"Nick. The—the phone."
"Let it ring."
She caught another distinctive beep-beepity-beep and went stiff. "Wait a minute!"
Grunting, he obliged. Mackenzie gulped and fought to focus on something other than the rigid length of male suddenly gone still inside her. It took some doing.
"That's not the phone," she got out after some seconds. "It's my computer. Nick, my folks at OMEGA are trying to contact me."
With another small grunt, he withdrew and rolled to his side of the bed. Mackenzie scissor-kicked free of the tangled covers. Swaddling the top sheet around her, she trailed a train of fine Egyptian cotton as she rushed from the bedroom to the desk in the sitting room. A quick glance at the screen had her tapping in a coded response. A few seconds later, a gruff male voice came through the laptop's speakers.
"Sorry to buzz you so early, Chief."
She recognized her second-in-command instantly. "It's okay. What's up, John?"
"Plenty, evidently. That was some show last night."
Mackenzie barely bit back a choked exclamation. For a horrified moment, she wondered if she'd screwed up and set the surveillance cameras in the suite to relay live images from the hotel suite to the control center instead of feeding them only to her computer.
"Last night?" she echoed weakly.
"After you told us what happened and requested replacements for the transmitters lost in the limo, we tapped into the local police computers. Their report includes some real scary digitized on-scene pictures."
Sagging with relief, she realized he was talking about the near-fatal accident. Not what came after.
"I put the replacements for the equipment lost in the limo on a plane last night," John relayed. "You should get them within the next few hours. Also, I need to advise Lightning we've received a coded message from Ace. It's for his eyes only."
"Roger. He's in the other room. Hang loose and I'll go tell him."
"Tell me what?" Nick asked, striding through the bedroom door. He'd pulled on his wrinkled dress slacks, Mackenzie saw with a mixture of regret and relief. Starkly black against his tanned skin, they rode low on his hips as he crossed the room.
"Control's received a message from Ace, for your eyes only."
Swiftly, Nick moved to the computer. Mackenzie retreated to the sofa to give him the privacy required for these top-level communications. Bunching the cotton sheet around her breasts, she waited while he authorized transmission of the message. He was all business when he planted both palms on the desktop and skimmed the words that painted across the screen. Despite the bare feet, the uncombed hair, the stubble fuzzing his cheeks, he emanated an air of unquestioned authority he probably wasn't even aware of.
Mackenzie couldn't miss it, however. The lover who'd breathed erotic threats into her ear just moments ago had disappeared. This was Lightning. OMEGA's director.
Her boss.
With an inner grimace, she dragged the sheet up higher. She'd bet her next month's paycheck he'd start rapping out orders as soon as he finished reading the message.
She won the wager. His brows slashing down, Nick deleted the message and turned his frown on her.
"Ace thinks he might finally have a lead on the Saudi oil field explosions. I need to advise the president. Set me up a secure channel."
"Aye-aye, skipper!"
She would have whipped up a salute if it hadn't meant losing her grip on the sheet. Nick got the message, however, from the bite in her reply. Raking a hand through his hair, he softened the brusque order with a smile.
"It's still the middle of the night in Washington. Route me through the White House situation room, will you? I'll mark the message for the president's personal review. The senior rep on duty can decide whether to wake him or wait till morning."
"Will do."
They were both practically naked. Their bodies still carried the scent of their lovemaking. Yet Mackenzie knew Nick couldn't separate himself from Lightning, any more than she could put aside her responsibilities as OMEGA's chief of communications. Tumbling into bed together didn't necessarily mean equality out of it. He gave the orders. Mackenzie took them.
For now, anyway.
The thought sent a sharp spear of regret lancing through her. When she lit that match last night, she'd accepted the fact that there would be consequences. Now they were staring her right in the face.
She'd have to leave OMEGA. She couldn't stay. After last night, there was no way she could stay. If her years in the navy had taught her nothing else, it was that you didn't fool around with someone in your chain of command. Not if you placed any value on your job. Or your self-respect.
