by Misty Evans
"Comes with the territory."
She saw the flicker of something in his eyes, just like she'd seen at the airport. Amusement again? She had to keep the upper hand, but how?
So far, he'd been a logical guy, so she'd give him logic. “As owners of a successful security consulting business, I hardly think Isaac and Sara Lerner would stay in the equivalent of a Motel 6 and hire a taxi to tool around town in."
"That's not the point.” He paced forward and towered over her. “One undercover assignment does not make you an expert in this kind of operation. Your inexperience could get us killed. From this moment on, I call the shots. With everything. No exceptions. You don't so much as take a piss without my okay. Got it?"
Oh she got it all right. Staring up into his eyes, she got his meaning—he wanted her to feel intimidated. Well, to hell with that. She'd grown up with Charles Morgan for a father. She'd trained under Conrad Flynn. She knew how to handle overbearing men. Pushing herself up to her toes, she glared back at him, doing her darnedest to look intimidating right back.
Which of course was hard to do since Lawson stood almost a foot taller than her, and she had to crane her neck even on tiptoe just to look him in the eye.
Planting her fists on her hips in a mocking gesture, she stood her ground. “Newsflash. You may be the expert at undercover ops, but I'm the expert on Paris and Alexandrov Dmitri. You said it yourself at the airport. Your French sucks. I'm the one who can read the street signs, the menus and the newspapers, and I'm staying here at the Ambassador for the next twenty-four hours at least so I can recoup from the plane ride, eat a decent meal and shop for some appropriate clothes for Sara Lerner. If you don't like that, you can get yourself another partner. And if Director Flynn doesn't like it, he can fire me and then he can kiss my pampered, rich girl derriere all the way back to the United States."
She took a breath, dropped back down to her flat feet. “At which time I will personally call in a favor from my friends in Washington and stop Flynn's forward career path in its tracks before he can say ‘I Spy'."
Lawson looked down his nose at her for a long moment and then dismissed her show of bravado with a soft chuckle. “You could do that? Wreck Flynn's career with a phone call?"
Of course not. Flynn was the King of Operations. He was the God of Operations. Titus Allen, the DCI and her father's closest friend, was Conrad Flynn's biggest fan.
"Of course,” she lied.
Lawson now looked at her with curiosity. “I like the good Director. I respect him."
"I do too.” She gave him a pert nod. “So let's not go there."
A knock came from the door and Lawson went into business mode again, removing a gun from his waistband. She watched bemused as he crossed the room like a SWAT officer moving in for the kill. A bellman in the hall called out “room service” in French and Lawson checked the peephole before moving off to the side of the door.
She reached for the door knob, sending him an annoying look. “It's just our food."
He grabbed her wrist, his fingers a band of steel. “Tell them to leave it in the hallway."
This constant paranoia was too much. She jerked her arm out of his grasp. “What about his tip?"
"You can add it to the bill when we check out."
"Mon Dieu,” she murmured. Shaking her head, she called out Lawson's instructions to the waiter. Through the peephole, she saw the man walk off, mumbling and cursing about les américains stupide. Zara didn't blame him.
She slipped the deadbolt off the door. “He's gone. You can quit with the Mel Gibson thing."
Lawson lowered the gun to this side. “What?"
Rolling the cart into the room, Zara inhaled the smell of steaming espresso and freshly baked croissants. Ahhh...
"You know.” She lifted the lid off one of the blue and white china plates. Her mouth salivated at the sight of the fluffy yellow eggs underneath it. She glanced at Lawson's gun. “Lethal Weapon?"
He slid the gun into the waistband of his jeans and relocked the door. “I was going for Clint Eastwood."
Surprised he might actually have a sense of humor, she snorted and handed him a cup of coffee. “You are so not Clint Eastwood."
Lawson took the cup from her and sipped. “I think you're trying to bruise my ego."
