Born in Danger

by Susan Kearney

  His automatically assuming control set him apart from her. While his aura of command was attractive, his demeanor isolated him, making her wonder if the gap between their views of the world was too wide to bridge. When other men would show hesitation, Ford was already off and running with an assertive drive that led to his lightning success.

  Yet she feared his approach to romance was also one of conquest. She wasn’t a trophy to be won and then placed on a shelf as an accessory to any man’s life. She had to be an integral part of him and doubted Ford’s ability to let her into his heart.

  It was late afternoon when they arrived in the heart of Paris. They disembarked and walked onto the crowded street. Ford seemed at home amid the broad boulevards crammed with traffic. Chic pedestrians wearing the latest in high fashion strolled past sidewalk cafes. Bistros with wooden fronts painted either brown or dark red called out to her rumbling stomach with their scent of garlic and onions sizzling in butter, and beef simmering in huge steaming pots.

  The city fascinated her, but she felt so exposed. She’d never spot a tail in the crowd, never spy a gun aimed at them. The sooner they left the streets, the less chance they’d have of being spotted, and the safer they’d be.

  “Ford, I’m not sure we should hire additional protection.”

  “Why?”

  “Extra people will slow us down and draw attention to us. In addition, calling in security agents might tip off the assassin to our whereabouts.”

  “We’ll be back home in another day or two,” he agreed. “I guess we can wait until then.”

  Hoping she hadn’t given him bad advice, she glanced back over her shoulder. Nothing suspicious struck her. Her neck didn’t itch.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, hurrying to keep up with his long-legged stride.

  “To my apartment.”

  Her surprise that he owned property here didn’t stop her from tugging his arm. “Just because we haven’t seen the Black Rose doesn’t mean it’s safe to return to your former haunts.”

  “Norton Industries owns the property. My companies keep places like this all over the world. We use them for visiting dignitaries, salespeople, wholesale buyers. I seldom come here, so we should be safe.”

  She walked beside him, curious about the secretive glimmer in his eyes. “How do you know the apartment’s unoccupied?”

  “Anne arranged for the present visitors to stay at Relais et Chateaux, a prestigious chain of converted chateaus and manor houses.”

  Ford suddenly turned through an arched wooden trellis covered with climbing ivy. A stone path led them through a miniature garden to elaborate glass doors trimmed with brass. Reaching into a mailbox on a stone wall, he plucked out a key.

  “If I were a thief, that is the first place I’d look for a key,” she chided.

  After unlocking the dead bolt, he opened the door for her in a sweeping gesture. “But would you know the code that turns off the elevator alarm?”

  The foyer boasted a travertine floor, lush plants and framed art. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but the profuse display of wealth made her uneasy. “You have your own private elevator?”

  He gestured for her to enter. “Mais oui, mademoiselle.”

  When the elevator opened along one wall of a vast living room, her breath caught. Her entire house would fit inside this one room. Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated one wall that overlooked a park. Chandeliers dripped gleaming crystals and sent prisms of light dancing across papered walls and antique furniture. Thick white carpet warmed the room.

  A telephone answering machine’s light blinked, and Ford pressed the button. A woman’s pleasant voice spoke, “I hope you find the arrangements satisfactory. A week’s worth of clothes for you and Devin are hanging in the closets. Cash is in the safe. Let me know if you need anything else.”

  She spun around in confusion. When had he made these arrangements? “Who was that?”

  “My secretary, Anne.”

  He’d arranged a place for them to stay and clothes without her knowledge. “But she’s in New Orleans. How could she have . . . ? When did you . . . ?”

  While she attempted to verbalize the jumble of questions in her mind, Ford unbuttoned his shirt. “Anne assumed if I was in France, I’d be heading to Paris.”

