Charade: Her Billionaire - Paris

by Lisa Marie Rice

  They slid into the room, backs against the wall. That heavy bag of gear she was carrying slid silently to the ground.

  She couldn’t see them, but she knew that the room was filled with masterpieces. Works of art that had inspired millions but that could be destroyed at any minute. One monster pressing a detonator and they would be lost forever, together with the lives of the hostages, and their own lives. She had no idea how a human being could do that but she also had no idea how they could have shot those innocent tourists.

  This wasn’t humanity as she knew it. These were beasts, monsters.

  This was what Mark did. Fight monsters.

  As if he knew she was thinking about him, he turned his head with those weird goggles that made him look like an alien insect. It was too dark to see his expression but he held up his thumb.

  Everything okay?

  You didn’t need to be a soldier to understand it. She lifted her own thumb.

  Everything’s peachy.

  Her back and knees hurt from carrying all that weight. She was exhausted and filthy and terrified, but damned if she’d show him that. He was brave, so by God, she was going to be brave too. Or at least pretend to be.

  He nodded, and she could see that he’d dismissed her from his mind. Damn right. She didn’t want to be a distraction or burden in any way. If they were going to get out of this alive, if they had any hope of saving those hostages and saving the Louvre, it was all on Mark. On his combat skills, intelligence, instincts, focus. His bravery.

  He was studying his watch and swiveled his head toward her. What was he trying to communicate…?

  Oh. The two guards were coming back, boot heels clicking loudly on the parquet flooring. They didn’t have to be silent. They thought they’d already won.

  Think again, you sons of bitches.

  She surprised herself with the red, raw rush of hatred that rose up and clouded her mind for a moment. She’d have strangled them with her bare hands at that moment if she could.

  But she couldn’t. She could only be as silent as possible and wait for them to go away, back on patrol.

  If she understood correctly, an army of commandos was gathering, ready to take the terrorists down as soon as she and Mark released the gas in the Mona Lisa Room. They were going to have to be fast and brutal, so no one had a chance to set off the explosives.

  But the first line of defense here, the one indispensable person, was Mark. He was the one who was going to make that rush possible.

  She reached out unconsciously to touch his arm, reassure herself. He was so silent she could only know he was there in the darkness by his body heat, by the denser darkness that was Mark.

  He picked up her gloved hand, brought it to his mouth and kissed it without looking at her.

  It was like an infusion of power, a sudden rush of it. Power and heat racing through her body, light in darkness.

  They waited for what felt like forever but was probably only ten minutes. The concept of time was gone. There was no light to see her watch. The feeble light in the corridor barely penetrated the opening of the room.

  Her heartbeat was no longer a timekeeper. Hers was racing, irregular and fast. All she knew was that it felt like she was suffocating in the timeless darkness as they stood frozen. Mark didn’t move a muscle, so neither did she. The two terrorists would have had to move into the room and pace the perimeter to find them.

  They didn’t do that. They stood at the entrance, backs to the room, and exchanged quiet words.

  Suddenly there was a loud squawking sound that made her jump a little. Mark touched her arm reassuringly and she was ashamed of herself. It was only their radio or walkie-talkie. One of the terrorists moved his arm and spoke quietly into the receiver. A minute later, they walked back out into the corridor, back on their rounds.

  She let out her breath in a silent whoosh, unaware that she’d been barely breathing. Mark held up a hand, listening hard. When they couldn’t hear the boot steps, they moved quietly to the entrance and out into the big corridor, across the intersection, into the Gallery.

  One big room, two, three. Finally, they reached the room where they could enter the walls and continue to the Mona Lisa room undetected. Mark moved right to the side wall and took out his lock-pick set.

  He was working fast, unable to completely muffle the small metallic sounds of the lock pick working its magic.

  Two men’s voices sounded out in the Gallery and Harper tapped frantically at his shoulder. Mark nodded but otherwise gave no sign of urgency, merely continued working at the lock.

  The voices were becoming louder.

  They were shielded by the darkness but not completely hidden. If one or both of the patrolling terrorists had very keen hearing and decided to look in, they’d see two shadows darker than the night.

  Mark couldn’t keep watch, all his attention was taken up with the lock, so it was up to her to be his lookout. She turned her back to the wall and stared with every ounce of attention at the entrance, a slightly lighter shade of dark.

  The voices grew even louder. They weren’t speaking loudly, she knew that. It just felt loud, the voices seemingly impinging on her skin. If they were discovered, they wouldn’t be the only ones to die. It might actually trigger the massacre of the hostages, the detonation of the explosives.

  God, no.

  She wanted to whisper hurry! to Mark but that would be useless and distracting. Mark was working as fast as anyone could. He knew the dangers and the risks. His hands were steady from what she could hear in the gloom.

  A last light click of the lock and the door swung open—just as the two terrorists made it to the entrance of the room. She could tell because of the echoing sound their voices made. They were exactly opposite them, in full view if there was light. She hunched her shoulders and tensed her muscles, which would be amazingly useful against machine-gun fire.

  The sound of the terrorists’ boots came loud and clear and Mark ushered her in with a strong hand on her shoulder. He followed her immediately and shut the door soundlessly with not a second to spare.

