She nodded. “On my mother’s side. She’s from Louisiana. The Delahousses of Baton Rouge.”
“Do you speak Creole?”
She shook her head regretfully. “My mother speaks very little herself. After she married my father, she moved away from home and sort of lost track of her family, her culture.”
“That’s too bad,” Armand murmured.
“It is. When I was growing up, on the few occasions we actually visited Baton Rouge, I used to feel like such an outcast among my aunts and uncles and cousins, who teased me mercilessly for not speaking or understanding Creole.” She grimaced at the memory. “For the longest time I blamed my mother, as well as my father, for alienating me from that part of my heritage. I swore, that if I ever got married, I would not do the same thing to my own children.”
Armand gazed at her, inwardly smiling at the stubborn defiance that glittered in her dark eyes. “I would teach you Muwaitian Creole,” he offered, “but I’m afraid it wouldn’t help you much with your Louisiana relatives.”
“And that’s the really weird thing,” Lia said, turning to him. “I actually understand more Muwaitian Creole than the Creole spoken by my mother’s people! I understood just about everything you and your family were saying to one another yesterday. Isn’t that amazing? I mean, considering that I was only in Muwaiti for two weeks—eight years ago, at that—I think it’s pretty remarkable that I still remember the language.”
Because you belong there, Armand thought. With me.
“That is pretty amazing,” he said aloud. “But then you already told me that you’ve always been very proficient with languages. You speak French beautifully,” he added, shivering at the memory of the erotic promises they’d whispered to each other as they made love. Damn, that was one of the hottest things he’d ever experienced.
Lia met his gaze, and the banked heat in her eyes told him she remembered, as well. Glancing away, she took another sip of her water. “Considering the large Creole population in Muwaiti, I always wondered why Creole isn’t one of the official languages.”
Armand scowled. “Because Alexandre Biassou believes in mass conformity, much like the French colonists who arrived on the island after the early African settlers. Biassou detests the Creole language. He’s been known to refer to it as an uncouth, bastardized version of French, a dialect spoken only by the uncivilized and illiterate. It drives him crazy that there are different variations of Creole spoken throughout the country. He believes that in order for Muwaiti to compete on a global scale, we must all speak French, the language of the so-called noblemen who colonized and enslaved our ancestors.”
Lia shook her head in disgust. “A dictator through and through,” she pronounced with withering scorn. “It’s rather hypocritical of Biassou to talk about competing globally when he has single-handedly destroyed the Muwaitian economy and damaged important free-trade agreements with so many countries. Furthermore, he has lowered workers’ wages and—”
Seeing the way Armand was staring at her, and mistaking the cause, she broke off abruptly with a sheepish grin. “Er, sorry. Didn’t mean to get carried away. I know I’m preaching to the choir.”
“No, I wanted you to continue,” Armand said huskily, his heart racing with excitement and something else, something he was afraid to identify. “Your passion was…inspiring.”
Lia chuckled self-consciously. “Like I warned you before, there are certain issues I feel very strongly about. Greedy, corrupt presidents who take from the people they’re supposed to be serving is one of my hot-button issues.”
Armand smiled, still gazing intently at her. “My countrymen would be very fortunate to have such a strong, passionate advocate on their side.”
“They already have one—you. And when you become president,” Lia said with a sly smile, “you can reverse everything that horrible man has done over the last four years. And hey, you can even make Creole one of the official languages.”
Armand shook his head. “I’m not running for president,” he said, but his voice lacked the usual vehemence he expressed whenever his brother Henri broached this topic, which had been often.
“Why not?” Lia demanded. “Why wouldn’t you consider running for president?”
He tossed a few chunks of wood onto the dying fire, watching as the flames leaped and danced to life. “I’m not a politician,” he said simply.
“Who says you have to be?” she challenged. “If I’m not mistaken, the current Muwaitian president is a politician, and look how that turned out.”
Armand’s mouth twisted sardonically. “Good point.”
Lia studied him thoughtfully for several moments. “I know I’ve only known you less than a week, but I think the people of Muwaiti would be very lucky to have you as their new president. Who better to lead the country into the future than the man who fought to get it back for them?”
Armand smiled a little. “That’s very good. Maybe I could use that as a campaign slogan. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in becoming my speechwriter?”
She chuckled. “I already have a job, but if you decide to use that as your slogan, I’ll let you take the credit. How does that sound?”
His smile softened. “You’ve got a deal.”
Inexplicably his throat felt tight, clogged with emotion. It had been a long day, he reminded himself. He was tired and edgy, and his nerves were frayed like hell. The raw emotion he suddenly felt was a delayed reaction to the harrowing events of the past eleven hours.
But deep down inside Armand knew it was much more than that. Time was running out. He had only a few more days to convince Lia to return to Muwaiti with him when this assignment was over. And even that depended on the outcome of the hearing. If Alexandre Biassou walked away a free man, Armand knew what he had to do, and nothing or no one—not even the woman he loved—would stop him. He knew that killing Biassou would put an end to his future, one way or another. But as far as Armand was concerned, a future under the continued dictatorship of Biassou was no future at all.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Lia said, watching him quietly.
