Ready for Anything, Anywhere!

by Beverly Barton

  Within moments she was semiprone on the wide wooden stairs. His free hand yanked at the tie to her robe. The lapels parted, exposing her to chill air and Cutter’s smooth, hot flesh.

  She could feel him hard and straining against her hip. Wiggling a little, she added to the pressure on his fly. The sensual friction soon had him grunting and dragging his mouth from hers.

  “If we’re going to stop,” he rasped, “it had better be now.”

  Her blood pumped in heavy spurts. Desire raced like liquid fire through her veins. She wanted him naked and locked between her thighs.

  “If we don’t stop, we need to change positions. Or geography. This stair tread is putting a permanent dent in my spine.”

  “That, Ms. Dawes, is easily remedied.”

  He scooped her up and took the stairs two at a time, reminding Mallory of that powerful scene from Gone with the Wind. Except she wasn’t Vivien Leigh, fighting him every step of the way and her Clark Gable retained presence of mind enough to retrieve his gun before striding down the hall toward his half-open bedroom door.

  The hard butt of the pistol handle against her hip sobered Mallory and reminded her again why Cutter was here … until he kicked the door shut and carried her to bed in the finest Rhett Butler style.

  The scent of fresh-baked croissants pulled Mallory from total unconsciousness. Lifting her face from the satin-covered pillow, she blinked owlishly and followed the general direction of her nose until her sleepy gaze collided with Cutter’s.

  “‘Bout time you woke up.”

  He, obviously, had been up for some time. His jogging suit lay over the arm of the chair. Muddy sneakers sat on the floor beside it. He must have gotten in an early run, showered and changed while she remained dead to the world.

  As he deposited a tray on the bedside table, the tang of his aftershave teased Mallory’s nostrils and vied for supremacy with the yeasty scent of the rolls. Wiggling upright, she shoved her hair out of her eyes and helped herself.

  “What time is it?” she asked around a flaky mouthful.

  “Almost ten.”

  “Ten!” The croissant lodged partway down her throat. With a painful gulp, she swallowed the half-chewed bite. “I’m supposed to go in front of the cameras at eleven! Why did you let me sleep?”

  “You told me to. Remember?”

  Now she did. She’d mumbled the order sometime after her second out-of-body experience. Or was it her third? As best as Mallory could recall, every inch of her had shivered with delight and exhaustion.

  Those emotions contrasted starkly with the ones that crept over her now. The prospect of facing a barrage of reporters stripped away all trace of morning-after joy. Her arms as heavy as lead, she dropped the roll back onto the tray.

  “I’d better get dressed. Think I could fit into one of those suits of armor in the hall?”

  Cutter was well aware of her reluctance to put herself out there again, but her attempt at levity brought home just how deeply she dreaded it. Nudging her aside, he sat on the edge of the mattress.

  “I’ll be right there with you.”

  “That’s another thing. How do I explain you?” Frowning, she plucked at the bedcovers. “What’s our story, Cutter? Do we have a history, or are you just one more notch on my bedpost?”

  “If the subject comes up … ”

  “Trust me,” she said bitterly, “it will.”

  “ … we tell them we met in France, fell for each other and aren’t worried about the past, only the future.”

  “They won’t buy it.” Dragging the covers with her, she slumped against the padded headboard. “We’ve known each other less than a week. Hardly long enough to fall in love.”

  For her, maybe. Cutter wasn’t sure when he’d taken the plunge.

  He suspected it was there in Monsieur Villieu’s orchard, with the sunlight on her face and her laughter as potent as the apple brandy. Whenever it had happened, he knew he wanted her safe and this op over more than he’d ever wanted anything. Or anyone.

  He’d loved only once before, or thought he had. Jogging along the mist-shrouded cliffs this morning he’d realized that whatever he’d felt for Eva Hendricks didn’t come close to the protective and fiercely primitive instincts Mallory Dawes roused in him.

  Which was only one of the reasons he’d made a quick trip into town after his run. The other was the horde that would descend on her in less than an hour.

