"Any word from Ace?"
"No, sir."
"How about Comm?"
"The chief?" A puzzled look crossed the communication tech's face. "I don't have her on my status log. Was she supposed to report in?"
"No. I just wondered if you'd heard from her."
"No, sir. Do you want me to contact her?"
OMEGA's standard headquarters operating procedure was to avoid contacting operatives in the field unless absolutely necessary. Too often the agents found themselves in extremely tight spots. A signal from headquarters at the wrong time, even a silent signal, could blow their cover.
Mackenzie wasn't an operative, of course, but Nick's training and experience went too deep to violate procedures without justification. His stinging disappointment at not finding Mackenzie stretched out on the bed, eager to finish what they'd started this morning, didn't exactly pass the test for justifiable necessity.
"No," he instructed the tech, "don't contact her. I'll be seeing her shortly. In the meantime, run a background check on an Alexander Danton. Age approximately twenty-five. Black hair. Black eyes. No visible scars or tattoos. Occupation..."
The countess's staff had offered wildly divergent opinions about her young companion's interests, tastes and lack of any discernible source of income. Their employer usually chose lovers who lavished her with gifts, not the other way around. The staffs avid speculation about the man's past had piqued Giselle Picard's interest...as had the fact that he'd apparently issued the order to serve the waiting drivers another round of refreshments. Giselle intended to run a background investigation on Danton and return to the countess's villa to interview him. Nick would augment her data with whatever OMEGA could dig up on the man...and what he finessed out of Dianthe during cocktails aboard her yacht this afternoon.
"Occupation unknown," he finished. "Sorry I don't have more for you to go on."
"No sweat, sir. I'll get back to you as soon as I have something."
Nick signed off and clicked down the computer's lid. Drawn by the dazzling white light, he went out onto the terrace. He felt edgy and frustrated, and not just by Mackenzie's unexpected absence. Things were moving too fast...and too slow.
He'd been in Nice for three days. He should have established a link to the shootings in D.C. by now. He sure as hell should have experienced some warning, some sense of danger before he and Mackenzie climbed into that limo last night. His instincts had never failed him so completely before.
Frowning, he narrowed his eyes against the glare of the sun off the sea and searched the bay. Sailboats scudded with the wind, weaving through the yachts bobbing at the end of their anchor chains. He thought he identified Dianthe's Sea Nymph, a sleek triple-decker purchased for her years ago by one of her wealthier lovers. Nick had only been aboard once before, to attend a reception for the Belgian minister of defense. The man had fawned all over Dianthe, downed far too much champagne and ended up hanging over the side, spewing out his guts—not particularly wise or admirable behavior for a minister entrusted with a briefcase, full of NATO secrets.
Still frowning, Nick retreated inside the suite to trade his loafers for rubber-soled deck shoes. His navy blazer looked jaunty and nautical enough for cocktails aboard the Sea Nymph. It also provided more than adequate cover for the leather scabbard he strapped to his forearm. He flicked his wrist, smiling grimly as a thin, tensile length of steel slid past his fingers. Those same fingers closed instinctively around the blade's handle.
Satisfied that he hadn't lost his touch, he slipped the stiletto back into its scabbard and left the hotel. Twenty minutes later, he walked out onto the stone quay and hailed a water taxi.
An annoying whump, whump, whump dragged Mackenzie from sleep. She woke to a fierce headache and a mouth that felt as though it was stuffed with cotton balls. Running her tongue over dry lips, she pried open first one lid, then the other. Fuzzy shapes danced in front of her eyes, gradually took on definition.
Frowning, she stared at the wild creature staring right back at her. The woman's hair fanned out in a dark halo above her head. Her clothes were wrinkled and twisted, with a tail of her blouse hanging out the waistband of her white slacks.
Mackenzie blinked, trying to clear the haze swirling around in her head, and realized that wild-looking creature was her. She lay flat on her back, spread-eagle on a bed that rocked gently, staring at her reflection in a mirrored ceiling.
