimshaw had said a word to each other. The older man’s head rested against the window, his eyes closed. It had been a long, uncomfortable flight.
Enjoying this more than anything she’d done in a long time, she continued to ply her seatmate with positive comments about his beautiful French accent and to praise his knowledge of French culture. As she hoped he would, Mr. Bowen preened under her compliments. She knew most teachers felt unappreciated. Any crumb thrown their way was considered manna from heaven.
Her plan seemed to be working. As soon as the bus pulled into the parking area outside the château, Mr. Smith called to her. She turned away from Mr. Bowen to face her chaperone who was already on his feet. Unsmiling gray eyes stared down at her, their expression enigmatic.
“Yes, Mr. Smith?”
“If you’re ready to go—”
“Yes. Of course.” She jumped to her feet. “I’m sorry. Mr. Bowen’s stories about Fontainebleau were so fascinating, I lost track of the time.” She turned to the other man, but not before she saw Mr. Smith’s jaw harden. “Thanks for the history lesson, Mr. Bowen. I’m sure I’ll get a lot more out of the tour now.”
“Anytime, Whitney. We’ll talk again.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
“After you,” her chaperone reminded her in a quiet voice edged in steel. His possessiveness was showing.
A frisson chased across her skin. Her plan was working.
Without another word to her they got off the bus and waited for the boys to join them. Once everyone was assembled, they began the tour of the famous château where the Emperor Napoleon Bonapart had often resided. It was at Fontainebleau that he’d signed his abdication before going into exile on the island of Elba.
At any other time in her life Whitney would have loved this tour and thrilled to what she was learning. But she’d come for an entirely different purpose.
Little by little the tension between her and Mr. Smith was building. She’d provoked him for a reason, and now she feared she had awakened a sleeping tiger. The showdown wouldn’t be long in coming. That knowledge made it difficult to concentrate on anything else.
“The Emperor preferred this small bedroom,” their guide explained as they toured the refurbished apartments originally built by Louis XVI. “If you’ll notice, it has a mechanical desk and an iron bed. Not a room where he entertained the femmes, n’est-ce pas?”
His reference to the ladies brought a laugh from everyone except herself and Mr. Smith whose veiled gaze suddenly trapped hers at the mention of the bed.
As ridiculous as it was, heat scorched her cheeks. She looked away, pretending interest in the Diane garden outside the window, while inwardly she was confused by the jolt of desire that rocked her body.
What had started out as a game to entrap Mr. Smith appeared to be backfiring on her with devastating results.
“The furnishings reminded him of the ones he used in his military campaigns,” the tour guide continued to explain. “He was a soldier at heart. Now follow me, please.”
Relieved they could leave the warm, airless room, Whitney walked ahead of her chaperone along the François I gallery to the apartments formerly reserved for ceremonies. In the press of bodies she ended up standing next to Mr. Bowen.
“Fontainebleau is unique, but if you want to catch Napoleon’s true essence, you must visit Malmaison, the small country house he built for Josephine when he divorced her.”
“I don’t recall that being on the itinerary.”
“It’s not, but I often take my students out there when we have free time. After we’ve settled in at our hotel today, most of my group will want to catch a few hours sleep after having flown thousands of miles. That’s why nothing is planned for the afternoon.
“However, I consider sleep a waste of time in this beautifu
l city. Those who wish can join me for the rest of the day. We’ll be back in time for our dinner and cruise aboard the bateau mouche. Please feel free to join us, Whitney. It’ll be well worth the trip. I’ll pay the entrance fees. All you’ll need is subway and bus fare.”
A break from Mr. Smith might bring her some perspective which she desperately needed about now. The banked fires in his eyes moments ago warned her that her goal to seduce him had gotten out of hand. She needed to slow things down a little before she administered the coup de grâce.
Since most of the students would probably stay in their rooms until dinner, he’d never know if she left the hotel or not. Whitney no longer deemed it wise to arouse his jealousy.
“I’d really like to see Malmaison,” she whispered back.