  “Maybe this will convince the reporters we’re serious.”

  He positioned the jeweler’s box on the tray beside the basket of croissants. Her brow snapping into a line, she stared at the blue velvet box suspiciously.

  “What’s that?”

  “Your protective armor.”

  The ring was an antique, its square-cut diamond mounted on a wide, white-gold filigree band that looked like old Victorian lace. Smaller baguettes circled the central stone in a delicate swirl.

  “There was only one jeweler in town, so I didn’t have much of a selection to choose from.”

  With Mallory watching in slack-jawed surprise, Cutter slipped the ring out of the box and onto her finger. The band was a little loose. He’d had to guess at the size.

  “You didn’t have to do this,” she said, still frowning.

  “Yeah, I did.”

  Feeling as though the moment required a more extravagant gesture, Cutter raised her hand and dropped a kiss on her fingers.

  “If you look at the filigree closely, you’ll see it’s carved in the shape of vines and fruit. Apropos, wouldn’t you say?”

  She studied it in silence for several moments before lifting her gaze to his. “It’s beautiful, Cutter, and will certainly add credibility to our story. I’ll give it back to you right after the press conference.”

  “The ring is yours, Mallory. A souvenir of your trip to France.”

  Ignoring her protests, he dropped another kiss on her hand and pushed off the bed.

  “You’d better get dressed. A couple of TV crews have already arrived to set up their equipment.”

  * * *

  For long moments after the door closed behind Cutter, Mallory simply sat amid the rumpled covers and stared at the white-gold band.

  If she’d searched every store in Paris, she couldn’t have found a ring that delighted her more. She loved the antique look to it, with the graceful swirl of baguettes anchoring the center stone. But it was the delicate filigree band that filled her heart with a bittersweet ache.

  The intricate vines, the tiny leaves, the fruit—as Cutter said, so very apropos of Normandy and the short time they’d spent here. She couldn’t believe he’d gone to so much trouble to erect the facade they’d present to the media, or that he’d found such a perfect vehicle to do it.

  Then presented it to her here, she thought on a sigh. Amid the rumpled covers, with her hair a tangled mess and her eyes still gritty from sleep. The man needed to work on his timing, if not his technique. Even a fake engagement warranted brushed hair and teeth. With another sigh, she threw off the covers and padded to the bathroom.

  She left the blue bedroom thirty minutes later. Rather than appear in borrowed feathers, she wore the jeans, white blouse, and navy blazer she’d had on when she arrived in France. Luckily, the ever efficient Madame Picard had restored them to pristine neatness. The ring sparkling on her left hand demanded something better than rubber-soled mocs, however. Making her final appearance in a pair of Yvette d’Marchand’s exclusive designs, Mallory descended the grand staircase.

  A brief smile settled around her heart as she remembered going up the stairs the night before, but it died when she spotted the equipment cases scattered across the black-and-white tiles of the entry hall. A babble of voices rose from the library, punctuated by intermittent flashes as the camera crews tested their strobes.

  Dread coiled and writhed like a living thing in Mallory’s stomach. Dragging in quick, shallow breaths, she forced herself to continue down the stairs.

  “Elle e
st là!”

  She had no trouble translating the excited exclamation. Her throat closing, she heard the others pick up the cry.

  “There she is!”

  “It’s her!

  Like baying hounds on the trail of a fox, a dozen or so reporters spilled out of the library into the hall. Mallory froze as still cameras flashed, blinding her with a barrage of white light. The questions flew fast and furious until Cutter’s deep voice sliced through the din.

  “Ms. Dawes will be more than happy to answer your questions, but not here in the hall.”

  Tall and authoritative, his scars a deliberate and very visible warning that he wasn’t a man to be taken lightly, he mounted the stairs and tucked Mallory’s hand in his arm. She managed not to clutch at his sleeve like a frightened child, but her knees felt like the custard filling in one of Madame Picard’s pastries as they waded into the fray.

  “Ladies. Gentlemen,” Cutter said calmly. “In the library, as agreed.”