He managed a half smile. “They’re worth more than that,” he quipped. But her words had triggered a memory from earlier, an image that had been nagging at his conscience all day.
He looked at her. “There’s something else I’ve been meaning to ask you about.”
“What’s that?”
“Back at the cabin, when you were leaning over the mercenary’s body—” This time there was no mistaking the wary gleam that filled her dark eyes. She bit her bottom lip and glanced away.
Intrigued, Armand continued, “You were asking him who had sent him there. At one point you screamed, ‘What does that mean?’ as if you’d heard something. But he hadn’t said anything. I know, because I was standing there the whole time. Why did you ask him that? It was almost like…” He trailed off for a moment, searching for the right words, knowing he would sound crazy no matter what.
Finally he just blurted, “It was like you were trying to read his mind.”
Lia was staring into the fire, not at him. So she didn’t see the look of utter astonishment on his face when she said quietly, “I was.”
Lia was as shocked as Armand to hear those two words leave her mouth. She hadn’t planned on sharing her secret with him—ever.
Now it was too late.
In a low, carefully measured voice, Armand said, “Did I hear you correctly? Did you just tell me that you were trying to read that mercenary’s mind?”
Lia hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”
“How?”
She drew a long, deep breath and took the final plunge. “I can read minds.”
Armand said nothing for what seemed an eternity.
When Lia finally worked up the courage to look at him, she found him staring at her in stunned disbelief. And then suddenly a wide, knowing grin swept across his face. “That was good, chère. Very convincing. You almost had me going there.”
As the silence stretched between them, his eyes narrowed on hers. “Wait a minute,” he said slowly. “You weren’t teasing me, were you?”
“No.”
“You…you can read minds?”
Lia nodded. “That’s how I knew the mercenary wasn’t really an electrician. Yes, the lie he told about the scar made me suspicious of him, but I didn’t know for sure until I actually read his mind. I’d patted him down before letting him inside the cabin, so he had to leave his weapons in the van. When he claimed he needed to go get his tools, that’s when I stopped him.”
“My God,” Armand breathed, staring at her with a mixture of curiosity and fascination. “How long have you had this gift?”
“My whole life. I inherited it from my great-grandmother Genevieve, who was a voodoo priestess in Baton Rouge. She owned a storefront boutique back in the fifties, but because many whites weren’t entirely comfortable patronizing a black-owned business, she had to come up with additional ways to make a living. So she told fortunes, read palms and tarot cards, practiced voodoo. Her ability to read minds proved to be lucrative for her and her family. Until the day she read a white customer’s palm and realized that the woman was planning to harm her own child.”
“What did she do?” Armand asked. “Your great-grandmother, I mean?”
“She begged her not to do it, but the woman got angry and claimed she didn’t know what Grandma Genevieve was talking about. After she left the store, Grandma Genevieve didn’t know what to do. She was a black woman living in the segregated South. If she warned others or went to the authorities with what she knew, they would call her crazy or throw her in jail for slandering a white woman. So she kept quiet, hoping she was mistaken, or hoping that the lady would change her mind about hurting her child. Two days later, the drowned body of a little white boy was found in the river. When the townspeople learned that the woman had gone to see my great-grandmother just days before she killed her son, and that Grandma Genevieve had done nothing to prevent it, they became enraged. They set her store on fire while she was trapped inside. She died in the blaze.”
“Mon Dieu,” Armand muttered grimly. “That’s terrible.”
Lia nodded in agreement. “My mother wasn’t very proud of that part of her family history. Which is why she and my father never told me about my great-grandmother. When they found out I had inherited Grandma Genevieve’s mind-reading ability, they were shocked and devastated. I remember my mother crying and rocking me in her arms, saying it wasn’t my fault, that it was a family curse that had skipped two generations. That’s when I learned all about Grandma Genevieve, the voodoo priestess.”
“How old were you when you found out you could read minds?” Armand asked, clearly riveted by her tale.
“I was five years old when I could actually articulate what was happening to me. Before that I didn’t understand why I could hear other people’s thoughts when I touched them.”
“Wait. You have to be touching someone to read their mind?”
“Yes. That’s how it works for me. I can’t read minds without skin-to-skin physical contact.” A sad little smile touched her mouth. “One day when I was five, my father picked me up and was carrying me to the car to take me to school. I looked into his eyes and asked him, ‘Daddy, how did Mommy catch ovarian cancer?’ He was so shocked he nearly dropped me!”
Armand said quietly, “Your mother had ovarian cancer?”
Lia nodded. “They had just found out the day before. They were waiting for the right opportunity to tell me. My father thought I must have overheard them discussing it in their bedroom. When he asked me if I’d been eavesdropping, I pointed to his head and told him, ‘I heard it in here.’ I think that was the first time I ever saw my daddy cry.”
Armand reached over and gently touched her cheek. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.
Lia captured his hand and held it between hers. “It’s all right. Thankfully they caught the cancer in time. My mother has been cancer-free and healthy for over twenty years.”
“That’s wonderful,” Armand said warmly.
