Honeymoon with a Stranger

by Frances Housden

  Roxie sounded genuinely sleepy. “Mac, you’re the best. Night…” He felt her roll onto her side, facing away from him.

  Too bad his performance hadn’t done anything to cull his aching need. Listening to her moan had exacerbated his condition to the point of torture.

  But wondering how it felt to be inside her, to be the one who made her sigh and gasp, would be more kill than cure, and his mother never raised a masochist. No sir.

  True American patriots, his mother and father had served their country with diplomacy in embassies set in some of the most far-flung countries of the world.

  Serving the United States had become ingrained in him from the time he was a small child. That’s what had made him the man he was today, a man of honor. As for the different roles he played, the lies he told, they didn’t count.

  At first the pretense had simply been a way to serve his country, but after meeting Jason Hart, they had become a means of keeping the world safe from terrorism.

  He turned his back to Roxie.

  Sleep wouldn’t find him as easily as it had her. He still had work to do, Thierry to contact. An hour passed slowly in the heavy silence.

  Finally, at 3:00 a.m., he slipped from under the covers, hardly disturbing them as he left her sleeping, and dressed in his jeans and jacket, then unfastened his watch to retrieve a fine tungsten lock pick from the back of it.

  Mac had checked the door to the attic earlier and been quietly pleased to discover Yves had made it easy for him by removing the key. The lock turned with hardly a sound.

  Easing the door open, he slipped out onto the top landing and down the stairs, confident of being back before she even knew he was gone.

  As well as contacting Thierry, there was the layout of the house to reconnoiter and an escape route to plan. This time, he would be prepared, and should another gorgeous woman chance to cross his path, he’d step aside and let her go on by.

  With Roxie, he was sailing too close to the wind.

  Let her believe he was a criminal. He didn’t care. Nor would he let her know that no matter what he’d told her, he wouldn’t stand by and watch anyone harm her.

  It took him thirty minutes to reconnoiter the house and talk to Thierry. The question uppermost in his mind had been answered.

  The identity of the fourth man.

  IBIS had identified the owner of the house, Monsieur Victoire Sevarin, deputy minister of France’s Department of Defense.

  No matter how deeply some internal security agencies scrutinized the backgrounds of their employees, one rotten apple always managed to taint the whole barrel.

  Sevarin’s had been the hand that controlled France’s biotech weapons research. Who better to acquire Green Shield than the man who was supposed to control its destruction?

  One problem solved, a thousand to go.

  Already aware of Sevarin, Thierry’s priorities took an oblique angle. “Who was the girl?”

  He gave Thierry all the information he had, which didn’t include her surname. How to explain that the blood running hot in his veins had put a little thing like surnames out of his mind.

  It wasn’t the type of information Mac wanted to get around.

  Back in the attic, Mac locked the door, with no one the wiser that he’d been gone. Quickly discarding his clothes, he padded over to the bed and slid under the pile of quilts covering Roxie.

  As soon as his body hit the mattress, the extra weight sent her rolling toward him. She snuggled against him without waking. Then wrapped around him, tangling her legs with his as if they always slept that way.

  It was a long night.

  Roxie’s head rested serenely on his chest as the sky began to turn from blue-black to gray. He hadn’t slept, but that was something he was used to. It hadn’t taken him long to discover she’d ditched the T-shirt she’d been wearing in the half hour he’d been gone. Now the soft swell of her lace-covered breasts presented him with a tease he didn’t dare respond to.

  He was totally firm about that in his mind.

  His body had no such scruples.

  Mac discovered when it came to Roxie, no amount of reciting times tables or logarithms could suppress the erection lying between them. It pressed into the welcoming curve of her belly as if it had a mind of its own.

  As soon as the sun came up, he would leave her in bed and treat his libido to a cold shower, since that looked like being the only reprimand it understood.

  Chapter 5

  Bars of pale watery sunlight slipped through the bars on the window, painting stripes on the faded blue quilt covering Roxie.

