"Look, I admit there's a certain spark between us. We talked about it back in Washington. We also talked about the hazards of office affairs. They get too complicated, too messy."
"They can," he agreed, "if the parties involved allow it to happen." He lounged back in his chair, his gaze thoughtful. "But that's not the reason you're so determined to snuff out the spark, is it? Not the whole reason, anyway."
She glanced at the flower-filled stalls, remembering the fever, the excitement, the heady rush of tumbling into what she thought was love. Remembering, too, that she'd missed the mark by several nautical miles.
"Let's just say I've had my fingers burned and I'm not ready to play with fire again."
She thought he might nod solemnly. Offer sympathy for her bruised ego, if not her failed marriage. She certainly didn't expect a quick, slashing grin.
‘‘Fair enough. When you are ready, just strike a match."
Mackenzie plopped back in her chair, more than a little suspicious of the power he'd just handed her. Nick Jensen, ready to snap to attention and spring into action when...if...she said the word. Why was she having trouble with this scenario?
Still, he wasn't the kind of man to renege on a promise. If he said the next move was up to her, it was up to her. That should certainly keep her tossing and turning for the next few nights. Or weeks.
Okay, years.
"Let's get back to the phone call you made this morning. Did the Cannes Inspector of Police have any interesting information to share about Jacques Gireaux's murder?"
"As a matter of fact, he did. The bullet they dug out of Gireaux's skull was fired from a .9mm Beretta."
Mackenzie sucked in a sharp breath. One of the thugs who attacked her and Nick had jerked a Beretta from an underarm holster just before she snatched up his Uzi and put him permanently out of commission.
"The Beretta is the standard-issue sidearm for half the armies and police forces in the world," she said, frowning. "It could be nothing more than coincidence that one of our uninvited visitors carried the same type weapon."
"It could, if you believe in coincidence. I asked the inspector to fax the ballistics report to the D.C. police. Be interesting to see if the rifling patterns on the spent shell casings match."
"Very."
"Would you like more coffee?"
She glanced down at her barely touched cup. "No, thanks. The two pots we downed earlier maxed out my caffeine meter for the day."
"Then we'd better get back to the hotel."
"Why?"
"There's someone I want to see."
A quick snap of his fingers brought the waiter to the table. Mackenzie waited until Nick had glanced at the tab and handed the man several franc notes.
"Is this someone you want to see another old associate?" she asked, ready to bristle if Nick intended to conduct his own private inquiries and leave her twiddling her thumbs again.
"Actually, it's the Negresco's owner. He's anxious to continue our discussion about the possibility of opening one of my restaurants at his hotel. Don't worry, Comm," he added with a crooked grin. "You made your point earlier. No more secrets between us...at least as far as this operation is concerned. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
Shooting a glance at his watch, he pushed back his chair. "Ready?"
Mackenzie hesitated, suddenly reminded of the tracking device she'd planted on him. No sense upsetting the fragile truce she and Nick had just hammered out, she decided. She'd remove it later.
That was her intent, anyway. Time and circumstance conspired against her.
They returned to the hotel to find the message light on the phone flashing and a ton of e-mails piled up on Mackenzie's laptop. While Nick retrieved his phone messages, she tossed her purse onto a chair and skimmed the list of messages.
"They're mostly answers to the queries I zinged off earlier," she related when he finished with the phone and crossed the room to peer over her shoulder.
"What about updates from the control center? Did Ace send in a status report?" "Yep. Right here."
Mackenzie displayed the message, which contained little more than a brief confirmation that the OMEGA operative was still in covert mode, slogging it out in the Saudi oil fields. The crew manning the control center would have contacted her or Nick immediately if Ace had run into trouble. Or stumbled on any real leads as to who was behind the sabotage of several major refineries some months ago.
"Tell your people to patch Ace through to me the next time he reports in," Nick instructed. "I want to hear how it's going."