She'd known that, dammit. Had lectured Nick on the complications of an office affair not once, but twice. Then she'd tossed aside every hard-won lesson, every tenet of common sense and jumped his bones.
Which she'd do again.
In a heartbeat.
Sighing, she tucked the sheet under her armpits and edged Nick aside. Her fingers flew over the laptop's keyboard. It took only a few moments to make the link to the White House, a few more to arrange a secure channel to the situation room. A series of high-tech scramblers would encrypt the signals at either end of the channel and render the communication impervious to interception, much less decoding, by unauthorized sources.
Ordinarily, Mackenzie would have experienced a secret thrill at her ability to access the world's power centers. This morning, she felt only a dull satisfaction as she turned the computer over to Nick and retreated to her bedroom. He waited for the door to close behind her before sitting down to transmit his message.
Nick hit the send key and sprawled back in the striped satin armchair. He had a good idea of the president's reaction to Ace's startling tip that the Russians were somehow linked to Saudi oil field explosions. He wouldn't believe it, either.
Why in hell would the Russians want to blow up the refineries that provided them with a good percentage of their military and civilian fuel? It didn't make sense. Unless the destruction was the act of dissidents as intent on destroying what was left of the Soviet Union as some of the ultra right-wing, antigovernment hate groups in the States.
It always astounded Nick that those who schemed to bring down a government had little concern for the chaos that would follow. He'd come up against enough vicious, violent zealots during his years with OMEGA, though, to know they rarely looked beyond satisfaction of their immediate goals.
He tried to wrap his mind around the possibilities, searching the databank of his memory for some radical splinter group, some super nationalistic iconoclasts with the money and technical know-how to pull off the devastating series of explosions that had left a good chunk of Saudi Arabia blanketed in thick, black smoke. The faint drum of the shower coming from Mackenzie's bathroom kept getting in his way.
He pictured her naked. Her face tipped back to the stream. Water sluicing over shoulders and breasts. The need to finish what they'd started earlier brought him out of his chair. He was halfway across the room when the phone on the desk buzzed.
"My most sincere regrets for disturbing you so early," the hotel's on-duty manager said. "Inspector Picard from the Nice Prefecture of Police is here. She wishes to speak with you about last night's unfortunate incident."
Nick threw a tight glance at the door to Mackenzie's room and blew out a ragged breath. "Send her up. And a pot of coffee, with service for three."
"Oui, monsieur."
He used the next few moments to make a quick call to his contact in Europol to verify this Inspector Picard's credentials, then exchanged his wrinkled tux pants for crisply pressed gray slacks and a blue shirt in a soft blend of cotton and linen. Shoving his sockless feet into loafers, Nick opened the suite's door on the second knock.
His glance locked with that of a tall, slender female. She wore her auburn hair in stiff, gelled spikes that only someone with her incredible bone structure could carry off. He
r gray eyes studied him through a screen of lashes inked a thick black.
‘‘Monsieur Jensen?''
"Yes."
She flipped open a leather case to display her badge. In musically accented English, she identified herself. “I am Giselle Picard, deputy inspector with the Nice Prefecture of Police. I have been assigned to investigate the accident last night. May I have a few moments of your time?''
"Of course. Come in."
He half closed the door behind her, only to open it again as the elevator pinged and a waiter rolled off a service cart. It was the same waiter who'd delivered the cognac and cheeses last night, Nick saw. With a small, private smile, he waited for the man to wheel the cart into the suite, then reached into his pocket and extracted his money clip.
"Thank you. And I believe I still owe you a tip for delivering the cognac."
The server's eyes bulged at the bill Nick passed him. ‘‘Thank you, monsieur. Can I bring you anything else? Some fresh baked pastries. Some fruit?"
Nick looked to the inspector, who declined anything except coffee. The waiter made a show of pouring a rich black stream into blue china cups emblazoned in gold with the Negresco's logo, adding hot milk and sugar as requested, and passing the cups to Nick and Picard. The baroque silver pot hovered over the third cup.