  Harper thought her heart would hammer its way out of her chest. It was completely lightless inside the wall but she dropped the bag stepped into his arms without hesitation as if they were in broad daylight. Once again magnetic, their two bodies coming together unerringly with an audible click, the two sets of body armor meeting.

  Harper burrowed, holding Mark tightly, wondering if he could hear her hammering heart shaking against the armor. She trembled and he held her more tightly, as if he could absorb her shock and sorrow and, yes, terror.

  It worked. Embracing the heat and strength of his strong, hard body somehow transmitted something—courage? hope?—to her, and the trembling died down. She could draw in a breath that wasn’t painful. Her jaws unclenched. Her heart stopped trip-hammering and began beating steadily.

  Her arms relaxed. She held him instead of clutching him.

  Mark’s head bent down to her. The scruff of beard he’d developed itched against her cheek and she welcomed the small bite of it. It grounded her.

  “Okay?” he whispered in her ear and she nodded, stepping back. A little ashamed, but not too much. He’d just lent her a little bit of his bravery.

  Mark led them both farther down the corridor between the walls, far from the door he’d opened, and he pulled out the flashlight. His arm rose up and she felt more than saw him remove the goggles and then switch on the light.

  The narrow beam was bright after the darkness and she blinked.

  “Give yourself a minute and let your eyes adjust to the light,” he said, voice low. She nodded, watching him as he slowly came into focus, seeing his face again clearly after the hour of semi-darkness.

  Strong cheekbones, clean features, slight beard.

  In the past hour, he’d killed a man and saved her life, safely brought them to the drop-off point and back, and was now going to save the lives of the hostages.

  “What?” he aske
d, dark eyebrows drawing together in a frown.

  “You’re magnificent,” she whispered, and rose up on her toes to kiss his cheek.

  “Nice to know,” he whispered back. “Say that to me again when it’s over.”

  There was nothing to smile at. They were in deadly danger. Murdered men and women were outside in the Gallery terrorists were holding over a hundred hostages at gunpoint. But she smiled anyway.

  “You betcha.”

  Here is where it got tricky.

  Now that they were inside the walls, Mark put the Glock in his holster and picked up the improvised sack of combat goodies from the floor. It wasn’t heavy for him but it must have been staggeringly heavy for her, not that she’d complained.

  Not for one second.

  He remembered Evers on patrol. Evers hated carrying things. He’d have bitched endlessly about hauling around a big bulky bag over his shoulder while avoiding armed guards.

  Not Harper. She was the real deal.

  She didn’t complain that he’d taken the weight now, though.

  Now they had three big rooms to get across between the walls and they had to do it quietly. It was early morning. Any guards who were awake would be hypersensitive to noise in the quiet of the deepest part of the night.

  Mark held a finger up to his lips and she nodded. Not that she’d made any noise up until now, but still. Now it was doubly important that no one discover their existence. Hundreds of lives and maybe the very existence of the Louvre itself depended on it. Not to mention their own lives.

  They were going to make their way slowly and carefully.

  Mark set off, his flashlight reduced to a small point, just enough to show where the walls were and the floor in front of them. Just enough light to ensure that they didn’t trip.

  Again, she held on to him. Finger curled into one of the empty pouches of his combat vest. She stepped so lightly in his wake that he could barely feel her, but felt reassured that she was there, following him step by step.

  They made their way slowly around the big rooms, between the walls, until they reached the Mona Lisa room.

  Mark knelt and fixed his smart phone to the USB end of the cable he’d left in place and tapped the screen. The tiny camera had night vision and infrared, which he didn’t need at the moment. The night vision gave a clear picture though the light in the room was dim. The hostages were massed in the middle of the room. Most of them were slumped in sleep, the kids in their mothers’ or fathers’ arms, a few sprawled on the floor. Several of the male hostages were upright and awake, but there was no chance of rushing the terrorists ringing the room. Some of the hostages might be waiting for an opportunity to present itself but it would never come. Even if, by some miracle, they managed to overcome the guards in the room, the patrols would come rushing in, shooting.

  Sorry guys, Mark wished he could say. I know you want to kill these fuckers but you can’t. Let me take care of it.

  The guards here were alert, rifles in their hands, pointed at the floor. But it would take only one second for those rifles to be shouldered. And for that matter, they could shoot from the hip. The center of the room was a target-rich area if ever there was one. Even shooting from the hip, they couldn’t miss with automatic weapons.

  A baby suddenly started crying and he could hear the mother desperately trying to stifle the cries. The nearest guard raised his rifle threateningly. It was not so dark that the hostages couldn’t see the guard shouldering his rifle.

  The mother was panting and moaning in terror. A man—presumably the father—scrambled inside a backpack and came out with a baby bottle, which he put in the baby’s mouth. The crying stopped instantly and after a moment, the guard let his rifle drop and stepped back.

  There was an audible whoosh of relief from the hostages.

  Damn! That little drama was going to make the terrorists more aware, even more alert. If Mark could, he’d wait another hour to make sure that boredom could descend on them once again, but he didn’t have an hour.