  A battery of TV cameras, some mounted on tripods, some shoulder-held, captured their entrance. Cutter positioned Mallory in front of the gilt-trimmed desk and slipped a lover-like arm around her waist. The modernistic portrait in its lighted alcove formed a dramatic backdrop. The oriental carpet provided a tapestry of jeweled colors at their feet.

  Mallory tried not to wince as the klieg lights came on, adding their glare to the flashes from the still cameras. Boom mikes poked over the heads of reporters who machine-gunned the questions at her.

  “Mademoiselle Dawes, how do you come to be at Yvette d’Marchand’s château?”

  “Did you know Remy Duchette?”

  “What happened at Mont St. Michel that caused you to miss the turn of the tide?”

  “Have you been in contact with Congressman Kent during your time in France?”

  “Is Monsieur Smith your latest lover?”

  Mallory knifed the reporter who’d shouted the last question with an icy glare. Before she could respond, however, Cutter drew her closer within the circle of his arm.

  “Not her latest,” he corrected.

  He smiled at her, playing to the audience yet somehow giving her the sense that his words were for her alone.

  “Her last.”

  Okay, this was only pretend. A very skillful act for the cameras. Even if it hadn’t been, Mallory knew better than to believe Cutter’s smooth lies. That didn’t prevent a raw, scratchy lump the size of the Eiffel Tower from clogging her throat.

  Chapter 14

  If Cutter hadn’t already suspected he was in over his head where Mallory Dawes was concerned, watching her perform for the cameras would have done the trick.

  He knew how much she’d dreaded the inquisition. Felt her flinch as the questions went from personal and prying to just plain vicious. Chin high, she responded to those questions she chose to while ignoring the rest.

  Cutter deflected as many of the barbs as he could by referring all inquiries about Remy Duchette to the local police. He also played the new man in Mallory’s life to the hilt, staking his claim with every possessive smile. Yet not even this very public branding could protect her from increasingly salacious questions about her alleged affair with Congressman Kent. Finally, he’d had enough.

  “That’s it,” he said abruptly, fighting hard to keep his anger in check. “Ms. Dawes and I need to leave for the airport. Gilbért will show you out.”

  Leaving the gaggle to pack up their gear under the butler’s watchful eye, Cutter steered Mallory into the hall. She kept her arm tucked in his and a smile pasted on her face as they mounted the stairs. Once out of camera reach, though, she wilted right before his eyes.

  “You okay?”

  “Yes.” A shudder rippled through her slender frame. “I know they’re only doing their job. They just … kind of get to me.”

  “You didn’t let it show.”

  “You think?” She gave a small laugh. “I must be getting better at this. God knows I’ve had plenty of practice. When do you want to leave?”

  “As soon as you get your things together.”

  This time the laugh was a little more genuine. “That won’t take long.”

  “Knock on the connecting door when you’re ready.”

  Mallory entered the room she’d come to think of as her own and rested her shoulder blades against the door. The circus downstairs had drained and humiliated her, but she regretted more the fact that her stay in this elegant suite with its shimmering azure drapes and four-poster bed was over. That, and the knowledge she would soon say goodbye to Cutter.

  She wanted to believe his promise to follow her home as soon as he could. Ached to believe the hours they’d spent locked in each other’s arms last night had seared him as much as they had her. Despite his lies and elaborate deceptions, everything inside her wanted to trust him.

  Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she raised her left hand. Cutter had insisted she keep the ring. As a souvenir. Curling her hand into a fist, Mallory tilted it this way and that, setting off colorful sparks as the diamonds caught the light.

  Her hand stilled. The rainbow of colors dimmed. Sighing, she went to gather her few things.

  “You must come again,” Gilbért pronounced on the steps leading to the cobbled courtyard. His wife endorsed that with a vigorous bob of her head.

  “I cook for you,” she promised. “Pears en croute, yes? With buttered brandy sauce.”

  That alone was enough to make Mallory wish she had more to give them as a parting gift than the bottle of Calvados from Monsieur Villieu’s private stock.