Rolling her eyes, Zara began shifting the room-service plates, napkins and silverware to the breakfast bar. “Let's eat before the eggs get cold. You can fill me in on the ... what did you call it? The op plan?"
"Operational plan.” He followed her to the bar and straddled a stool. “It's a blueprint for our mission."
Sometimes playing the dumb blonde came in handy. It made people relax and she knew if she was actually going to get out of the hotel room and do some terrorist hunting, she had to get her partner to do some serious relaxing. Fast. She had her own op plan. Feed him, make him laugh, and play up to his alpha ego.
"Dun dun dun dun dun dun dun dun,” she started humming as she slid up on a barstool next to him.
He quizzed her with a look.
"What?” she said. “Isn't this where I start humming the Mission: Impossible theme song?"
"James Bond, Lethal Weapon, Mission: Impossible. What are you, the spook of pop culture?” A faint smile moved the line of his lips before he scooped up a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “I've already been in contact with our source here in Paris. I'm meeting with her in a couple hours to see what she's got on the prison break and the French investigation."
"Her?” Zara chewed a bite of toast. “Okay. I've got some questions for her."
Lawson swallowed. “You stay here and work on getting us a couple of rooms at a cheaper hotel. I'll handle the source."
Yeah, she'd get right on that. Checking herself before she lipped off again, she set her toast down and wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “You're not taking me to meet this source? I thought we established I'm the expert in this area."
Lawson continued to shovel eggs into his mouth. “The source doesn't know you're here and that's the way I plan to keep it. She can give me what she's got and I'll bring it back to you."
Exasperated, Zara picked up her coffee cup and cradled it near her chest. She turned her barstool an inch and watched Lawson finish his eggs. There was no way she was getting left behind. “Your French obviously stinks. What if you can't read the street signs and get lost?"
"I don't get lost."
"Never?"
Lawson shifted to face her and their knees touched. “No. Never."
Zara felt a flutter low in her stomach. He was so sure of himself. It was annoying and yet sexy at the same time. Play up to his ego. “That's impressive."
"One of my many skills.” His gaze dropped to her lips for a split second before looking away. A slow smile spread across his face as he picked up a piece of toast.
Lawson Vaughn flirting with her? No way. Yet, she knew it for what it was and immediately suspected he might be trying to play her as much as she was trying to play him.
What exactly made him tick under his well-developed tough-guy exterior? He had a core made up of honor and responsibility, strength and courage. She'd seen all that in person. But what about the rest?
Dropping her gaze, she eased the barstool so she was again facing her plate. She set the coffee down and picked up the piece of toast. “Your family must be very proud of you."
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him shrug. “I don't see them much. My brother David died in the towers on nine-eleven. My dad lost his fight with cancer about five years ago and since then, my siblings and I have drifted apart. We all love our mother, but it seems like Dad was the glue holding the family together after David was killed."
Zara's throat tightened around the toast she tried to swallow. A sick feeling settled in her stomach. “I'm so sorry. That must have been terrible for all of you to lose them both so tragically."
Lawson was silent for several seconds and she stole a glance at him. A muscle danced in
his jaw.
"Mom took it hardest. Both David and Dad.” He cleared his throat and sipped his coffee. “When Dad was diagnosed with the Big C, she quit her job to be with him and help him fight it. She put all her energy into keeping him alive and then, later, into keeping him comfortable."
"She must have loved your dad very much."
"After he died, she didn't know what to do with herself, and she was thousands of dollars in debt from his medical bills the insurance company wouldn't pay. We kids had to pitch in and help her out. I'm the oldest so I took over getting the bills paid off. My youngest sister got her an apartment and a job working part-time at a local grocery store. The others do what they can, helping with her living expenses and getting her to the doctor to keep her diabetes in check. She's only sixty-three years old, but you'd think she was eighty."
Lawson tossed the last of his coffee into his mouth and swallowed it. “'Two peas in a pod', she used to say."
