Stranded with a Spy

by Merline Lovelace

  All too well aware that a hotel or inn would require a guest’s passport, she wrestled the number for the American Embassy from the information operator. The embassy was closed, but a recording gave her a twenty-four-hour emergency number. Unfortunately, the duty officer who answered didn’t classify a lost passport in the same emergency category as death, dismemberment or attack by suicide bombers.

  Mallory argued the point for some minutes before gritting her teeth and informing him she would call back tomorrow. During duty hours.

  “God! Bureaucrats! I can’t believe I’m one of them. Or was,” she amended darkly.

  Snapping the phone shut, she handed it back to Cutter. What the heck was she going to do now?

  Spend the night sitting at a table in one of the little bistros, she supposed, if she could find one that stayed open twenty-four hours. Judging by the departing tour buses and rapidly emptying causeway, Mont St. Michel was a day-tripper’s town. Mallory had the sinking feeling it rolled up its streets at night.

  Cutter’s deep voice dragged her from the dismal prospect of roaming dark alleys and narrow lanes in search of a spot to rest her weary bones.

  “I don’t like leaving you stranded like this.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  Somehow.

  “How about we walk back into the town and get you a hotel room for the night?”

  Mallory was too relieved to mouth even a polite refusal. “Would you? I’ll reimburse you, I promise. Just give me your business card or mailing address.”

  “No problem. Or…”

  When he hesitated, her heart sank. Visions of dark alleys once again filled her head.

  “Look, you’re going to need a base camp for a few days to get this mess straightened out. I’ve been invited to put up at a villa not far from here. You’re welcome to stay there for as long as you like.”

  Wariness replaced weariness. Her face stiffening, Mallory retreated behind the defensive walls she’d erected in the past month. “Thanks, but I don’t think so.”

  As if reading her mind, he gentled his voice.

  “It’s okay. I’m not like the jerk who harassed you this afternoon. I promise I won’t hit on you.”

  A smile crinkled the skin at the corners of his eyes.

  “Unless you want me to.”

  Chapter 5

  Doubts pinged at Mallory during the thirty-minute drive to the villa.

  Cutter’s invitation had seemed genuine enough. So had his promise to keep his hands to himself. She wanted to believe him. She was too exhausted not to. Yet the ugliness of the past month kept coming back to haunt her.

  What if he’d recognized her from the vicious stories in the newspapers and on TV? Or overheard the nasty remarks that creep had tossed out this afternoon? Mallory’s ready capitulation and acceptance of his offer to share a villa would have reinforced the rumors of her alleged promiscuity.

  On the other hand…

  He’d come to her rescue twice now, each time with quiet and extremely effective competence. Despite her prickly doubts and still-raw wounds, she felt comfortable with him. And, as crazy as it sounded, safe.

  Besides, she didn’t have a basketful of options at this point. Every bone in her body ached with weariness. All she wanted was a bed. Any kind of a bed.

  “You said you’re a bureaucrat. Or were.”

  His voice came to her through the autumn dusk now filling the car’s interior.

  “What kind of work did you do?”

  She dragged herself from her near-catatonic state and searched for an answer that wouldn’t open Pandora’s box.

  “I worked at the U.S. Department of Commerce for five years.”

  And then she’d accepted the position on Congressman Kent’s staff.

  Lord, what a mistake that had been! But Dillon Porter, Kent’s senior staffer, had lured her up to the Hill with tantalizing visions of helping shape laws and policies that would affect the nation’s balance of trade for decades to come.

  “Commerce, huh? What did you do there?”

  “Nothing very glamorous. I was an analyst with the Market Access and Compliance Branch of the International Trade Administration. Basically, I crunched numbers to track U.S. exports to and imports from Canada.”

  “Sounds like a big job.”

  “It certainly kept me busy. More than half a trillion dollars in goods flow between the U.S. and Canada every year. Most of the trade is dispute-free, although things got dicey for a while over softwood lumber.” A note of pride crept into her voice. “I helped draft the agreement that finally settled that decades-long dispute.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  Looking back, Mallory had to admit that was her finest hour. She’d played a minuscule role in the landmark agreement, mostly providing historical trending stats, but her input had been valuable enough to win her a spot at the signing ceremony. It had also brought her to the attention of the House Committee on Banking and Trade.