  The police were massed outside on the great concourse, probably spilling out onto the avenue along the Seine. With a mole who was reporting to the terrorists. Their leader would know that no action was being taken for the moment.

  Wrong.

  Because Robert’s commandos were preparing to infiltrate, half through the roof and half through the bombed entrance via an underground tunnel, and they were waiting for Mark’s command. Once Mark reported that the men holding guns on the hostages were unconscious, the commandos would come rushing in with suppressed weapons, shooting their way to the Mona Lisa room. It would be up to Mark to take care of any guards who came rushing toward the hostages.

  It was going to be tricky and hard keeping everyone safe. And Mark had an overriding concern—keeping Harper safe. Because he wanted to survive this mission and he wanted Harper in his life. He wanted that badly.

  He lifted his gaze from the screen and looked at her. She was standing quietly, carefully watching him. Looking to him for clues as to what to do. This wasn’t her world, but she knew it was his and was willing to follow his lead.

  An amazing woman.

  He’d given her the flashlight to hold, the light facing up. It created a dim, suffused light reflected off the ceiling.

  He bent his head, speaking directly in her ear. “I’m going to put the gas mask on you. Do you suffer from claustrophobia?”

  She shook her head, then nodded. “Only in crowds.”

  “Good. It’ll be really uncomfortable. Very hot. Hard to breathe, hard to see. You’ll be tempted to shift it around to make it more comfortable, but don’t touch it. There’s no peripheral vision, you’ll have to turn your head to see things to the side. It’s very isolating and it will muffle your hearing. Are we clear on that?” Some soldiers suffered from mask phobia and tore their masks off in the stress of battle.

  She nodded, eyes huge in her face.

  “You’ll hear your own breathing and it will sound weird. Like Darth Vader. So. This is what will happen. I’m going to gas the room, both sides. I really don’t know how long it will take to make everyone unconscious, and Robert didn’t know either. So we’ll wait. I’m going to crack open the door, this one that opens directly into the Mona Lisa room, and be ready. When I give the signal, the French Special Forces guys are going to be rushing into the building, up the grand staircase and down toward the Gallery. Some will drop down through that chimney. They’re all going to be moving as fast and as silently as possible. If things go well, they’ll be here in a few minutes. You’ll stay inside the wall.”

  “Okay.” She nodded again.

  “But—sometimes shit happens.” He had to prepare her for that, too. Actually, shit happened more often than not. “If the SF guys don’t get here in time, or the guards are conscious enough to start shooting, I’ll have to intervene. If that happens, I want you to stay inside. Close this door quietly and run to the next room through the walls. Run away from this room and then lie down on the floor, as flat as you can. Is that clear?”

  God, if it turned into a live-fire situation, he didn’t know if these walls would provide sufficient cover. The thought of a bullet hitting her—he couldn’t go there.

  “Yes.”

  “Repeat what I said.”

  A tenet of soldiering. In the heat of battle, sometimes people froze. They developed tunnel vision and couldn’t think straight. That’s why soldiers repeated orders twice. Pilots, too.

  “After you pump gas in the room, we wait. If a situation arises where you have to go out, I run to the next room and lie flat on the floor.”

  “Excellent.” He kissed her cheek. His brave soldier.

  Suddenly, Harper grasped his body armor at the top and yanked hard until they were nose to nose. “Don’t go into that room unless you absolutely have to. Don’t be a hero and get yourself shot.”

  She was fierce, eyes a blazing gray that shot rays of power. Her nostrils flared and there were white lines around her mouth
. Power crackled from her. She was magnificent, this classy woman who cared deeply about design.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and kissed her.

  She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him back, hard. Holding him as tightly as she could, mouth open, devouring him. And he was devouring her, the kiss rough and desperate. It wasn’t about sex, it was about connection, bonding, saying all those things that couldn’t be said in words.

  Don’t get yourself killed.

  I won’t.

  I think I love you.

  I think I love you too.

  He tasted her desperation, her fear, her courage. No tears, just a tight hold on him because they both knew it might be their last kiss. It might be a kiss that had to last a lifetime.

  Harper clutched at his neck, wanting to get closer, but they both had body armor on so they were touching each other where they could reach skin. He had his hands clasped around her head, soft hair falling over his wrists, soft mouth crushed under his.

  He was hard as a rock, mostly desire to possess this woman once more because it might be the last time, but a small part of it was combat adrenaline, the male body wanting to celebrate life right in the moment in which life might depart the body. And maybe some thousand-year-old instinct to impregnate before death—throwing yourself into the next generation even if you wouldn’t be there yourself.

  Who knew?

  All he knew was that he’d give a limb for the chance to have sex with her again, right now.

  But he couldn’t, and the part of his brain that was a modern warrior overcame the bigger part of his brain that was a primitive warrior. He pulled away from her mouth with a devastating feeling of loss.

  Their foreheads met. Looking down, Mark could see her impossibly thick lashes concealing her eyes, a silvery track left by a tear that was no longer visible. Harper’s breath came fast and sharp, as if she’d been running.

  “Gotta do it now, honey.” He kept his voice cool and even.

  She swallowed, nodded.

  “But first I have to fit the gas mask on you.”