“I knew you were special.” His smile came alive. “You have the true, inquiring mind. Students like you are a joy to teach.”
“Thank you.”
He had a generosity of spirit and chose the right words to build a student’s self-esteem. Christine hadn’t exaggerated. Her French teacher charmed you with his intelligence, his sense of fun and energy which hadn’t been readily apparent from his physical appearance. She bet his family missed him when he came on these trips.
“I’ll phone your room when I’m ready to go.”
“I’ll be ready.”
After a typical veal lunch, everyone dispersed to their hotel rooms. Gerard made a call to his contact at Interpol requesting surveillance on Whitney while he caught up on some much needed sleep. He didn’t worry about Jeff and Roger who were probably as exhausted as he was.
A deep sigh of relief escaped as he stretched out on top of the bed and phoned Roman before he passed out. He’d just come from the shower and had hitched a towel around his hips. After the heat of the day, the cool spray had felt good. So did the solitude.
Besides their own busload of students, there must have been a thousand tourists milling through the château at Fontainebleau until there hadn’t been a breath of fresh air anywhere. In the crunch he’d seen Donald Bowen make a beeline for Whitney. The man was panting for her.
Obviously Bowen hadn’t been happy that their conversation on the bus had been brought to a premature end. From a distance Gerard had watched the other man lie in wait for Whitney inside the château in order to corner her and resume dialogue.
Whatever he’d said to her, she hadn’t chosen to share it with the group at lunch. When he’d helped carry her bag to her room, he had hoped she would confide in him privately, but she’d said nothing. Much to Jeff’s and Roger’s disappointment, she indicated she was going to take a nap.
Though puzzled by her reticence—because up to this moment she had seemed so open about everything else—Gerard decided not to push her for the information. In time he would find out. The lowlife was starting to set her up. Gerard could feel it.
But the more he stared at the wall separating them, the more he struggled with the urge to walk next door and ask her to tell him what Bowen had been so anxious to discuss with her.
Of course there was one glaring reason why he couldn’t do that.
She was alone in there because her friend Leslie had canceled too late for STI to arrange another roommate for her.
Gerard was trying his damnedest not to think of her standing under the spray, or lying on the bed fresh from the shower, her silvery-blond hair damp and sweet smelling...
“Oh, Lord.” He groaned and turned on his stomach, willing certain images to leave his mind.
Without wasting another agonizing second, he reached for his cell phone and punched in the office number. This time Diana answered and told him to hold. Roman would pick up.
“Good morning, Comrade.”
“You don’t have to sound so cheery,” Gerard bit out with unaccustomed irritation. “Have a little pity. I haven’t slept in thirty-six hours. Just tell me what I already know—that Whitney Lawrence is an innocent eighteen-year-old high school graduate who should never have crossed my path—and I’ll be back in Salt Lake by tomorrow morning.”
Silence greeted his ear.
“Roman?”
“First of all, I’ll give you the information on Donald Bowen’s wife. Her name is Mary Richins. According to Interpol, Bowen’s story about his wife being born in Orem checks out. They have a five-year-old daughter, Tiffany. From all indications, his wife has no clue he’s been leading a double life.”
“And Whitney?”
After a slight pause, “Don’t make return flight reservations yet.”
At this juncture Gerard was on his feet, his heart pounding. “What are you saying?”
“There’s no record of a Whitney Lawrence ever having attended Union High School, grade school, or middle school in Box Elder County. There are no Lawrence’s in the area, period.”
Gerard stopped pacing. That meant—
“That means your instincts are right on, as usual.” Roman read Gerard’s mind with alacrity. “I always said you’re the best PI there is. We’re running every check we know on her. Interpol is running their own. I’ll have information on her by your time tomorrow morning at the latest. Give me a call before you leave for the tour of the Louvre.”
“I will.” Gerard knew it took time to gather that kind of intelligence, but he needed something he could grab on to now.