  How swiftly the proud can fall. Swallowing a sigh, Mallory skirted that dangerous ground.

  “You said you’re a wine broker. How often do you log onto the International Trade Administration’s database?”

  “When I need to.”

  The vague reply aroused her professional pride. “You should check the database regularly. ITA updates it daily with the latest data on markets and products. You can also use that system to report unfair competition and dumping by foreign competitors.”

  Cutter was on shaky ground here. What he knew about the Department of Commerce and the International Trade Administration would make for an extremely short conversation. If he didn’t want to trip himself up, he’d better steer the conversation into different channels…like Ms. Dawes’s most recent occupation.

  “I’m surprised you stayed at Commerce for so long. From what I’ve seen as an outsider looking in, a good number of Washington’s brightest bureaucrats get lured into the political arena and end up either as lobbyists or working on a Congressional staff.”

  Her glance was quick and suspicious. Cutter kept his eyes on the road ahead and let her mull over her answer. A signpost at the juncture of the road gave her an out.

  “Look, there’s the turnoff for St. Malo. Don’t your directions say the villa is only two kilometers ahead, on the right?”

  “On the left,” he corrected.

  He’d let her off the hook for now. With Hawk back at OMEGA control, inserting spikes into every wheel, she wasn’t going anywhere soon. Cutter would have plenty of time to worm Ms. Dawes’s secrets out of her.

  “Looks like this may be the place,” he announced after a few minutes.

  Slowing his rental, he pulled up at a set of iron gates decorated with gilded scrollwork and mythological creatures. Cutter noted with approval the tamper-proof screens protecting the security cameras mounted above the gate. Pressing the call button, he identified himself to the disembodied voice that answered.

  “Bon soir, Monsieur Smith. We have been expecting you.”

  The gates swung open to reveal a long drive that wound through acres of manicured lawn and led to a château perched on the rocky cliffs overlooking the sea. Complete with towers and turrets, the castle was right out of the fifteenth century.

  Mallory’s jaw dropped. Cutter caught his just in time.

  “This is your seaside villa?” she asked incredulously.

  “I, ah, heard about it through a friend of a friend. He didn’t indicate it was this grandiose.”

  Crushed stone crunched under the tires. Cutter’s trained eye detected more cameras mounted at strategic intervals and the glint of what he suspected were passive sensors laced throughout the grounds.

  The drive ended at an arched passageway that once might have contained a portcullis. The passageway gave access to an inner courtyard. Two individuals waited inside the walled yard. The one on the right was tall and lean, with short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, a neat mustache and a dignified air. Coming forward with a stately
tread, he assisted Mallory from the car and introduced himself as Gilbért Picard, the majordomo and property overseer. With him was his wife, Madame Picard, a shy, rotund woman with rosy cheeks.

  Gilbért was as smooth as butter and didn’t so much as bat an eyelash when Cutter emerged from the vehicle. His wife’s startled gaze went instantly to the scars, however. Just as quickly, she looked away.

  Used to the reaction, Cutter introduced himself and Mallory. Gilbért apologized for paucity of staff here to greet them and retrieved Cutter’s carryall from the trunk. If he wondered at Mallory’s lack of baggage, he was too well trained to comment on it.

  “Madame brings her maid and masseuse when she travels down from Paris,” he explained, leading the way inside. “We have two girls from the village who come each day to clean. I will ask one to see to Mademoiselle Dawes’s personal needs, oui?”

  “I don’t need a maid,” Mallory protested. “Just a place to crash.”

  “Pardon?”

  “All I want is a bed.”

  “But of course.”

  With a measured tread, he led them down a long hall wainscoted in glowing golden oak. The alcoves lining the hall contained ultramodern sculptures with sharp angles and odd shapes. The pieces should have looked out of place in this ancient castle, but old and new somehow blended seamlessly.