Gulping, she twisted her head to one side. The room she was in looked sleekly modern, with walls paneled in light oak and exquisitely cut Art Deco fixtures. Piercing white light streamed through a round window set high in the opposite wall, adding to the ache inside her skull.
There was another small whump, and the bed under her rocked again.
A boat. She was on a boat. Those were waves slapping against the side, causing that little roll. And the round window was a porthole, perfectly positioned to let in the damned glare. Groaning, Mackenzie lifted a hand to shield her eyes. Or tried to.
There was a muffled rattle, and her arm jerked to a halt mere inches off the pillow. "What the...?"
She tugged again, scowling when she got the same result. It took another moment for the last of the fog to clear. Only then did it sink in that her wrists were encased in leather cuffs and restrained by short lengths of gleaming silver chain. So, she discovered a moment later, were her ankles.
Craning her neck, she stared down at her widespread legs in disbelief, in disgust, in swift, searing fury.
The countess!
Damn her all to hell and back.
She must have decided to forcibly overrule Mackenzie's objections to participating in her kinky sex games. Yanking at the cuffs again, she let loose with a colorful stream of curses that would have done her old buddies in the navy proud.
In almost the next breath fury gave way to cold reality. Dianthe had to know Mackenzie wouldn't put up with being drugged and chained, that she'd raise holy hell when released. Obviously, the countess intended to ensure her silence...one way or another.
Memories of the previous night's near fatal accident came rushing back. She didn't need hard evidence to now believe Jean-Claude had been deliberately drugged. The countess was playing for keeps, and her games involved more than perverted sex.
Flopping back down on the bed, Mackenzie tested the chains again, this time with grim determination. Gritting her teeth, she grunted and strained and almost dislocated her left shoulder in a futile attempt to snap one of the links.
The sound of muffled voices put an end to her struggles. She went still, her gaze on the door as it opened.
"C'est bien. You are awake."
Countess d'Ariancourt flowed into the room, trailing pale mauve silk and the scent of lavender. Alexander followed. His gaze unreadable, he surveyed the figure spread-eagle on the bed.
Mackenzie's jaw tightened. She'd be a long time forgiving herself for letting these two take her down without a fight.
"Yes, I'm awake. And not particularly happy at the moment."
The countess took malicious delight in the sparks shooting from her captive's eyes. Oozing false sympathy, she made a small clicking sound.
"I know, I know. So humiliating to find oneself helpless, is it not? And so deliciously erotic."
"Only for someone too jaded...or too old...to get their jollies any other way," Mackenzie oozed back.
"Oooh la la! She's most definitely regained her bite, has she not, Alexander? What a pity we have no time now to show her the other toys in our little love nest. Later, perhaps. After Nicolas arrives."
"Nick's coming?"
‘‘But of course. I sent him a note, informing him you were already aboard." Her violet eyes gleamed in anticipation. "He's joining us for cocktails."
Mackenzie's stomach knotted. She didn't appreciate being used as bait any more than she appreciated being restrained. These two would most definitely answer for both.
‘�
�The harbormaster just radioed to let us know a water taxi's on the way," Alexander advised her. "Until it gets here, I would suggest you don't hurt yourself by straining against the chains. They won't give."
She made no effort to hide her disgust. "Tested them yourself, have you?"
"We saw you testing them."
With a sardonic twist of his lips, he gestured to the mirror above the bed.
"There is a camera. It feeds into the TV in the main salon. Dianthe enjoys watching almost as much as participating."
"Why doesn't that surprise me?"
Smiling at her sarcastic drawl, he reached for the door handle and ushered his mistress out of the cabin. Mackenzie caught a glimpse of the wood-paneled companionway beyond before the door shut and she was left alone to glare up at the mirror.
Okay. All right. The camera bothered her, but not as much as the fact that she couldn't reach the earring gleaming wide and silver against her out-flung hair.