  “You didn’t—”

  He carried a portable phone from a table, clearly about to make more arrangements without discussing them with her. Her frustration level rose as he sat beside her and spoke so reasonably, “I didn’t mention where we would be staying. But she knew we were in France and heading to Amsterdam. Paris is a logical stopover. Anne is good at anticipating my needs.”

  I’ll just bet she is.

  “How could she know my clothing size?” Devin was stunned by how quickly he’d taken charge and how fast her jealousy had flared.

  “Anne’s resourceful. She probably called my mother to find out your size. She did see you at Rhonda’s funeral.” Ford reached for the phone and dialed. “I’ll order dinner in. Why don’t you see what Anne picked out? She has marvelous taste in clothes.” Annoyed at hearing how wonderful Anne was, frustrated that he sought to be rid of her by suggesting she look at clothing while he arranged their every move, she plucked the phone from Ford and canceled his call. “How old is Anne?”

  He cocked his head to the side. “Jealous?”

  “You know her home phone number.”

  “I also know the restaurant’s number where I was ordering dinner. Does that mean I’m enamored of the cook?”

  “Are you?”

  “Well, I may adore Chez George’s cote de boeuf but I haven’t asked George to marry me.” Ford’s gaze dropped to her hips. “He doesn’t have the curves I adore on a woman.”

  He would not tease her out of her questions. Their lives might depend on whether Anne was trustworthy. “Tell me about Anne.”

  “I already have. She’s a wonderful organizer, loyal, punctual and a spectacular researcher. She has stunning brown eyes, soulful, really, and she adores me.”

  “Ford?”

  “What else could a man want—”

  “You’ve never seen me toss a two-hundred-pound man across a room, have you?”

  “—in a sixty-five-year-old secretary?”

  “Sixty-five?” she squeaked, feeling every bit the fool.

  “That’s what she admits to. I suspect she’s pushing seventy-five.” He raised an eyebrow at her expression and took the phone back. “Now can I call for dinner? Or would you prefer to throw me across the room?” She groaned and stomped toward the bedroom in disgust at herself.

  “By the way,” he continued, teasing her as he dialed, “after you do the throwing, do you end up on top?”

  She marched into the first bedroom and slammed the door behind her. How could she have been so dumb? Just because she loved him didn’t mean she had to wear her feelings on her sleeve. And it hadn’t been very nice of him to tease her, either.

  It would have served him right if she’d tossed him onto that seductively thick carpet and put him into a headlock until he begged for mercy. She kicked the antique bedpost and grimaced. She had to rein herself in. It was one thing to pine for Ford at a distance, quite another to control herself when she’d spent most of the day with him pressed hip to hip. She was a normal woman with normal needs. If she couldn’t help responding to a good-looking hunk—

  Oh, stop it. Who do you think you’re kidding? Plopping onto the bed, she stared at the frescoed ceiling. She’d admired Ford since Rhonda had brought his picture to the college dorm. And while this jaunt was to find Rhonda’s killer, the reality was different. In their short time together, Ford had imprinted his scent, branded his touch and seared his kiss into her soul. He’d spoiled her for other men.

  It was one thing if she couldn�
��t have him, and she might hate herself for her jealousy, but selfishly, she didn’t want anyone else to have him, either.

  “Knock, knock.”

  “Go away.”

  He opened the door and marched into the room, a smile lingering on his lips, his shirt still unbuttoned to the waist.

  She scowled at him. “I could have been changing.”

  “That would have been delightful.” His eyes twinkled. “I enjoy looking at you, especially your—”

  She wanted to hit him. “Did you come in here to torment me, or do you have a purpose?”

  “Dinner will arrive in an hour. I’m sorry I couldn’t take you out for our one night in Paris, but we can make it memorable. I thought we could dress up and pretend we are someplace fancy. Do the clothes fit?”

  “I haven’t looked,” she said, feeling churlish. Why did he have to be nice when she wanted to pick a fight? It was almost as if he knew she was trying to distance herself from him and her feelings for him with anger, but he was refusing to allow her to do so.