  Mallory peeked through open doors as they passed, stealing glimpses of salons and sitting rooms and a library stacked floor to ceiling with books bound in leather and etched with gold print on the spines. The grand ballroom and music room were on the second floor, the guest rooms and madame’s private suite on the third.

  On this floor, as on the others, both past and present came vividly alive. Baronial banners with richly embroidered coats of arms hung above suits of armor gilded with silver and gold. Yet the place of honor went to a Picasso spotlighted above a refectory table that might once have graced a twelfth-century cloister.

  “We have put mademoiselle in the blue bedchamber,” Picard announced as he opened an ornate set of double doors halfway down the corridor. “I hope it will be satisfactory.”

  Mallory stepped inside and felt as though she’d wandered into a Mediterranean grotto. Blue hardly described the shimmering azure of the drapes and upholstered chairs in the sitting room, or the richly embroidered coverlet on the four-poster bed. The bathroom beyond was accented with lapis lazuli trim, gold fixtures and sinks shaped like seashells. As in the rest of the château, modern sculpture and artwork coexisted beautifully with antique furniture.

  “Monsieur is in the green chamber, next door.”

  Picard made no reference to the connecting doors between the two suites.

  “Do you wish the dinner before you retire?” he asked politely. “Something light, perhaps? The omelette? Or the vol-au-vent, with fresh asparagus and our most delicious Normandy mussels?”

  “Well…”

  Hunger and exhaustion waged a fierce war using Mallory as the battleground. Her stomach beat the rest of her into submission. The lunch in Caen had been delicious, but hardly filling.

  “The vol-au-vent sounds wonderful. If it’s not too much trouble…”

  “Not at all. Madame Picard baked the pastry shells only this afternoon. I shall tell her to set a table in the petite dining salon. In thirty minutes, oui?”

  Mallory would have preferred a tray here in her room, but awareness of how much she owed Cutter made her reluctant to appear rude. Or too demanding of his time, she thought belatedly.

  “Please don’t let me alter any arrangements you’ve made for this evening,” she said with a smile. “I’ll be fine here. More than fine,” she amended, making another sweep of the elegant bedchamber.

  “All I had planned for this evening was to catch up on some paperwork. I’ll see you downstairs in thirty minutes.”

  He disappeared with Gilbért, leaving Mallory to shrug out of her blazer and head for the bathroom. To her delight, an enameled casket offered a selection of shampoos, scented soaps, body lotions, bath gels and tooth powders. The thoughtful hostess had even provided her guests toothbrushes in hygienically sealed containers. A twenty-first-century hair dryer and lighted mirror shared space on the dressing table with a silver-backed brush, comb and hand mirror that might once have belonged to Marie Antoinette.

  Mallory ached to sink into the tub but settled for a quick shower. Wrapping herself in one of the fluffy robes hanging in the closet, she slathered on lotion delicately scented with lilies of the valley. The creamy lotion moistened her skin and permeated the bath with flowery perfume.

  Once back in the bedroom, she cringed at the prospect of pulling on the same clothes she’d worn for more than twenty hours. Madame Picard’s arrival obviated that necessity.

  “Pardonnez-moi, mademoiselle. Monsieur Smith says you have lost your suitcase to the tides at Mont St. Michel. They are so treacherous, these tides.” Tsk-tsking, she shook her head and held out an arm draped with garments. “Madame keeps a spare wardrobe here at the château. These items, I think, will fit you.”

  “Oh, no! I couldn’t.”

  “But you must. Madame d’Marchand would be most displeased if Gilbért and I did not see to the comfort of her guests.”

  Overcoming Mallory’s protests, she laid the garments on the bed. The gown and matching negligee were lavender silk, lavishly trimmed with blond lace. The briefs and demi-bra were also silk.

  For outerwear, Madame Picard provided a gorgeously patterned blouse by Hermès and nutmeg-colored slacks in fine Italian merino wool. She’d even thought to bring a pair of net anklets still in their plastic wrapper.