  They, in turn, presented a hibiscus-colored shopping bag with gold cord handles and an instantly recognizable logo. A shoebox sat inside the bag.

  “These are from madame’s spring collection,” Gilbért said. “She hopes you will accept them with her apologies that you should come to harm while a guest in her home.”

  Lust and guilt battled for Mallory’s soul. “I can’t accept such an expensive gift.”

  “But you must,” the butler insisted, pressing the bag into her hands. “Madame wishes you to have them.”

  She suspected it was Gilbért and his wife who wanted her to return home with something other than a mixed bag of memories and the bruises she’d collected from Remy.

  “Thank you.” Going up on tiptoe, she kissed his weathered cheeks. “And you, Madame Picard.”

  “Au revoir, mademoiselle, et bonne chance.”

  Cutter stowed his carryall and the small tote holding the items Mallory had purchased in town in the backseat of his rental car. After shaking hands with Gilbért and dropping kisses on Madame Picard’s apple-red cheeks, he settled Mallory in the passenger seat and slid behind the wheel. She twisted around to wave as the car rattled through the arched passageway. Once they were on the sweeping drive, the château dwindled to a fanciful, turreted image in the side mirror.

  Mallory said little during the long drive to the airport on the outskirts of Paris. Cutter, by contrast, was a whirlwind of activity. Dividing his attention between the traffic ahead and the road behind, he eliminated every obstacle Mallory had been tripping over for the past week. By the time they nosed into the bumper-to-bumper traffic on the airport loop, he had everything arranged.

  “Your temporary passport was delivered to the Delta Business Class reservations desk. It’s waiting for you with your ticket.”

  “Okay.”

  “There’s an American Express kiosk inside the terminal. They’ll reissue your traveler’s checks.”

  Horns blared as he cut the wheel and pulled onto the ramp for short-term parking.

  “The rental-car company wants you to sign a release of liability, but you can take care of that when you get home. Mike Callahan will be at the gate when you deplane. Look for a big bear of a man, almost as ugly as I am.”

  She smiled dutifully at the sally. She could think of a whole slew of adjectives to describe Cutter Smith. Ugly wasn’t one of them.

  Scarred, yes. Rough a
round the edges, definitely. Yet capable of such incredible tenderness that Mallory’s heart ached with the memory of it. Wrenching her gaze from his profile, she let it drop to the filigree band on her finger.

  “Mike will be wearing a windbreaker with the insignia of the Military Marksmanship Association on the pocket. Rifles crossed over a bull’s-eye.” He shot her a quick look. “Got that?”

  “Rifles crossed over a bull’s-eye. Got it.”

  The short-term parking garage was jammed, but Cutter lucked out and found a slot only a few yards from the second-story walkway to the departure terminal.

  He carried the tote, Mallory the brightly colored shopping bag. She couldn’t believe she’d crossed this same walkway less than a week ago, blithely unaware she was being stalked by the man at her side. Her little burst of resentment quickly fizzled. Too much had happened, and her feelings for Cutter were too confused, to work up much of a mad at this point.

  The replacement passport was waiting at the Delta Business Class desk, as promised, along with a revised return ticket.

  “We bumped you up to Business Class,” the helpful clerk advised after issuing a boarding pass. “Do you have any luggage to check?”

  With a strangled laugh, Mallory shook her head. “Not this time.”

  “Very well. Your aircraft will begin boarding at Gate 42B in approximately one hour. Have a good flight home, Mademoiselle Dawes.”

  “Was Business Class your doing?” she asked as Cutter took her arm to weave a path through the throngs of travelers toward the shops at the end of the concourse. The distinctive blue-and-white sign above the American Express kiosk stood out like a beacon.

  “I figured you deserved at least that much of a break after …”

  He broke off, his grip tightening. When his eyes narrowed on something beyond her, Mallory twisted around to see what had snared his attention. Shock rippled through her as she spotted her face staring back at her from the giant TV screen mounted above the heads of the travelers.