Lightning was back in director mode. Although the chain of command had blurred considerably during those moments he and Mackenzie had spent on the floor, she understood the weight of the responsibilities he carried.
"Will do."
With a click of a few keys, she transmitted the order and swiveled around in her chair. "Ace has been in place for over a month now. When are we going to bring him home?"
‘‘When we can assure the president those oil field explosions weren't engineered by one of the radical, anti-Arab hate groups that sprang up in the States after 9-11."
The terse reply underscored the potential diplomatic minefield that had prompted the presidential decision to send in an OMEGA agent. As if the suicide bomb attacks in Israel, Iraq's stubborn refusal to grant access by U.N. inspectors and escalating anti-U.S. sentiment over the war in Afghanistan hadn't poured enough fuel on the fire. Now, person or persons unknown were attempting to disrupt the petro-economy of the U.S.'s strongest ally among the Pan-Arab states. If it should turn out that American hate groups had funded or otherwise supported the sabotage, the situation in the Middle East could very well go from bad to catastrophic.
With a distinct sympathy for the pressure piling up on Ace's shoulders, she turned her thoughts to the situation she and Nick now found themselves in. She was anxious to start bouncing the replies to her queries off the list she and Nick had compiled earlier, but equally as curious about the phone messages he'd received.
He didn't keep her in suspense. As he'd anticipated, word of Nick Jensen's arrival had already circulated. So had the fact that he'd brought along an "associate."
"We're invited for cocktails with Tom Cruise later this afternoon. He and Penelope are spending the week at a villa in St. Tropez."
"Well, what do you know! And here I was thinking there was only limited upside to almost having my body pierced in several dozen places by a couple of thugs."
Nick allowed Mackenzie all of two seconds to enjoy the glorious fantasy of drinks with Tom and Penelope on a sun-washed balcony overlooking the sea.
"Unfortunately, we'll have to make it another time. Countess d'Ariancourt also issued an invitation. She's having a small soiree at her home tonight, only forty or so guests. She'd be delighted if we could attend."
Mackenzie groaned in disappointment. "Who's Countess d'Ariancourt?"
"Something of a legend along the Riviera." A smile played at the corners of Nick's mouth. "Sooner or later, everyone with any wealth or influence finds their way to her salon."
With profound regrets to Tom and Penelope, Mackenzie bowed to the inevitable. "You'd better give me some pointers. What does one wear to a small soiree of forty or so?"
"Pull out all the stops. Dianthe certainly will."
Dianthe, was it?
Interesting.
Nick's meeting with the Negresco's owner spilled over into the afternoon. Mackenzie spent the hours sorting through the replies to her e-mails and shooting off a new series of queries. By late afternoon, she'd identified the owners of a good number of the items Nick had pilfered during his years on the streets. It helped that he'd developed a sharp eye early in his career as a thief and had only gone for the good stuff. Most of the owners had been compensated for their losses. A few, she noted, had later reported the missing items returned.
She zinged those names to her folks at OMEG
A's control center, with instructions to contact them for details about the return of their property. She also requested they bounce the owners off law enforcement and intelligence databases, looking for possible links to illegal activities or terrorist groups.
That done, she skimmed the list of items that hadn't returned any information. The fishing reels fell into that category, as did several less expensive cameras, the butterfly-shaped evening bag, a cane with a handle of embossed silver and a set of dentures carved from solid ivory.
Shaking her head over the last item, Mackenzie played on the Internet for the rest of the afternoon, running searches for any items similar to those on the list. She was more than ready to quit when Nick returned from his meeting and suggested a light dinner on the balcony.
Then it was time to go through her new wardrobe. Draping several outfits across the bed, Mackenzie debated the selections. First, she tried on a strapless sheath of flame-colored silk. Slit high on one side, it was elegant, yet not ostentatious. But when she slipped into wide-legged white chiffon palazzo pants and a matching bustier encrusted with shimmering Swarovski crystals, she knew she had a winner.
Oh, yes! This was it!