There it was, a direct satellite link to OMEGA's control center just inches from her fingertips. Maybe if she hunched and caught the earring between shoulder and lobe, or twisted her neck and dragged its back against the spread....
Neither contortion activated the transmitter. Hoping the camera would record a woman trying desperately to writhe free of her bonds, she tried several more maneuvers. Her breath came in shallow pants and her shoulder joints ached before she finally admitted defeat.
She'd have to wait for Nick.
Everything in her cringed at the thought. Unlike the countess, she didn't find being helpless the least stimulating or erotic. She hated the idea of being staked out like some Victorian virgin tied to the tracks, needing rescue. Hated even more the idea that the countess had used her as bait to lure Nick into a trap. He wouldn't know what he was walking into. He couldn't. The replacement for his communications device was still in Mackenzie's purse.
Which, she noted after a quick glance around the cabin, was sitting on the built-in nightstand beside the bed. The countess or her boy-toy had dumped the contents out onto the stand. They lay in a small heap. Her compact. Her lipstick. Her wallet. Her sunglasses. The jeweler's box with the embossed gold logo.
Her pulse jumped.
They'd opened the box, checked out the money clip. It sat loosely in its satin nest, almost—almost!—within reach.
Heart pounding, she scrunched toward the side of the bed. The chain anchoring her right arm went taut. The cuff bit into her wrist. Ignoring the pain, she groped for the box with her left hand. All she needed was another inch or two....
Grunting, she forced straining muscles to stretch farther. Her shoulder joint registered a sharp, stabbing protest. Closing her mind to the hurt, she sucked in a deep breath and put everything she had left into a small lunge. Her eyes watered with the pain, but she managed to hook her index finger on the box. It flipped up and the money clip tipped out, landing within easy reach.
"Yes!"
Excited by her victory, she almost forgot the camera hidden behind the mirror. With her fingers wrapped around the gold clip, she figured she'd better play the scene for all it was worth.
"This is Nick's," she hissed, glaring up at the mirror. “I bought it for him this morning on the rue de France. I'll be damned if your little pet is going to have it, Dianthe."
Sliding her thumb along the back of the clip, she activated a satellite link. The words tumbled out in an urgent attempt to keep OMEGA's control center from coming on line and acknowledging her signal.
"You think you can keep me chained here, on your boat? Not hardly, Countess. Nick will have something to say about all this when his water taxi arrives in a few minutes. He's not going to appreciate the fact that you drugged me and, apparently, our limo driver last night. Nick didn't enjoy going off that cliff any more than I did."
Mackenzie thought she heard the hum of an approaching engine. Gulping, she rushed on.
"Or are you planning to drug him, too? Arrange another accident? A drowning this time? You won't get away with it, you know. Inspector Picard from the Nice Prefecture of Police is on the case. She won't buy another accident."
That was definitely an engine. It was louder now, closer. Suddenly, the muted roar died. The launch must be angling in, positioning to deliver its passenger. Slicking her tongue along her lips, Mackenzie kept up her desperate monologue.
‘‘Picard will find out soon enough that Nick hired a water taxi. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if she isn't tailing him, just to see where he's headed. She's probably right behind him. Or watching through high-powered binoculars."
She couldn't broadcast a plainer message. It was time to send in the cavalry. Again. She could only hope whoever was manning the control center had the sense not to acknowledge her transmission.
To her infinite relief, the on-duty controller kept silent. At least, Mackenzie hoped that explained the lack of response. Surely the transmitter was working. She'd tested it herself this morning. God, she hoped she'd keyed it properly before pouring out all that babble!
She had no time now to stew about whether or not her transmission had gone through. The hollow tread of footsteps sounded again in the corridor outside the stateroom. Closing her fist around the money clip, Mackenzie tensed.
Alexander entered. His dark eyes inscrutable, he moved to the head of the bed.
"Nick's here. Dianthe wants you upstairs."
"So she sent her trained dog to retrieve me. Do you always sit up and bark at her command?''
