Ready for Anything, Anywhere!

by Beverly Barton

  Until Cutter knew how the disk had found its way into her suitcase, however, he wasn’t ready to let her off the hook … or out of his sight. Smoothly, he redirected the thread of their conversation.

  “I have to admit, I’m enjoying my new line of work more than the old. I’ve got an appointment with a local vintner tomorrow morning. Why don’t you come with me?”

  “I’d love to, but I can’t. I need to find a notary and fax my signature to the American Express office. And follow up with the embassy about my passport. And sort out this mess with the rental-car agency.”

  “I’m sure Gilbért knows the location of a notary. We’ll stop by and obtain his or her chop on the way to the vintner. You can make any calls you need to on my cell phone.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve already imposed on you too much.”

  “Why don’t you sleep on it? We’ll talk again in the morning.”

  “Speaking of sleep.”

  Her shoulders sagging, she laid down her fork. She’d taken only a few bites of her dinner. Cutter could see that was all she’d manage. The color had seeped from her cheeks and left them gray with fatigue.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to poop out on you. Jet lag is catching up with a vengeance.”

  “No problem.” He rose and came around to slide back her chair. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Sleep well, Mallory.”

  “You, too.”

  As she turned to face him, her flowery scent teased his senses again. Cutter resisted the urge to brush a wayward strand of corn-silk hair off her cheek. If her allegations against Congressman Kent held even a grain of truth, Ms. Dawes didn’t take kindly to being touched.

  He wanted to, though, with a sudden, gut-twisting urgency that surprised the hell out of him. Controlling the urge, he stepped away from her.

  Cutter Smith wasn’t like the others.

  The thought teased at Mallory’s tired mind as she dragged up the stairs.

  She’d seen that spark of heat in his eyes a few moments ago. Felt the sudden, subtle tension sizzle through the air between them. But he’d promised she’d be safe with him.

  He’d also promised he wouldn’t hit on her unless she wanted him to. Now here she was, wishing she’d given him the green light.

  Was she an idiot, or what?

  Chapter 6

  Still on Central American jungle time, Cutter’s internal alarm failed to go off in time for his usual dawn run. He didn’t jerk awake until his cell phone buzzed.

  The ring tone sounded ordinary enough, but he was so attuned to the sequence of musical notes that he went from total unconsciousness to fully alert in two seconds flat.

  “Yeah, I know,” Mike Callahan said when his craggy face appeared on the screen. “It’s early as hell.”

  “It is for me,” Cutter agreed, scraping a hand over his chin. “Late as hell for you.”

  Callahan must have stayed at Control a second night in a row. Wondering what had kept him there, Cutter threw off the duvet and swung upright. He’d left the windows open to the sea breeze last night. The air carried a damp bite this morning, but that wasn’t what prickled the skin of his bare chest and arms. Callahan wouldn’t have initiated contact without good reason.

  “What’s up, Hawk?”

  “Thought you might want to know about your friend, Walters.”

  Cutter’s mind clicked instantly to the heavyset tourist who’d accosted Mallory yesterday. Robert Walters. Age: fifty-three. Siding and storm doors. High roller.

  “Did you pull his phone records?”

  “I did,” Mike confirmed. “Found some very interesting threads, but that’s not why I contacted you. I intercepted State Department message traffic a few hours ago. The Bureau of Consular Affairs is trying to locate Walters’s next-of-kin. Seems he met with an unfortunate accident yesterday, a few hours after your run-in with him.”

  “What kind of an accident?”

  “He tumbled down some steps at Mont St. Michel and broke his neck.”

  An image of the steep, narrow passageways cut into solid rock flashed into Cutter’s head. The steps were accidents waiting to happen, particularly to unwary tourists who’d imbibed one glass too many in a local bistro.

  “What do the preliminary police reports say?”

  “Although they’re treating it as a ‘suspicious’ death and conducting a full investigation, they’ve found no witnesses or evidence to indicate the fall was anything but accidental. The inventory of the deceased’s personal effects raised a red flag at Direction Centrale, however.”

  The hair on the back of Cutter’s neck lifted. France’s central director of police also served as head of their Interpol Bureau. As such, he played an integral role in combating international organized crime.

  “Turns out our boy Walters had a soggy piece of paper in his wallet. The writing on it was blurred and almost obliterated …”

  Surprise, surprise, Cutter thought wryly.

  “… but they managed to lift an address. It checks to a small-time hood in Marseilles with suspected ties to the Russian.”

  “Well, hell!”