  Memory hit her the moment she opened her eyes and surveyed her prison. She leapt out of bed, checking her watch.

  It was 8:00 a.m. and she was alone.

  Roxie glanced down at the lacy camisole revealing her breasts, and from it to the little-boy short panties that matched. The T-shirt she’d gone to bed in was on the floor, and she couldn’t remember taking it off, but at least she was halfway decent.

  It took several moments more to recall the camera that watched her every move, and less time than that to pick up the black T-shirt and pull it over her head.

  Trying not to glance the camera’s way, she ran her palm across the rumpled sheets on the other side of the bed. There was still a dent in the feather pillow from Mac’s head.

  The sheets were still warm. Almost as warm as the memory of the act she’d put on the night before.

  She could hear the shower running on the other side of the bathroom door. Hoping Mac was discreetly tucked behind its curtain as she dashed to the bathroom, with a perfunctory knock she dived through the door without waiting for a reply.

  Eyes closed, Roxie leaned back against the coat she’d left hanging from the hook, to catch her breath.

  It must have been Mac leaving the bed they were sharing that wakened her, since he couldn’t have been showering long, for the steam still hadn’t filled the bathroom.

  She could see Mac’s tall shape through the opaque plastic curtain, the top of his head level with the curtain rail.

  Although his outline was blurred, she made out that it tapered nicely from shoulder to waist, six-pack abs but no unnecessary mass to his muscles.

  Heat scored her cheekbones as she remembered curving her hand round his arm while pressing against his chest. But she had no time to dwell on the memory as Mac asked, “Come to join me?”

  “No!” she snapped. “Just to get away from being peeped at.”

  His head appeared round the edge of the curtain and he flashed a wide grin. “I hung your panty hose over the towel rail.”

  “Thanks.” I think. “At least something will be fresh.”

  She huffed down her nose; his sudden affability felt suspicious. Had she done more in her sleep than drape her body across a notable selection of pecs and abs?

  The memory of rough hair tickling her cheek was an impression she wished she could dismiss. So instead she got stuck on their owner. “How soon do you think we’ll get out of here? I mean you must be miffed that these people don’t keep their word. If it were me I’d say the hell with it and let this one pass….”

  “Well, you’re not me and I never get miffed.” Mac moved round as he spoke and a shoulder appeared on the lower right of his face.

  This bald statement required no comeback. Just as well.

  She was too busy comparing how bronzed his skin was to her much paler version. The shower curtain clung to his knee, to a thigh, and higher, then she realized the darker shadow was the hair surrounding his sex.

  She glanced away, embarrassed, then back again, eyes sparking as she realized Mac must have seen her as clearly last night.

  “You look beautiful when you’re angry.” His grin flashed, but to draw back or hide was obviously out of character.

  “Flattery…will…get…you…nowhere.” She shot each word separately, wishing they would pierce his armor. Then she sent him an incensed “You might have told me.”

  Mac k
new it was time to put her straight again. “Even with the best intentions in the world, I’m unrepentantly human. And for my sins, exceedingly male, as well, I offer no apology. You were the most delicious sight I’ve seen in a long time.”

  He looked her up and down. “Still are, I might add.”

  Roxie might not be tall, but with her T-shirt barely reaching the hem of her panties her legs looked as if they went on forever.

  He watched her chest rise as she sucked in moist air.

  Indignation or surprised delight, at the moment he found it hard to tell which had the upper hand as she told him, “Well, I’m not used to dealing so…so personally with a stranger or sleeping with one.”

  Mac couldn’t let her get away with that statement. “All I can say is you sure cuddled up to me as if you were.”

  But he wasn’t done taunting her. “That curvy body you’re sporting fit mine as if it were made to measure.”

  What was the point in pulling his punches while there was no chance of them being overheard?

  “Oh, come off it,” she scoffed. “I’m human, and it was cold, that’s all.”