He left his stool to grab the plate of croissants and the coffeepot. After bringing both back to the bar, he set the plate down and refilled Zara's cup along with his own before straddling his barstool again. “You're right about the coffee. It's pretty damned good."
The seriousness of the moment was gone. Zara took one of the sweet pastries drizzled with glaze and bit into it, letting him change the direction of the conversation at his own pace. She knew it wasn't always an easy thing to talk about your family. Wiping her lips with her napkin, she said, “How many siblings do you have?"
"Two sisters, another brother besides David."
"Four siblings. What was that like growing up?"
Lawson grinned. “Tiring. Being the oldest I had to run after the younger ones all the time. They were always getting into something they shouldn't have been and fighting with each other. Drove me crazy."
"Good experience for raising your own kids."
Lawson shook his head. “Nah. I've done my parenting gig for this lifetime."
"You don't want to have kids?"
"No."
"Never?"
He shook his head and took a bite out of a croissant. “Never."
At the height of her parents’ fighting, she'd vowed never to have kids either. She'd been eight. In later years, however, when she saw her mother and father holding hands at a fundraiser or drinking coffee on the veranda of their condo, she reconsidered her decision. But only briefly in those moments when her parents appeared at peace with each other after so many years. Deep inside her, she'd always believed it was her fault they'd fought the way they had. Even as an adult, she still believed it.
Lawson drained his cup again and stood. “I'm going to jump in the shower and try to catch some sleep before I meet with our source."
Zara pushed her plate back. She had a few things to do before she tailed him. “Okay,” she said in her most complacent voice as she slid off her own barstool. “I'll put this outside for maid service."
"Don't let me chase you off. Finish your breakfast."
She stacked Lawson's plate on top of hers. “I'm done."
"You should get some sleep too.” He took the plates out of her hands, set them on the cart and turned back to her. “This time use the bed though, okay?"
She gave him a ha-ha smile and picked up the coffee cups. “You've got no sense of adventure, Clint."
His smile held a hint of warmth. “I love adventure. The only thing sleeping in the tub gets you is a sore neck. That's not adventure.” Moving toward the bathroom, he stripped off his shirt and threw it on the nearby loveseat. Zara's pulse jumped. “Go get some rest, spook."
Rest, right. Setting the cups on the cart, she let her eyes move over his back as he walked away from her. Wide shoulders, defined muscles, and the indent of his back where his gun was still secured, all perfect. She watched until he disappeared behind the bathroom door, and then she stared at the door for another minute. When the sound of the shower slipped under the crack in the door, she pulled out her cell phone and started typing a text message.
The bathroom door cracked open and Lawson's head popped out. “Be sure to lock your side of the door."
Zara jumped, dropping the phone into the cups and plates. She shuffled them in a futile attempt to look busy. Then she checked herself. “You mean the door between our rooms?"
Lawson nodded, and she said, “Why?"
"For a security consultant, you suck.” Humor flashed in his eyes.
"Security, right.” Zara gave him a thumbs up. “But what if you want to visit and I have the door locked?"
"It won't stop me."
Zara called up the dumb-blonde persona again. “It won't?"
"No. In fact, it won't really stop anyone, but it will slow them down long enough for you to reach your gun."
"I don't have a gun yet. Flynn made me leave mine behind. I'll need to secure a new one here in Paris."
"I'll get you one."
How nice of him to offer. “I'll do it myself, thanks. I prefer small ones. Subcompact so they'll fit in my handbag. I'm thinking a SIG Sauer would be good."
"You could fit a machine gun in your bag.” He laughed as he pulled his head in and closed the door.
Zara smiled to herself and fished out her phone. She'd fed Lawson, let him think he was in charge and got him to relax and tell her a little about his family. She'd even made him laugh. She just hadn't gotten him to change his mind about staying at the Ambassador or to relent and take her with him to meet the source.
She rubbed the back of her neck and shot a glance at the bathroom door again. No big deal. Her fingers flew over the keys of her phone. She'd just revise her op plan.