  “I thought that might be your reaction,” Mike drawled. “I checked the schedule of the tour Walters and his buddies were on. After visiting the Normandy beaches, they were scheduled to cut south to Bordeaux, then west to Marseilles before hitting the Riviera and the casino at Monaco.”

  Gripping the phone, Cutter paced to the windows. The heavy drapes were open, the gauzy curtains fluttering in the damp breeze. He barely registered the chill blowing in as his mind ran with the possibilities.

  Had Walters’s horny tourist bit been an act? Was he the go-between designated to retrieve the disk from Mallory, either with or without her knowledge? Had he been instructed to deliver it to this thug in Marseilles?

  If so, Cutter had interfered by busting up that little scene in the alley. After which, he’d spirited Mallory away and sequestered her here in this isolated château.

  Then Walters had tumbled down a flight of steep steps. Was it an accident, or retribution for failing to retrieve the disk?

  The last possibility presupposed the Russian had someone else shadowing Walters and/or Mallory. If so, had that someone witnessed her car floating out to sea? Did they know the disk was still in the trunk?

  Dammit! It irritated the hell out of Cutter that he still had a helluva lot more questions than answers. Not the least of which was Mallory Dawes’s role in all of this.

  “You haven’t had any movement on the disk, have you?” he asked Mike.

  “Negative. It’s still resting at the bottom of the sea. I’ve confirmed that the rental agency isn’t going to attempt to raise the Peugeot, by the way. A salvage operation would cost more than the car is worth.”

  Frowning, Cutter turned away from the window and marshaled his thoughts.

  “Okay, here’s how I want to handle this. First, I’ll work from the assumption that Walters was the designated go-between, sent to retrieve the disk from Dawes and deliver it to this thug in Marseilles. Second, I’m going to assume his death was no accident. That means there was someone else on scene, someone who engineered Walters’s fall, either in retribution or anger over his bungled attempt. Third, unless and until a diver tries to retrieve the disk from the submerged vehicle, I’m assuming whoever wants the damned thing believes Dawes had it with her when she trudged up the ramp at Mont St. Michel to rendezvous with Walters.”

  “In which case, that someone has to believe she’s still got it with her.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So you’re going to use her as bait.”

  It wasn’t a question, nor was there a hint of censure in Mike’s voice. Cutter knew Hawk would do exactly the same given the circumstances. Staking out suspects like sacrificial goats was all part of the job. Cutter just wished this particular goat wasn’t starting to get to him. He hadn’t forgotten the fierce urge to touch her that had gripped him last night.

  “Don’t see that I have much choice,” h
e bit out. “This place is a modern-day fortress. The Russian can’t get to Mallory or the disk here. I’m taking her with me on my ‘business’ call to the local vintner you set me up with this morning.”

  “You got the cheat sheets I sent you, right?”

  “Right. Good thing you warned me the Calvados region is more known for its brandy than its wine.”

  “That came from Lightning. Evidently this Monsieur Villieu provides private stock for Nick’s restaurants. He said for you to confirm his order for the entire lot of 1989 Prestige blend, by the way.”

  Cutter was more of a beer-and-pretzels man than a brandy aficionado. If Nick Jensen wanted the entire stock of this stuff for his string of high-priced restaurants, though, it had to be something special.

  When Cutter followed the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee to the petite dining salon some time later, he found Mallory ensconced in one of the fan-backed wicker chairs. The mist was fast burning off the cliffs outside but Cutter didn’t spare the spectacular view a glance. His attention was centered on the woman slathering butter on a flaky croissant.

  “Good morning.”

  When she looked up, her smile was warm and welcoming and plowed right into him. “Good morning.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Like a new woman.”

  He had to admit she looked like one, too. She wore the same outfit she’d had on last night: jewel-toned blouse, slim brown slacks, frou-frouey shoes. But she’d swept her hair up into a twist that showed the smooth, clean line of her neck and jaw.

  Her cheeks had regained their color, he noted. The gray tinge of exhaustion was gone. So was the wariness that had kept her voice cool and reserved. If she had lost sleep over a bungled exchange with Robert Walters, Cutter couldn’t see any sign of it.

  Filling a demitasse cup with coffee strong enough to substitute for roof tar, he carried the cup to the glass-topped wicker table. Mallory eyed the undiluted coffee with a raised brow.

  “Don’t you want some cream in that? It’s high-octane.”

  “No, thanks.”

  Cutter welcomed the jolt to his central nervous system. After Mike’s call, he needed it. While he ingested the caffeine, his breakfast companion nudged a basket of croissants and a small brown crock across the table.