Lia nodded, smiling. “Her only regret was that she couldn’t have any more children. But after a while, she realized that having one psychic child was more than enough for her to handle.”
Armand chuckled softly. “I’m sure.” He looked down at their joined hands, and Lia didn’t need her gift to know what he was thinking.
“You’re wondering whether I can read your mind,” she murmured.
He nodded, meeting her gaze. “Can you?”
She searched his face. “How would it make you feel if I could?”
“A little embarrassed, to be honest with you.”
“Why?”
His lips quirked, and there was a decidedly sensual gleam in his eyes. “If you knew some of the thoughts I’ve been having about you, believe me, you’d think twice before coming anywhere near me.”
Lia’s belly quivered with arousal. She gave him a sultry smile. “How do you know I haven’t been having rather explicit thoughts about you?”
He flashed a wolfish grin. “I sure as hell hope you have.”
Lia laughed, gently tracing the lines in his warm, calloused palm.
He watched her for a moment. “Are you reading my palm?”
“Uh-huh. Do you know what I see?”
He shook his head, his eyes never leaving hers.
“I see you testifying at that hearing in five days, telling the world all the reasons why Alexandre Biassou deserves to spend the rest of his rotten life behind bars. I see those wise, compassionate members of the Security Council heeding your people’s cry for justice and handing down the punishment Biassou so richly deserves—”
“Death,” Armand growled.
Lia stopped, probing the feral intensity of his eyes. “If that’s what the Security Council decides—”
His face hardened. “That’s what he deserves. Nothing less.”
A fine chill ran through Lia, despite the humid night. “Listen to me,” she said, low and controlled. “You are not to take the law into your own hands. If that’s what you’re thinking of doing, put it out of your mind right now!”
A mocking gleam entered his eyes. “You mean, you don’t know what I’m thinking?”
“No, I don’t!”
He frowned. “What are you saying? You can’t read my mind?”
“No, damn it. For whatever reason, I can’t read your mind, Armand. It’s never happened to me before, but I guess there’s a first time for everything. You must have some sort of genetic anomaly that counteracts my psychic ability!”
“Really?” He blinked, then shook his head as if to clear it. “This is surreal. I can’t believe we’re actually having this conversation. I feel like we’re on the set of a movie, where the two dueling superheroes suddenly realize they’re the yin and yang to each other.”
Lia was not amused. “Go ahead and make fun of me,” she fumed, quickly gathering their trash. “That’s the kind of reaction I expected from you anyway, which is why I’ve never told anyone but my parents!”
“Wait a minute!” Armand protested as she jumped to her feet. “I wasn’t making fun of you.”
Ignoring him, Lia marched over to the trash receptacle and dumped in their empty plates and bottles. Armand grabbed her before she could start toward the storm-cellar door that led down to the underground bunker.
“Look at me.” He tipped her chin upward, forcing her to meet the glittering intensity of his gaze. “I was not making fun of you, Lia. I think you’re the most wonderful, extraordinary woman I’ve ever met. I believed that before you told me about your special gift, and I believe it even more so now.”
“You don’t think I’m a freak?” Lia retorted.
Armand shook his head, tenderly stroking her cheek. “How could I ever think that about you? Do you have any idea how much you mean to me? I’m in love with you, Lia. I love you so damn much it kills m
e to think about going back to Muwaiti without you.”
Lia’s heart squeezed painfully. Tears rushed to her eyes, spilled down her cheeks. But before Armand could gather her into his arms, she stepped out of reach and pinned him with an unwavering stare.
“If you love me, then promise me you won’t go after Biassou if he walks,” she commanded, her voice husky with emotion. “Promise me.”
Armand clenched his jaw, then shook his head slowly.
“Promise me.”
His eyes went hard and flat. “I can’t make that promise.”
“Damn you!”
“Lia—”
“Are you crazy?” she screamed. “Do you have a death wish? Do you have any idea what will happen to you if you try to kill Biassou? If you succeed, you’ll be sent to prison—or executed! And if you fail, God help you. Remember those gruesome punishments you were talking about earlier? The ones Biassou is notorious for? How much worse do you think it will be for you if you try to kill him? He will subject you to the worst, most excruciating torture you’ve ever imagined, and then he will smile in your face before killing you! Is that what you want? Are you trying to become a damn martyr?”
“What other choice do I have?” Armand exploded, his eyes flashing with fury. “I had that son of a bitch right where I wanted him—twice. But I was trying to be honorable and humane. Like my father, and like Francois Seligny. So I let Biassou go. Twice, damn it. And because I spared his worthless life, hundreds of innocent people have died. Do you think my act of mercy comforts me at night? Do you think I congratulate myself for taking the high road? No! So, yes, Lia, if the Security Council fails to do what’s right, I’m going after Biassou to finish what I started.”
Lia stared at him, trembling with rage and despair. “I won’t let you. For your own good I’m going to tell someone. I’m going to make sure you can’t get anywhere near him.”
“Don’t bother,” Armand sneered. “I got to him before, and I will get to him again. Believe that.”
Secret Agent Seduction Page 20