“At least you can stop worrying that you’re a lecherous old man,” Roman quipped, but Gerard was not amused.
The knowledge that Whitney was a devious woman, not an innocent teenager, brought him no joy.
Since the night at the library, she’d known he was attracted to her. Armed with that knowledge, she’d used him, come on to him, played up to him until she’d twisted him in knots. And he’d fallen for every feminine trick.
The hell of it was, despite what he’d just learned, he was still attracted. His emotions weren’t going to automatically turn off no matter what his head was telling him.
Though he didn’t know the connection between her and Bowen, or how her part worked in the scheme of things, Gerard was on to her. The rules of the game were about to change.
“Roman? I’ve got something to do that can’t wait. Keep working on things from your end and I’ll call you around noon your time. I owe you.”
Pulling on a clean pair of jeans, a lightweight knit shirt and shoes, he left his room and approached her door. After a couple of taps he called her name but she didn’t answer. He rapped on the door a little harder. Still no response.
He went back to his room to phone her. After a dozen rings, he was convinced she’d gone out, even though she’d told the boys she intended to rest. It was a good thing he’d had her tailed.
Reaching for one of the tools he carried in a small case, he went back to her door. After a look around to make sure no one was in the hall, he played with the lock until he heard the click, then pushed the door open.
The three-star, economy hotel had postage-stamp-size rooms. At a glance, he could see she wasn’t on the premises. He went inside and shut the door. Within a minute he’d cased the room and had gone through her luggage and toiletries. He didn’t think anyone’s eye color could be as beautiful as hers, so he looked for signs that she wore contact lenses. Nothing turned up.
The only thing the bathroom search revealed was her penchant for fairly expensive French perfume and fruit-flavored shampoo. She slept in knee-length nightgowns. There were no photographs around, no Walkman or cassettes, no wine or beer, no candy, no cigarettes or drugs. She was clean.
He’d been looking for her passport, but she must have taken it with her. Some of the labels in her clothes indicated she’d bought them in Salt Lake, but he found nothing that gave him a real clue as to her identity.
She’d brought a novel with her about Martha Stewart and the Washington Post. Not everyone’s favorite reading material unless you wanted insight into the America of the past. A foreign agent might read it for a quick American history lesson.
The cros
sword puzzle he already knew about. She’d mastered the highest degree of difficulty without the use of a dictionary. Most people couldn’t do it with one. But her intelligence was not in question here. Just her allegiance. To which flag?
He rubbed his chest absently. Did she always work with Donald Bowen, or was this a special assignment? Maybe Gerard had been wrong about the students being involved. Maybe the kids simply provided a smoke screen while the two masterminds worked on some unwitting teacher who had no idea he or she would end up assisting the enemy.
His thoughts darted back to Fran Ashton. With insight, he realized that Whitney—that was the name he would call her until he knew the truth—had done a good job of keeping him separated from the other teacher.
Not without your cooperation, Gerard had to remind himself. Maybe Fran was a pawn.
Too many possibilities were exploding inside him. But nothing mattered without the right information. Whitney’s passport held the key.
Leaving everything as he found it, he let himself out and went back to his room to wait until she returned. Two hours later he knocked on her door before dinner. She opened it and almost jumped at the sight of Gerard standing there.
“Mr. Smith!”
“If you always open your door without asking who is on the other side, then you’re in for some trouble you might not be able to handle. In future, call out first, otherwise I won’t enjoy explaining to your grandmother that you were kidnapped or raped or something even worse.”
“You’re right,” came her breathless answer. “I assumed it was Roger or Jeff.”
“What makes you think you’d be any safer with them if they decided to have some fun with you and refused to take no for an answer?”
She blinked. “Your point is well taken.”
“You look tired. Sometimes a nap makes the jet lag worse. I’ve learned that after an all night flight, it’s still better to wait until the next night before going to bed.”
She nodded. “You’re preaching to the converted. Getting a little sleep has made me feel dreadful. Is it already time to go down to the bus?”
Undercover Bachelor Page 7