  Muttering something under his breath, he strode to the closet and swept back a mirrored door, revealing more fancy dresses than she’d wear in a decade. He reached inside and pulled out a red dress with a halter-style neckline that tapered to the waist and a flirty skirt that would barely cover her thighs.

  With an appreciative whistle, he hung the dress on a hook on the door. “Ah, yes. You’ll look nifty in this.” He bent and retrieved matching four-inch red heels, set them below the dress and gestured to the dresser. “I’m sure there are suitable underthings, but I’d prefer you wore nothing at all beneath the red dress.”

  “You must be the most outrageous man in France—make that Europe.” She swore at herself for letting him see her fit of jealousy. No matter how romantic her feelings, it was humiliating to think he knew that he’d reduced her to a puddle of hormones. “You march in here and expect me to wear what you tell me to?”

  He seared her with a look so hot it stole the air from her lungs. “Wear whatever you like. Wondering what you have decided will lend an air of mystery to the evening.”

  The pillow she threw just missed him on the way out. He chuckled. Insufferable, overbearing man.

  Just imagining herself in that red dress twisted her stomach into trembling tangles of emotion. The garment would emphasize her every curve. If she wore that dress, she’d feel sexy, assured and desirable. She ached to wear it. For once in her life, she wanted the beautiful feelings inside her to be reflected on the outside for a man she loved. She wanted to revel in his admiration. She wanted to be wanted by Ford.

  But he didn’t love her. And he might not ever love her.

  Then again, maybe she could change his mind.

  FORD SPENT THE time waiting for her to dress, imagining her in red, wondering what she’d wear beneath the garment. As he poured himself a glass of wine, he was unable to resist envisioning her moving with an underlying sensuality . . . warm . . . soft . . . enticing. She’d join him, focusing her tawny eyes, tentative and suggestive, on him with longing. It was her eyes particularly—in her expressive, lively face that drew him.

  When she entered the den finally, there was a long moment of silence. She wore a slithery floor-length gown. A black gown.

  While she met his eyes with her chin raised in defiance, a heaviness of disappointment settled in his chest. Although disconcerted by her clear-cut rejection, he relied on good manners to see him through this setback.

  “Would you like a glass of wine?”

  “Yes, please.”

  All through dinner, he’d seen the passion flirting in her eyes, heard the throaty undertone of sensuality in her voice, felt the air vibrating with a tension.

  She wanted him. He recognized the signs—could see, feel and smell the intoxicating blend of female response. He couldn’t doubt the signals she sent. She was ready. The thin excuses she’d given him at the cabin about feeling guilty over enjoying herself at Rhonda’s expense wouldn’t wash. Rhonda would have wanted them to grab whatever happiness they could find. He knew that in his heart, and he suspected Devin did, too.

  Realizing Rhonda would approve had made him reconsider his decision not to make love to Devin if he couldn’t give her all the love she deserved. He now realized he yearned for more than one or two nights with her. He wanted to explore every inch of her body, but more importantly, he ached to know her most intimate thoughts. He wanted to know about her ideas on a thousand silly and serious things. She’d aroused his curiosity, intrigued him, taunted him.

  To discover if he had deeper feelings, he needed to deepen their relationship. And what better way to do that than by making love?

  He wasn’t a patient man. Yet he vowed to be patient.

  He would continue to let her know he wanted her, touch her every chance he could. To break through her stubbornness, wouldn’t be easy, but Ford was always up for a challenge. He looked forward to kindling the sparks in her eyes into a bursting white heat. If she made love with the same passion she did everything else, the reward would likely be a complete meltdown.

  Some moments were worth waiting for. Some women were worth waiting for. And deep in his heart, he knew Devin was one of those women.

  THE DISAPPOINTMENT of last night was already fading during their drive to Amsterdam the next day. Ford consoled himself that someday he would take Devin back to Paris, and they would do the town.