  “Well, just say the word. Making love to you would be a hell of a lot easier than pretending to.” Too damn easy, but he didn’t dare let it happen. He knew the road to purgatory lay in that direction, and as attractive as the view looked, he drew the line at thinking this business was only about the two of them.

  Roxie and Mac. Mac and Roxie.

  “Ooh.” She marched closer. “I may not be as sophisticated as some Frenchwomen, but I never make love with a man who can’t be bothered asking my name.”

  Well she had him there this time, he decided as his conversation with Thierry came back to haunt him.

  Forgetting to discover Roxie’s last name had been a mistake.

  Although, from her expression, he was sure it was a mistake she was about to rectify, even if it was only with her cover name. The one she used as a supposed intern for Charles Fortier.

  He looked down the length of his nose at her and filled his smile with ice as he said, “Your name is Roxie…whatever, it doesn’t matter. All that counts is your connection to me. Zukah belongs to a dominant-male culture.”

  Roxie sniffed her defiance. How dare he take her for granted? “It matters to me.” She tilted her head to look up at him. “My name is Roxie Kincaid and don’t you forget it.”

  As if from the force of her insubordination, the curtain swayed toward Mac and clung.

  Flushed to the roots of her hair, Roxie couldn’t tear her eyes away even though she was uncertain whether or not such revelations were actually good for her.

  He was definitely the male of the species, and a magnificent specimen at that.

  Mac’s amber eyes that had held her at first glance narrowed and hardened into shards of granite. “Is that what you want carved on your tombstone? Roxie Kincaid, stubborn to the bitter end?”

  Mac swung the shower curtain aside, looking so fierce the clatter of the curtain rings sounded like a death knell, off key, but scary nonetheless.

  Intimidated, she stepped back.

  Her view widened.

  And she agreed, he was exceedingly, unrepentantly male.

  She was used to male models, but there was nothing pretentious in Mac’s manner as he stepped out of the bath to grab a towel.

  He rubbed it over his hair, his eyes never leaving hers as he ground out a warning. “How many times does it take for the message to get through? For however long we are here, all that matters is that you’re my woman. Your life depends on it. Maybe mine as well if they discover I lied. Understand?”

  She nodded. He’d wanted to frighten her and he’d succeeded, and not by standing unclothed in front of her. This was no sexual encounter.

  He towered over her, gloriously naked, and she noticed nothing more than how strong he was. A supple strength that could snap her like a twig should he feel so inclined.

  “These men downstairs are the real deal. Don’t make me regret saving your life.” He slung the towel round his neck and grabbed another to wrap round his waist.

  Darn it, how could she have forgotten? She began to backtrack. “Don’t think I’m not grateful. It’s just that it seems I’ve wandered into someone else’s bad dream, and last night…”

  “Whatever it takes.” His eyes narrowed and filled with ice-cold sparks as his jaw hardened. He took her chin between finger and thumb and glared down at her. Roxie shuddered. She remembered him wearing that expression in his apartment when he’d demanded she say, “I still love you, Mac.”

  His face was so fierce, she stepped back, frightened, but he didn’t let go of her chin, tilting it so his face filled her vision. “Listen to me,” he said, “Don’t let your guard slip when dealing with Zukah. Act the way you did last night.”

  She began to breathe easier with another lesson to chew over. No matter what he said, she instinctively knew Mac was a more dangerous breed of animal than any of the men downstairs.

  “Whatever you say, Mac, you’re the expert. I’ll try to follow your lead.” Hard not to while he held her chin in his hard fingers.

  He let her go, her apology earning a raised eyebrow as if he doubted her ability to keep her word.

  The feel of his fingertips clung like a burn to her skin as she prayed that Mac believed her worth saving. “You’ve left the shower running,” she said helpfully, and blundered again.

  He shook his head. “There’s a reason, remember? This is the only place we can talk. Take advantage and have another shower.”