  “Madame sells these in her boutiques,” she advised Mallory. “You will wish to wear them with these, yes?”

  From her pocket she produced a pair of slip-on mules in a leopard print splashed with bright red geraniums. The shiny metallic heels were the same eye-popping red and shaped like hourglasses. When Mallory glimpsed the label inside the mules, the light came on with blinding brilliance.

  “Omigod! Is your Madame d’Marchand the shoe designer, Yvette d’Marchand?”

  “Oui.” Pride beamed across the housekeeper’s face. “You have visited her boutique in Paris? Or in New York, on Fifth Avenue?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  Like Mallory could afford a pair of shoes by Yvette d’Marchand! Movie stars and presidents’ wives engaged in fierce bidding wars over her one-of-a-kind designs.

  “Perhaps you can arrange a visit before you leave Paris,” the housekeeper suggested, depositing the shoes beside the garments. “The petite dining salon is in the conservatory. Monsieur Smith awaits you there. It is just beyond the main dining salon.”

  “Thanks.”

  Mallory debated for all of thirty seconds before sloughing off the robe and sliding into the decadent briefs. The matching bra was too large, so she left it off and just went with a silky camisole. The shoes needed a little tissue at the toes, but otherwise fit beautifully.

  Amazing how a shower and a pair of designer shoes could revive a girl!

  Weary but rejuvenated, Mallory descended the stairs and followed Madame Picard’s directions through the main dining salon. Four magnificent Limoges chandeliers graced the banquet-hall-sized room, which featured a still life that had to be the work of Paul Gauguin. French doors lined one side of the room and gave onto the glassed-in conservatory.

  Mallory paused just inside the French doors, taking in the splendor of the setting. The conservatory’s fanciful Victorian ironwork, profusion of potted plants and fan-backed wicker chairs produced a gloriously decadent belle epoque feel, while the glass walls provided an unobstructed view of the Normandy coast, now fading into the dusk.

  A breathtakingly beautiful chess table set with ivory and ebony pieces occupied place of honor amid scattered lounge chairs at one end of the conservatory. The petite dining salon occupied the other. The round, glass-topped wicker table was set with linen and an array of covered dishes. Candles flickered in
tall silver holders. Crystal water goblets sparkled in the candles’ glow.

  Cutter stood at the windows close to the table. A highball glass in hand, he appeared riveted by the spectacle of incandescent waves crashing against the rocky coast. He’d showered, too, Mallory saw. His short dark hair curled in still-damp waves and the bristles that had darkened his cheeks were gone. He’d traded his sport coat and shirt for a silky black turtleneck that molded his wide shoulders and, coincidentally or otherwise, hid most of his scars.

  What in the world was she doing here? Mallory wondered, in this fairy-tale castle, about to have dinner with this stranger? The ordeal of the past weeks had made her gun-shy and wary around men. With good reason. She couldn’t count the number of sly innuendos and outright insults she’d endured since becoming the butt of so many raunchy jokes tossed out by late-night talk-show hosts.

  Even if the media hadn’t made her a target, she would have had second thoughts if she’d encountered Cutter Smith on an empty street or in a deserted parking lot. Despite his expensive loafers and superbly cut sport coat, he carried himself with a tough, don’t-mess-with-me air that would have made Mallory give him a wide berth.

  Yet, after knowing the man for all of four or five hours, she’d driven off with him to this isolated château and was about to sit down to an intimate, candlelight dinner for two. Worse, she found herself wanting to trust him, wanting to believe he really was as kind and considerate as he seemed to be.

  Not that it mattered. They’d go their separate ways tomorrow. For tonight, though, maybe she could let down her guard enough to simply enjoy his company.

  The sound of her borrowed mules clicking against the tiles brought his head around. When he took in her altered appearance, a smile softened the harsh lines of his face.

  “I see Madame Picard came through for you.”

  “Yes, she did. Thanks for mentioning my lost suitcase, although I have to confess I feel odd invading our hostess’s home and wardrobe. Did your friend of a friend tell you what she does for a living?”

  “He mentioned she designs clothing.”