  While he drove the company car, leaving Paris behind, Devin drummed her fingers on her lap.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She sighed and a slight shudder rippled through her. “If the Black Rose is motivated by money, why is he still after you? Dr. Henschel is dead and can’t pay for a completed contract.”

  “Maybe the Black Rose thinks we know more than we do. Maybe he doesn’t like us on his trail.”

  She slumped in the seat. “Or maybe he’s a psychopath out to finish what he started.”

  For a time, they lapsed into silence. At the sight of the Dutch farmland with its picturesque windmill-dotted landscape, Devin had relaxed. Even he felt a certain peace stealing over him as they drove by the canals with their water gates then past a late-Gothic cathedral.

  She bit her lip, frowning over the GPS screen in the dash, while he drove toward Yvonne Jansen’s rose-breeding farm. He noticed circles under her eyes. Devin couldn’t have slept much last night. Fighting the pull between them, along with the subtle pressure he was applying, would eventually wear her down. He wished he could make the decision easier for her, but she’d repeatedly refused to discuss their situation.

  She looked up from her map. “Take the next right onto Schraeder, then another onto Rieveld. Do you think Yvonne speaks English?”

  “The Dutch I’ve known are fine linguists, and almost everyone speaks at least some English, especially in the larger cities and tourist areas. If Yvonne enters her roses in international shows, she’ll probably be fluent in English. If not, I only know a smattering of Dutch, and we’ll have to return with a translator.”

  “How many languages do you speak?”

  “Not so many when you consider many Europeans speak four or five.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Besides English, French and Spanish, I’m working on Japanese and Chinese. I do a lot of business in Asia.”

  She sighed. “I feel culturally deficient speaking just one language.”

  He wished he could tell her she was in no way deficient. Nature had gifted her with a bounty to be enjoyed.

  But he kept his thoughts and his hands to himself, answering as if the conversation fascinated him as much as what she wanted to keep hidden. “Until now, you’ve had no need to know another language.”

  She pointed to a brick driveway in front of what appeared to be a combination home and office. “This is Yvonne Jansen’s address. P
ull in over there.” The gabled house was a hodgepodge of architectural styles. Its stone walls appeared medieval, while other parts of the construction were obviously early twentieth century with a few modem conveniences thrown into the charming mixture.

  The immaculate front yard consisted of neatly trimmed shrubs, flower beds and borders underplanted with herbs that laced the air with the spicy, exotic scents of thyme, rosemary and dill. Bare canes arched over a low fence, surrounded a mailbox and cascaded by a tumbling waterfall that bubbled pleasantly. Although none of the roses were in bloom, the landscaped area revealed a love of gardening.

  Devin’s eyes brightened with excitement as they approached the arched office door. “Isn’t this yard lovely?”

  He ducked under a wind chime and pressed the doorbell. As they’d driven to the farm, he’d noted the extensive greenhouses out back, the windmills pumping water to irrigate the flowers and the state-of-the-art alarm systems that protected the property. “I’ll bet the grounds are spectacular when the roses are in bloom.”

  Steady footsteps clicked against wood as someone approached. The door swung open to reveal a tall woman in her early fifties with a lanky frame. Her brown eyes, her best feature, looked at them from a somewhat narrow face. She had a button nose and a small mouth, all devoid of makeup, and she wore her nut-brown hair in an artless braid. In contrast to Paris’s sophisticated and polished women, she was dressed in a frowsy white blouse and threadbare skirt.

  “Yvonne Jansen?” he asked. She seemed young to have developed such an extensive and prosperous business.

  “Ja.” She bent and scooped a fluffy white cat into her arms.

  “Do you speak English, Miss Jansen?” This time Ford put more friendliness into his voice.

  “It’s Mrs. Jansen.” Her thin eyebrows came together in a befuddled frown as she stroked the cat’s neck. “Please don’t tell me I’ve forgotten a sales call? I am not dressed to receive—”