  “A lot of good that would do when you’ve used all the towels.”

  “No problem. I’ll bring in some clean ones once I’m dressed. And don’t worry, I won’t look, at least, I’ll try not to,” he said from the doorway, and left with a grin on his face.

  Though it took a swipe at her own courage to admit it, she felt relieved. All that mattered was his white grin was once more in evidence. That person was a whole lot easier to live with than the Mac she’d just visited. Some people you just wouldn’t want to run across in a dark alley.

  Mac’s looks were deceiving. He was handsome as the day was long and had the kind of body to turn a woman’s head, but once more he’d demonstrated his lethal side.

  Too bad he hadn’t shown that side of his nature to Zukah when the Algerian insisted they accompany him, and then carried them off on this farce of a honeymoon.

  She hadn’t yet come to a conclusion, but she was positive there was more to Mac than either she, or the Algerian, realized.

  “Hey, out there, open up, we’re hungry.” Mac hammered on the attic door with his fist, not with words as he had with Roxie, but then she’d needed a scare.

  All the playacting last night had given her the wrong impression and he’d had to set her straight.

  He wondered just how long her air of contrition would last. Going by what he knew of her—and he intended knowing a lot more—she’d be back to normal by the time she finished eating.

  He’d lied when he said he wouldn’t look when he’d taken in the towels; he hadn’t been able to resist. He did, however, regret his earlier remarks about the way she’d clung to him in her sleep.

  Roxie was built like a pocket Venus with all her curves in place. He could still get hard remembering the way her nipples had ignored the barriers of lace and silk piercing his male libido effortlessly, the way he’d had bullets penetrate his skin.

  Yeah, he was hot for Roxie Kincaid.

  But it would never happen. Mind you, his father always said that death and paying taxes were the only two sure things in life. This had to be the third.

  He was never going to make love to Roxie.

  His groin wasn’t the only place that pained him as he thought it. The scar where Lucia had stabbed him ached as a reminder of what happened when you let your guard down.

  Breakfast was on the way. That was likely to be the best news of Roxie’s day. So far nothing else had pleased her.

&
nbsp; She didn’t know what to think about Mac; when someone seemed too good to be true, they usually were.

  She looked at the view outside the windows. Swathes of mist rose through bare-branched trees that appeared to be fighting a losing battle against clumps of mistletoe.

  The sound of the attic door opening caused her to swing around away from the window. Jean-Luc came in carrying their breakfast with Yves behind him, empty-handed. His pocket was obviously the repository for the key, but there was no way she would dare get close enough to steal that.

  “I’d just about given up believing in petit déjeuner,” she announced. “I hope there’s enough, I’m famished.”

  Mac caught her eye. “Make that two of us, but let’s see what they’ve brought before going crazy with delight.”

  The clatter of crockery drew her attention to cups and plates as they slid across the tray Jean-Luc was carrying. “Mon Dieu, there are too many stairs for me to wait upon you,” he moaned.

  She ignored the look Yves gave her by bending to pull out a chair. Roxie cast her eyes over the contents of the tray, then sighed. “Oh dear, no coffee.”

  Jean-Luc’s hands stopped rearranging the tray. “That will be here soon, I couldn’t carry everything, but it’s excellent coffee. I made it.”

  A white napkin covered the plate in the center of the tray. She was about to whisk it off, when she noticed what else they were missing. “No knives.”

  Mac grinned. “Well, hardly.”

  Her jaw dropped as she whipped away the napkin. Croissants the colour of burnt toast. “What happened? How can your pâtisserie sell such poor quality?”

  The boast had gone out of Jean-Luc. “They were frozen,” he muttered, hunching his shoulders. The others must have been served burnt offerings, as well, if the black look Yves gave his compatriot was anything to go by.

  She’d rather see Jean-Luc on the receiving end rather than suffer the hungry looks Yves kept throwing her way.