Once in Paris

by Diana Palmer

  "He is," Tate replied without looking at him.

  "How do you know that?"

  Tate turned and looked at him. "Did you look closely at the signature on that slip of paper Sabon gave you?"

  Puzzled, Pierce drew it out and studied it, with a curious Brianne peering over his muscular arm.

  The scribble was all but undecipherable, except for an embossed impression near it that was only visible with the light on it in a certain way.

  "You noticed the ring he wears on his little finger?" Tate persisted.

  "No. I didn't."

  "It contains an official seal," Tate said. "I saw him make the impression. You might notice the crest. It's the coat of arms of the Tafluk sheikhdom."

  Pierce was really puzzled now. "So?"

  "Who do you think Philippe Sabon really is?" Tate murmured with a dry smile.

  Pierce was very still. "Not the sheikh himself."

  Tate chuckled. "Not quite, but he will be one day. The ruling sheikh is his father, a rather rotund and aged gentleman in failing health. Philippe is the power behind the throne these days. So he did what his father couldn't; he disguised himself as a wealthy businessman and went out to attract investors to develop his country's untouched oil reserves and keep his treasury from going bankrupt."

  "Why not do it as himself, then?" Brianne asked, astonished.

  "Too risky. If he were kidnapped, his country would be bankrupted even sooner trying to ransom him." Tate smiled. "Hell of an idea, wasn't it? And he almost accomplished his plan."

  "No wonder he had so much pull in his government," Pierce agreed. "He was the government."

  "He still is," Tate said. "And that group of soldiers he sent over the border is his personal guard, the elite of his father's military. They're on a level with the British SAS, and they'll recruit mercenaries to work for them, to help take their country away from Brauer."

  "Not unless we can get to Washington in time to stop Brauer's plan from working, or American troops may bomb him out of existence, thinking they're stopping World War II," Pierce said grimly. "Can you get a message to D.C.?"

  Tate nodded. "But who's going to listen to us without proof? We have to take Mufti to someone high up in the secretary of state's office and let him spill his guts. Then we have to wait while the story is checked out. The wheels of progress turn slowly at the diplomatic level."

  "Mufti?" Brianne realized suddenly that they hadn't seen Mufti since they'd boarded the ship. "Where is he?"

  “He found a poker game down below," Tate chuckled. "He hasn't anything to wager except matchsticks, but if we can get him to Vegas, I think he can break the bank. He's a natural."

  The mention of Las Vegas made Brianne uneasy. She didn't look at Pierce. She didn't like remembering the quick, unemotional ceremony that had joined them together. Her sad eyes went to the gold band on her ring finger and she touched it wistfully. If only he'd been able to love her, just a little. When this adventure was over, they were going their separate ways. She'd be a divorcee long before she ever learned to be a wife. Not that he'd care, she mused. He might enjoy her in bed, but* his inhibitions about being unfaithful to Margo would always be there between them.

  She turned away and went to the porthole to stare out at the sea.

  "I think I'll go check on Mufti," Tate said.

  He went through the hatch and closed it gently behind him.

  Pierce joined Brianne at the window. "One way or another, it's been a momentous few days," he remarked.

  "I'll be glad when they're over." Her voice was strained as she spoke. She was lying through her teeth. She'd rather be in danger with Pierce than safe without him, but she had no choice left.

  He stuck his hands in the pockets of his slacks and stared down at her bent head sadly. "I'm sorry about the other night," he said a little hesitantly. "I never meant it to happen."

  She shrugged. "No harm done. I got my one night after all."

  He caught her arm and turned her toward him "Don't make it sound cheap," he said shortly. "It wasn't."

  She searched his hard face quietly. "Go ahead, then. Tell me how you were thinking of me instead of Margo while you were making love to me."

  His intake of breath was even louder than the throb of the engines. He stared at her with narrow, glittering eyes, so intently that she lowered her own quickly.

  "Oh, damn, I'm sorry," she muttered tightly. "I'm sorry! But we both know you don't really want me, Pierce, except as a substitute. I'm too young and too unsophisticated, and, we've already agreed that I'm bound to cling too much." She lifted her resigned face to his. "Let's just think of it as an exercise in mutual attraction and let it go at that," she added in a dull, lackluster tone. "I'm looking forward to college, you know," she said suddenly, forcing a smile to her face. "I'd like to go to the Sorbonne, if you don't mind.''

  He stuck his hands in his slacks pockets and stared blankly out the porthole. "Whatever you want."

  "You can get a quiet divorce when we get home," she added, not looking directly at him.

  "We'll fly back to Vegas for it," he said with a cold smile. "I believe it can be done in twenty-four hours. I'll make all the arrangements and let you know when I've got a free hour in my schedule. I expect to do a lot of traveling when this is over."

  She'd have liked to do some herself, but she had to be content with Paris again. She felt a sudden chill and wrapped her arms around herself for comfort It might have been better if she'd left him to that wallet-pinching lady of the evening in Paris, she mused silently. At least her own poor heart would have been spared its present state of misery.