The seductive little top left her neck and shoulders bare. The chiffon pants flowed around her like a cloud, seemingly demure until she moved and displayed the silhouette of her legs. Sweeping up her newly trimmed hair, she anchored the dark mass with a comb twinkling with the same sparkling crystals. Strappy silver sandals and a sequined evening bag completed the ensemble.
Twirling this way and that, Mackenzie admired the new, improved her in the mirror. Too bad Tom Baby couldn't see her in this little number.
Nick's reaction almost made up for the disappointment of missing out on Cruise and Cruz. He was standing next to the marble fireplace. With one hand in the pocket of his tux jacket and one wrapped loosely around the stem of a Baccarat champagne goblet, he epitomized masculine elegance and wealth. No one observing him at this moment—Mackenzie included—would ever have imagined that he once had to steal to eat.
Gliding into the room, she executed a slow twirl. The chiffon pants flared in a wide circle. "Well? Do I pass muster?"
Nick's eyes drifted from her throat to her toes and back again. The admiration in their blue depths sent a ripple of feminine satisfaction down Mackenzie's spine. Instead of the compliment she fully expected, though, he cocked his head and made another survey.
"You look spectacular, but the outfit needs..."
"What?"
"A touch of color. Emeralds I think, to match your eyes."
"Right. Too bad Field Dress Unit's budget only runs to crystals, not emeralds."
"Luckily I have my own resources to draw on."
Calmly, he placed his champagne goblet on the mantle, trading it for a black velvet bag. Unknotting the gold strings, he spilled a river of sparkling green into his palms.
"Good Lord!" Mackenzie gasped. "Where did you get this?"
"From Gireaux's safe."
"Nick! Is it stolen property?"
"Most likely."
"I can't wear it in public! Someone might recognize the piece."
"I'm hoping someone does." Unperturbed, he moved behind her and draped the collar around her throat. "It's time to stir things up a bit."
"Well, this should certainly do it," she retorted, checking out the necklace in the mirror above the mantel.
Chapter 8
The Negresco's friendly limo driver chauffeured them to Countess d'Ariancourt's villa. The trip took some time, as the narrow road leading up to the elegant residences in the hills above the city snaked back and forth in dizzying, one-hundred-eighty degree curves. Jean-Claude took the limo through the hairpin turns like a trainer putting a thoroughbred through its paces.
Finally, he pulled into a cobbled court crowded with Rolls-Royces and Bentleys and handed Mackenzie out. Breathing deeply, she drank in the heady perfume and spectacular colors of the evening. Bougainvillea spilled over the courtyard's walls in glorious shades of red and pink. Below what looked like a sheer, thousand-foot drop, lacy white waves curled on a sea just deepening to cobalt.
If the view stole Mackenzie's breath, the villa completely enchanted her. With its gray slate mansards and fanciful stonework above the doors and windows, it was a magnificently restored relic of a more opulent era.
So, she soon discovered, was its owner.
A stately majordomo escorted the new arrivals to the villa's second floor salon, which ran the entire length of the house. Chandeliers dripping with crystal showered light on exquisitely frescoed walls. Circular settees tufted in shimmering gold velvet were spaced at intervals down the middle of the room to allow the guests to sit or circulate with ease. Potted palms added an airy touch of green to the belle epoch opulence.
When the majordomo announced them, their hostess separated from the glittering, bejeweled crowd.
"Nicolas!"
Gliding across the salon, the petite, raven-haired aristocrat thrust out hands weighted down with more rocks than the coast of Maine.
"Darling, darling Nicolas!"
"Hello, Dianthe."
Smiling, she lifted her face to Nick's. No polite pecks on the cheek for the countess, Mackenzie noted. She took his kiss full on her mouth. When Nick raised his head, her smile worked into a kittenish pout that should have looked ridiculous on a woman her age.
Should being the operative word, Mackenzie acknowledged wryly. The woman had to be a good twenty years older than Nick, yet exuded a stunning, sensual vitality that made time seem irrelevant... along with every other female in the room.