Because no one could stop her from enjoying at least one night at the Ambassador, and no one could stop her from doing the job Director Flynn had sent her to do.
No one. Not even the skilled rescue hero Lawson Vaughn.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Nine
Café Toulouse, Rue Marbeuf
"Darling,” the woman said, gliding toward Lawson with her arms extended. She had waist-length black hair, dark skin and perfect red lips. He had no choice but to accept her embrace which included her lips skimming each of his cheeks. Yvette LeMans took his arm, her ample bust pressing into it, and led him through the busy pub to a small table in the back. If anyone was watching, they would think he was a lover she was trying to keep secret.
"What of the security business, Isaac?” she asked as if interested. “Quite profitable these days, no? Americans scared of their own shadows?” She laughed low in her throat and smiled up at him. Her accent was European, but indistinguishable as to country. She could have been French or Italian or Swiss.
Lawson played the part of the gentleman and pulled a chair out for her while his attention swept the room and the customers. “Business is good,” he said, taking a chair for himself. The position gave him a panoramic view of the restaurant and the doors. “And yours?"
Yvette looked him over with her almond-shaped brown eyes and produced two cigarettes and a lighter. She handed the lighter and one of the cigarettes to him and placed the second stick in her own mouth. “I have more than enough business these days.” She thrust her face forward for him to light her cigarette. Continuing to play his part, he obliged. She drew a deep breath and held the smoke in her lungs. “Your friends keep me busy."
A waitress appeared and Yvette ordered a beer and a glass of wine. Lawson laid his cigarette on the table, unlit. As the waitress left, Yvette's sloe eyes again scanned his face and body. She braced her elbows on the table and leaned forward, the cigarette held between two slender fingers. “The one you come for is not in Paris."
Lawson purposely smiled at her as though he was enjoying this secret meeting and the fact she was tantalizing him with her double D's. “Where is he?"
"That is your job, no? To find where he is?"
When he frowned at her, she took another pull on the cigarette and waved it through the smoke as she exhaled. “Hone
stly, darling, if I knew I would tell you. What I do know is he is not here in Paris."
"How do you know?"
She laid her left hand across the table, running her fingernails down his forearm. “I have the information you want back at my flat. We will go there and I will show you everything."
If he'd been a different man, he might have toyed with the idea of taking what she was offering. The petulant mouth, the sexy accent, the ripe body. Yvette's looks no doubt made sane men trip over their own feet. He should have been flattered at her invitation to hook up, instead he felt annoyed. Sean Connery had said it best in his movie, Entrapment. “Rule Number Two, never trust a naked woman.” Only idiots and fools mixed business with pleasure—no matter how tempting the pleasure might be—and Lawson didn't place himself in either category.
The waitress deposited their drinks on the table, and Yvette made small talk with her for a minute. When the woman walked away, Lawson said, “I asked you to bring the information to this meeting."
Yvette widened her eyes. “Your friends asked for so much, Isaac. Newspaper clippings, pictures, blueprints of the jail. I would need a briefcase to carry it all in. It would have been conspicuous.” She sipped her wine and stubbed out her cigarette. Lit the one he'd left on the table. “We will go back to my place and I will give you what I have. Then we can discuss what happened with the prison break. I can translate the news pieces for you and explain anything you do not understand."
Damn. Lawson twirled his beer bottle in circles. There was nothing that annoyed him more than a woman with her own agenda, especially when it interfered with his. “You were to put the information on a flash drive for me, Yvette. Next time, follow orders."
"You don't want to go back to my place?” The petulant lips popped out even further. “Ça va. I will pick up the information and bring it to your hotel. Où est l'hotel? You would like that better, no?"
No, he would not like that better. Not with Zara there. The hotel offered him better cover for his backside, but bringing the risk of trouble to Zara was out of the question. “We'll go to your place, but I won't be staying. You'll give me the information and then I'll leave. I don't need a translator and I don't need your advice about the situation."