  He studied her silently, his dark eyes running from her disheveled blond hair to her small feet. She was pretty and sweet, and in bed she was all any man could ask. She loved him. He was throwing all that away for his ghost, so that he could go on pretending that Margo wasn't really dead, that she'd just gone away for a while and would come back.

  Listening to his own thoughts startled him. Did he really believe that? Was he willing to be alone for the rest of his life because he couldn't face the reality of his loss?

  He scowled as he looked at the slender young woman near him. How many men wouldn't go down on their knees to have such a pretty little thing love them unconditionally? Brianne had spirit and class, and a heart as big as the whole world. She'd go away to college and some bright, eager young man would discover all her assets. He'd want her. Perhaps he'd treat her as Pierce never had, tenderly, with constant attention, little presents of flowers and candy and trinkets, late-night phone calls and lazy lunches and late dinners. The opera, perhaps the theater and concerts.

  He drew in a wounded breath. Brianne deserved that sort of attention. She was a rare and unusual girl. No, she was a rare and unusual woman, he reminded himself, and his body began to throb as he recalled her initiation at his hands. She was sweet heaven to love. Her skin was soft, like a petal warned by the sun. Her body rippled when he touched it. She never held back or played games with him. He could do anything he liked to her, and she accepted him eagerly. But he was going to walk away from her because he couldn't accept the reality, the finality, of his beloved Margo's passing. Margo was dead. She wouldn't come back. He'd be alone forever.

  Brianne sensed his pain and she turned, looking up at him with soft, curious green eyes that loved him.

  He glared at her. Sabon had gone to this trouble, arranged this passage, for Brianne. Why? What had she given the man in return?

  Jealousy, new and surprisingly fierce, surged through him and left a faint blush across his high cheekbones.

  "What did you do with Sabon?" he asked abruptly.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Why is he going to so much trouble on your account?" He shifted, his eyes narrowing. "What did you give him, Brianne?" he added in a dangerously soft tone.

  "II gave him nothing," she stammered.

  "Don't hand me that! His reputation can't be all conjecture and lies!"

 
She couldn't tell him about Sabon. It would be cruel and unfair, to permit him to be made a laughingstock, an object of pity in a world where masculinity was defined by capability. Pierce might one day mention it to someone. It would be devastating enough for a common man, but for someone who would one day rule a sheikhdom, in a very masculine part of the world, it was unthinkable.

  She stared bravely into Pierce's angry eyes. "Believe what you like," she said finally. "If you think I'm devious enough to use my body as a bargaining tool, then you don't know me, anyway."

  "Such a sweet body," he murmured, but his measured scrutiny of it was lewd and insulting. "Enough to make a man do anything, even go against his own principles. I imagine he enjoyed it"

  "At least he wasn't thinking of another woman and calling me by her name!" she exclaimed, torn by the memory of Pierce doing just that.

  His face paled. He couldn't even deny it. But what hit him hardest was her admission that she'd gone from him to Sabon. He clenched his fists in his pockets and fought down homicidal rage. He wouldn't give Sabon a penny to mount his counterrevolution. He'd kill him instead!

  Brianne realized too late what she'd done to Sabon's chances for a loan. She didn't quite know how to repair it. She folded her hands at her waist with a long sigh. "He wanted to, but I couldn't," she lied, averting her eyes to the floor. It was Philippe who couldn't, but no need to tell Pierce that.

  "Why?"

  "Because I'm married!" she shouted at him, livid and wounded by his sarcasm, by his willingness to believe that she could betray him. "Even if you don't consider yourself my husband, I'm not going to cheat on you with another man!"

  He knew she was telling the truth, and he felt ashamed of his suspicions. Jealousy was new to him. He didn't like it.

  "All right," he snapped, irritated by his own erratic behavior. "I'm sorry."

  She shrugged and turned away. "You can't help how you feel, Pierce," she said stiffly. "I'm grateful for what you've done for me, especially since it seems the whole charade was unnecessary. Philippe only wanted to bring me to the island so that Kurt would think he was serious about marrying me. He was sure the prospect of all that money in the family would keep Kurt from backing out of the deal with his investment. He was wrong."

  "Why are you suddenly willing to credit him with noble motives?"

  "Because we talked a little," she replied honestly. "And his men talked about him. From the beginning he'd had his sights on me, as a means to get Kurt involved in the oil wells. He pretended an interest in me, and Kurt dangled me as bait to reel us both in, seeing a merger that would guarantee him financial security." She laughed. "How stupid he must have felt when he discovered that it was all a farce, that Philippe wasn't a multimillionaire, that he only needed Kurt to approach the consortium and invest in his oil development" She shook her head. "Kurt is a vindictive man," she added quietly. "He'll kill Philippe if he can. He's lost his shirt. He may not even be able to buy guns on consignment to sell to people in the Middle East. If it gets out that he's hired men to invade and overthrow a sheikhdom, the international community will go after him. He can't afford to leave any witnesses around."