"It's been so long, Nicolas. Too long."
"Yes, it has."
"But now you've come back to me." She tucked her arm in his. "You'll stay in Nice for the opening of opera season, won't you? You quite spoiled me the last time you were here, you wretch. I can't bear to listen to Mahler any more without you murmuring your droll commentary in my ear."
"Our plans are uncertain as yet."
"Our? Oh, yes. I was told you brought your..." Her violet eyes flicked to Mackenzie, lingered on the emeralds, took on a gleam of amused comprehension. "Your associate, is it not?"
With a private, I-told-you-so grin, Nick made the introductions.
"May I present Ms. Mackenzie Blair, CEO of Blair Communications?" he said smoothly, using the cover Mackenzie had developed years ago to disguise her work for OMEGA. "She's an expert in her field, and one of my most capable partners."
The countess slid another look at the emeralds and gave a throaty gurgle of laughter.
"Obviously."
Okay. Enough was enough. Mackenzie hadn't minded the way the older woman snuggled up to Nick or that near lip lock. Much. But she wasn't going to let the countess score all the points. Deliberately, she let her glance drift to the egg-sized amethyst nestled between her hostess's breasts.
"Looks like you must be pretty good at what you do as well," she murmured.
A flicker of surprise crossed the countess's face before she threw back her head and let loose with a burst of raucous laughter. The earthy, snorting gusts should have diminished her air of sophistication. Oddly, they only underscored the woman's decidedly unique charm.
"Yes," she agreed after a moment, her eyes sparkling. ‘‘Yes, I am most decidedly good at what I do. Come, you must meet my friends."
Mackenzie had to admit the countess had collected a clutch of interesting friends. In the next few hours, she swapped sea yarns with a retired Turkish admiral, listened with delight to the wicked limericks tossed off by a cross-dressing poet laureate, and dodged several attempts by a slightly inebriated Olympic gold medal skier to feed her tidbits of smoked eel.
Meanwhile, the countess continued to claim her darling, darling Nick's attention. Ever adroit, he managed to keep her amused and appear at his "associate's" side often enough to resolve any doubts about their exact relationship. In the oth
er guests' minds, anyway.
Mackenzie wasn't quite sure how the heck he managed to put his brand on her so effectively. He certainly didn't make any overt gesture, like draping his arm around her waist or tipping his champagne flute to her lips.
Maybe it was his lazy smile when he caught her eye from across the room. Or the word he dropped in the Olympian's ear when the skier became a little too persistent with the smoked eel. Or the admiring glances the emerald collar drew from the other women at the party.
"The stones are perfectly matched," a world-famous prima ballerina murmured, eyeing the necklace. "And so beautifully cut. Nick has such exquisite taste."
Sure that the dancer was going to recognize the piece as stolen at any moment, Mackenzie had a few silent words to say about Nick's taste. Her nervousness grew as the ballerina leaned forward and examined the emeralds. Mackenzie half expected her to pull a jeweler's loupe out of her evening bag.
Her swan-shaped evening bag.
"Wherever did Nick purchase this necklace?"
"You'll have to ask him," Mackenzie replied, her glance riveted on the beaded bag. "But first, you must tell me where you purchased that bag. I don't think I've ever seen one in that shape."
"I should hope not. It was designed exclusively for me, to commemorate my very first appearance at London's Royal Ballet. I debuted as Odile, the black swan."
Mackenzie arranged her face to look appropriately impressed as the dancer held the shimmering creation up for closer inspection.
"Every Marjorie Pelletier is individually crafted, you know."
"No, I didn't. Marjorie Pelletier, you say?"
"Yes." The ballerina stroked the beaded feathers lovingly. "Marjorie died some years ago, but her daughters continue her tradition of excellence. Their design studio is in Paris, but they have shops all over the world. There's one here in Nice, on the rue de France. You'll have to get Nick to take you there. Every woman should own a Marjorie Pelletier."
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