"Will your, ah, companion be joining you, monsieur?"
"Yes, she will," Mackenzie answered, strolling into the room.
Her voice was composed, her manner polite as she sized up the newcomer. Nick tried to catch her eye and signal that he'd already vetted the inspector with Europol, but she didn't glance his way. In fact, she seemed to deliberately avoid looking at him.
She'd changed into white slacks and a silky, lime-green blouse with long sleeves that hid her scrapes and bruises. Her face was devoid of makeup, and she'd anchored hair still damp from her shower on top of her head with a plastic clip. She appeared cool and remote and all Nick could think about was pulling the clip from her hair and getting her naked again.
Shaking his head, he waited while the waiter softened the coffee's kick with a generous dollop of hot milk and handed Mackenzie her cup. When he departed, Nick made the necessary introductions. Inspector Picard wasted no time in confirming what they both already suspected.
"We've impounded the wrecked limousine, Monsieur Jensen, but our technicians advise that it's badly charred. They offer little hope of determining whether there was... How do you say? Mechanical failure."
Mackenzie leaned forward, gripping the delicate china saucer. ‘‘What about Jean-Claude, our driver? Is he still hanging in there? Still clinging to life?" she amended at the inspector's blank look.
"He was when I left to come to the Negresco." Picard took a sip of her coffee and laid her cup aside. "I must tell you, however, that tests run at the hospital last night showed his blood alcohol count to be above the legal maximum."
"Oh, no!"
"The tests also showed traces of benzodiaze-phine. It is a commonly prescribed drug, but used incautiously it can cause dizziness, temporary paralysis and blackouts."
"Particularly when mixed with alcohol," Mackenzie muttered. She was certainly no expert, but she'd provided OMEGA's agents with enough information on the latest designer drugs and knockout drops to acquire a working knowledge of what interacted with what.
"Are you saying our driver was incapacitated and lost control of the vehicle?" she asked, dismayed by the thought. She liked Jean-Claude, had thoroughly enjoyed his tour-guide commentary and laid-back Nicoise attitude. She hadn't smelled alcohol on his breath last night, or noticed any slur in his speech.
"I say only that it is a possibility," Picard answered. "One of several we must consider."
"And the others?" Nick asked sharply.
Mackenzie gave the inspector full marks. Giselle Picard raised a penciled auburn brow at his peremptory tone and took her own sweet time answering.
"We understand Countess d'Ariancout's butler arranged for one of his underlings to serve refreshments to the limo drivers while they waited for their clients. That was, of course, mere courtesy. Still, we must not discount the possibility that someone slipped the drug into Jean-Claude's wine. One of the other drivers, perhaps. Or one of the staff. And we can't rule out the guests. I shall be interviewing them today."
Her gaze lanced into Nick.
"Was there anyone at the villa last night who might want you dead, Monsieur Jensen? You or Mademoiselle Blair?"
A short, charged silence descended, punctuated by the distant blare of horns of the morning traffic outside. Nick broke the tense quiet with a suggestion that she or her boss coordinate with Inspector Duarte, head of France's Europol office, before proceeding with this investigation.
Picard didn't appear to appreciate the suggestion. "Why is it necessary for my supervisor to coordinate with Europol?" she asked bluntly. "The incident occurred within the jurisdiction of the Nice prefect. This is my case."
"Not entirely. You can use the phone here, if you wish. Mademoiselle Blair and I will finish our coffee out on the terrace."
Mackenzie took the hint. Jurisdictional disputes could get ugly enough in the States, particularly with OMEGA's super secret charter and direct line to the president. She had a feeling Giselle Picard was about to plunge into a political and diplomatic morass.