The taunt brought a cynical smile. "Always."
Craning her neck, Mackenzie watched him hunker down beside the bed. The chain anchoring her right wrist came loose with a silvery tinkle.
She coiled her muscles. One solid clip to the jaw. That's all she figured she'd get in. She'd have to time it just right, use every bit of leverage she could manage with both ankles still anchored...
Alexander preempted any and all moves. Wrapping the loosened chain around his fist to keep it taut and Mackenzie contorted at an awkward angle, he rounded the foot of the bed. In a matter of moments, he had both wrists behind her and banded together. Only then did he release her ankles. To her profound disgust, he took care to stay well out of kick range.
"Be careful," he warned when she swung her feet over the side of the bed and struggled into a sitting position. ‘‘The drug may still be in your system. And you won't have your sea legs yet."
"I can't tell you how much I appreciate your concern!"
"Let me help you."
She jerked away from his outstretched hand, snarling. "Touch me again, and one of us won't live to regret it."
The issue hung in the balance for several moments before Alexander flicked a glance at the mirror above the bed.
"We've provided enough entertainment for Dianthe and Nick, Mademoiselle Blair. I've no doubt they're both thoroughly enjoying the show. Let's go up to the main salon and join them, shall we?"
Chapter 13
Dianthe and Nick?
Enjoying the show?
The sardonic comments echoed in Mackenzie's head as she made her unsteady way down the com-panionway. As Alexander had predicted, her legs felt spongy and her stomach had a tendency to lurch with every roll of the ship. The slight queasiness didn't bother her as much as the insidious doubts Alexander had planted, though.
Surely Nick and the countess weren't in this together—whatever "this" was. No way Lightning would have allowed that witch and her playmate to dope and shanghai OMEGA's chief of communications.
Why not? a nasty little voice countered. OMEGA's chief of communications had zapped Lightning with a Taser just a few nights ago. Maybe he was just getting some of his own back.
This was crazy! Mackenzie couldn't believe she was even considering the possibility that Nick and the countess shared anything more than a passing acquaintance and a possible link through an evening bag stolen years ago. It had to be the drug making her think so crazy.
> Or so she tried to convince herself as she climbed the circular staircase leading to what was obviously the main deck. Instead of portholes, tall glass windows let in the afternoon sunlight and illuminated a series of salons all done in '30s era Art Deco. The dining room was a symphony in white and black, with sixteen chairs grouped around a glass-topped table crowned with a vase of calla lilies. The mirrored bar in the middle salon contained a cozy grouping of armchairs and a collection of cut crystal decanters displayed on specially fitted shelves.
Nick and Dianthe were in the forward salon. Mackenzie didn't see them at first. Dazzling light poured in from the sliding glass doors framing the room. A teak foredeck stretched outside the glass, dotted with potted palms and rattan furniture cushioned in blue and yellow stripes. The sea sparkled an achingly beautiful aquamarine just beyond the ship's prow.
With Alexander crowding her shoulder, Mackenzie stopped just inside the salon and waited for her eyes to adjust to the light. Gradually, she made out the circular conversation pit upholstered in white leather. The wall-size screen and projection unit built into one bulkhead. The tall, bronzed male in a navy blazer. The petite brunette holding a blue-steel, crosshatched pistol trained at his heart.
Well, that settled the question of whether Nick and Dianthe were in this together! With a small puff, Mackenzie let out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
"Ah, here you are," the countess said with genial hospitality. "Do come in, Ms. Blair, and make yourself comfortable."
Mackenzie's glance shot to Nick. Cool and unruffled and apparently unfazed by the semiautomatic aimed at his midsection, he searched her face. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine."
‘‘No aftereffects from the drug Dianthe informed me she injected?"
"Just a slight headache and a burning desire to kick some butt."
He smiled then, his teeth a slash of white against his tanned skin. "Funny. I'm experiencing exactly the same feeling."
To Love a Thief Page 12