  "You're absolutely right," Pierce agreed. 'I’ll do what I can for Sabon," he added reluctantly. "But not because I want to. I just don't want Brauer to get away with it."

  “Neither do I." She turned and stared at him quietly. "Philippe isn't at all what he seems.

  Despite his power and whatever wealth he realizes from his oil development, he has so little.

  "Tell me why," Pierce demanded.

  She shook her head. "It isn't my secret to tell." She walked away from him and sat down on a boxed crate nearby. “How long will it take to get to Savannah?"

  "I'm not sure," he replied, distracted. "Why don't you try to get some sleep? I'm going to find Tate and Mufti."

  She looked around. There were some old sacks nearby. She lay down on them and pillowed her cheek on her hand. She hadn't realized how tired she was.

  "They won't get us, will they?" she asked drowsily.

  "No." He sounded supremely confident. She smiled and went to sleep.

  The freighter pulled into Savannah harbor and the four passengers in the hold were suddenly confronted by men in dark suits.

  The tallest of the three newcomers glanced from one tense face to another, then lingered on Tate's. A look passed between them.

  "U.S. Customs," the tall, suited man said abruptly, and flashed open a wallet, showing a badge. He closed it before it could be seen clearly. "Come with us, please."

  The four passengers were marched up on deck. Brianne felt for Pierce's hand and held on tight. She was seeing a lengthy trial while they tried to explain their predicament, followed by a jail sentence. She hated closed places. She'd never get to college. She'd never be a real wife and mother. She'd be a jailbird.

  Once inside at the customs gate, they were stopped by other customs officials who listened

  to the curt explanation the tall man gave them. There was some difficulty, but it was quickly sorted out, and Brianne and her companions were hustled from the building and out into the humid heat of Savannah with its perfect squares and live oaks and secret gardens. Brianne longed to see it all, but she wasn't a tourist.

  Their escorts led them down the side of the building, into two waiting stretch limousines. Black, of course.

  "We've been captured by the 'men in black,''' Brianne moaned as they waited for the suits to get into the car. "We'll never be seen again!"

  Tate chuckled. When the tall man was in the front seat and the car was moving, he opened the glass partition and leaned over the plush black leather seat.

  "I damned near had to deck the customs guy," the tall man muttered. "Why couldn't you just fly into Miami?"

  "We were expected mere," Tate said. He held out a hand and the other man handed him an Uzi. He slid it under his jacket. He glanced at his puzzled companions. "This is Marlboro," he introduced them. "He works for me," he added. "So do the other two."

  "You're not customs officials?" Brianne burst out.

  "No, but we did used to belong to the government," the tall man said sheepishly. "I'd tell you which part, but then I'd have to..."

  "Shoot us," Brianne muttered. She sighed. "See? Everybody says that!" she told Pierce.

  "That's true. But he isn't kidding, either," Tate murmured dryly.

  Her eyes widened. "Really?"

  The tall man grimaced. "I don't like shooting women."

  Brianne actually gasped.

  "It was only one woman, and she turned out to be a male foreign national with a pack of plastique hidden in her...his...well, never mind," Tate muttered. "Anyway, it was a matter of national security and the 'woman' drew first."

  "Where do we go from here?" Pierce asked, confident that his security chief would get them where they were going in one piece.

  "Straight to D.C.," Tate replied. "By way of a private airstrip."

  Trust Tate to know someone everywhere he needed assistance, Pierce thought amusedly as the car pulled off on a dirt road and stopped,

  finally, at a deserted airstrip where a small jet was parked and waiting.

  "Don't tell me," Pierce murmured as they climbed aboard the small, neat aircraft. "Someone owed you a favor."

  "Well, he did," Tate said enigmatically, and grinned. "So did this pilot."

  "Hiring you was the best thing I ever did," Pierce told him.

  Tate chuckled. "I'm glad you noticed. I'll sit up front."

  Brianne found herself sandwiched in between the two security men, with an irritated Pierce and a silent but amazed Mufti across the aisle from them.

  "You married?" the taller man asked Brianne expectantly.

  "Yes, she is," Pierce said tersely.

  "Gee whiz, the best ones always are," the tall man said. "Guess your husband will be glad to see you back home and safe, huh?"

  "Her husband is sitting across the aisle from you," Pierce said in a voice that w
as pleasant enough; it was his eyes that made threats.

  The taller man unfastened his seat belt and got up at once, moving to a seat behind Brianne. "Sorry, Mr. Hutton," he said in a strained voice.

  "No harm done." Pierce didn't move to sit beside Brianne. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

  Brianne glared at him. Some husband, she thought angrily. Dog in the manger, more like. She closed her own eyes and shut him out.

  As they suspected, the plane didn't land in Washington, D.C. It landed on a palatial estate in Virginia, which Brianne learned later was owned by a shadowy figure with ties to the world of espionage. He too apparently owed Tate a favor.