Drawn by the glorious vista of sea, beach and gently waving palms, Mackenzie rested her elbows on the stone balustrade. With such breath-stealing beauty spread out before her and the rich scent of jasmine perfuming the air, it took a conscious effort of will to remember the deadly hail of bullets that had brought her to the Cote d'Azur in the first place. Another to keep her expression neutral when Nick joined her at the railing.
Evidently she didn't keep it neutral enough. She felt his gaze on her face, heard the small chink as he placed his cup on the wide stone ledge.
"Got a problem, Comm?"
She turned to him then, her heart bumping at his closeness. She could see the gold stubble fuzzing his chin and cheeks. See as well the speculation in his eyes.
This wasn't the time to tackle the thorny issue of where they went from here. They had a job to do. Unraveling the mystery of who was behind the attempts on Nick's life took precedent over everything else, including their dramatically altered relationship.
"What makes you think I have a problem?" she countered, making sure her jumbled thoughts didn't show on her face.
"This is the first time you've looked at me since you walked out of your bedroom," Nick said dryly. "I'm sensing a few morning-after regrets."
That at least she could respond to openly and honestly. ' 'Oh, no. No regrets. I knew exactly what I was doing last night."
"So did I. And this morning."
That earned him a grin. "Too bad we didn't get to finish."
"We will." Smiling, he curled a knuckle under her chin and tipped her face to his. "Don't worry, Comm. We'll work this out."
She didn't see how. OMEGA had been her life for the past few years. Her home away from home after she'd left the navy. She couldn't imagine any job that would provide the same excitement, the same challenge to her skills. But neither could she see herself ping-ponging back and forth between the roles of subordinate and lover. She wasn't that good at compartmentalizing her emotions.
Nor could she allow her feelings for Nick to slop over into her job. She had too much professional pride for that. Something would have to give, and Mackenzie had a good idea what that something would be.
The door to the terrace opened at that moment, and one glance at Picard's stormy face told the story. Evidently, the inspector had not just plunged into a jurisdictional morass, she was totally ticked off by it.
"I am informed you and Mademoiselle Blair have been the subject of previous attacks," she said icily. "And that Europol has been surveilling a telephone kiosk here in Nice, on the Avenue Jean Me-decin."
"That's correct."
"I'm also informed that you will be present when I conduct my interviews of the countess's staff and the guests at her party last night."
"I will."
Mackenzie understood her anger. Getting an investigation yanked out from under you had to put a kink in your morning, not to mention your ego.
"Very well," the woman snapped. "Shall we go, then?"
"You go ahead," Mackenzie said when Nick turned to her. "John said he sent replacements for the equipment we lost last night. It should be here shortly. Then," she added, remembering the tip she'd received from the prima ballerina last night, "I might hit the shops on the rue de France."
Nick looked surprised, Giselle Picard impatient.
“I understand the boutiques carry all the best labels," Mackenzie murmured, unsure how much he wanted the inspector to know about his checkered past at this point. "Including hand-beaded evening bags by a designer by the name of Marjorie Pelletier."
Nick's quick frown mirrored Mackenzie's own jumbled thoughts. Obviously, he wasn't too thrilled at the idea of her wandering the city streets on her own. Yet they both knew she couldn't stay cooped up in the Negresco indefinitely, venturing out only when he was there to provide cover.
Still frowning, he reached out again and tipped her face to his. While the inspector fidgeted impatiently, Nick bent and brushed his lips across Mackenzie's.
"Be careful."
Fighting the ridiculous shivers raised by the touch of his mouth on hers, she nodded. "I will. Same goes for you."
Chapter 11
The promised equipment arrived just as Mackenzie was finishing a leisurely breakfast on the terrace. With the sun warming her shoulders and the bay sparkling an impossible turquoise, she checked out the miniaturized transmitter/receivers John had sent.
Nick's device was encased in a gold money clip this time. The box it came in bore the logo of a world-famous jeweler. Mackenzie didn't doubt the clip was eighteen karat gold. Nick Jensen wouldn't carry anything less. Smiling, she set the first box aside and opened the second.
To Love a Thief Page 10