  “Well, you have to try this apple butter. Madame Picard says it’s made from apples grown here in Normandy. After my first taste, I regretted every nasty word I muttered when I was stuck behind all those tractors hauling the fall harvest yesterday.”

  Cutter took advantage of the opening she’d just handed him to segue into his role. “That’s not all they make from apples around here. The vintner I’m going to visit this morning produces some of the world’s finest grape-based apple brandy.”

  “Grape-based apple brandy? Sounds almost like a contradiction in terms.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” Tearing apart a still-warm roll, he loaded it with creamy butter. “The appointment is for ten-thirty, but I can slip that if we need more time to locate a notary.”

  “Oh,” she mumbled around a mouthful. “About that.”

  She flicked her tongue over her lower lip to capture a stray crumb. Cutter followed the movement with an intensity that annoyed the hell out of him.

  “I really don’t want to impose on you or your time. I’ll get Gilbért to drive me to town.”

  Not hardly, he thought. He wasn’t letting Ms. Dawes out of his sight.

  “No sense both of us driving that way.”

  He took a bite and felt his taste buds leap for joy. Swallowing, he stared at the other half of his croissant.

  “My God! This stuff is amazing.”

  Mallory had to grin at the expression on his face. He looked like a kid who’d just discovered a hidden stash of chocolate.

  “Told you,” she said smugly.

  When he took another bite, the play of his throat muscles drew her gaze. He was wearing the silky black turtleneck again, paired with tan pleated slacks and a leather belt holding his clipped-on cell phone. The turtleneck covered most of the scars, but enough remained visible to tug at Mallory’s heart.

  She could only imagine the agony he must have suffered when the bomb he’d told her about last night exploded, taking part of his face with it. Thinking about his anguish, about how he must have had to fight for his life, made Mallory’s own ordeal seem trivial by comparison. Slowly, inexorably, the tight knot of fury she’d carried around inside her for so many weeks loosened. As the knot unraveled, chagrin replaced the bitter, corrosive anger.

  How stupid she’d been to lose all perspective the way she had! How egotistical to think her problems were so earth-shattering. People all over the world were battling cancer or dying of starvation or losing all they owned to war or the ravages of nature.

  Yet here she sat, bathed in bright Norman sunlight, munching on warm croissants and apple butter, in the company of the most intriguing male she’d met in longer than she could remember. She’d be fifty times a fool not to savor every moment of this escape from harsh reality.

  Those thoughts were still tumbling through her mind when Cutter downed the rest of his croissant and swiped his napkin across his mouth.

  “That settles it. If the locals can work this kind of magic with apples and butter, imagine what they can do with apples and brandy. You’re going with me this morning.”

  Mallory capitulated with a rippling laugh. She’d tackle the American Embassy and the rental-car agency this afternoon. For now, she’d savor the bright sunshine and Cutter Smith’s company.

  “Okay, I’m going with you this morning. Let’s get directions from Gilbért on how to find a notary.”

  Mallory hadn’t counted on the French propensity for ignoring posted schedules.

  Despite Gilbért’s call to confirm the office hours of the town clerk, Mallory and Cutter sat on a bench and waited for more than twenty minutes for le notaire to pedal up. He offered a nonchalant apology, stuffed his beret into his jacket pocket, and led them to an office musty with the smell of old documents and wood imbued with damp from the salt-laden sea breeze.

  To Mallory’s relief, a computer and fax sat side-by-side with ranks of cloth-bound ledgers that looked as though they were left over from the 1800s. The clerk booted up and set out the tools of his trade.

  “You wish me to witness your signature, yes?”

  “Yes. Then I need to fax the authentication to the American Express office in Paris.”

  “Bien.” He waved her to the chair beside his desk. “We begin.”

  While he and Mallory took care of business, Cutter wandered over to examine an array of yellowed photos displayed on one wall. Mallory joined him a few moments later. One glimpse at the photographs explained his grim absorption.

  The stark, unretouched images portrayed the epic battles that had raged along the beaches to the north during the Second World War. Coils of wire gleamed in the gray light, encircling turrets. Anti-aircraft artillery peeked from cement blockhouses. Machinegun emplacements sat perched high on rocky ledges. And far below, at the base of the cliffs, row after row of lethal steel spears protruded from the surf.

  “My grandfather takes these photos,” the clerk said, coming to stand beside them. “He was an old man, you understand, and crippled, but he bicycles north to Côte de Nacre—what you call Omaha Beach—to make photos of German defenses and provide them to la résistance.”

  His chest puffing with pride, the clerk directed their attention to a framed document.

  “General Eisenhower sends my grandfather a letter after the war and thanks him for his pictures. He says they helped to liberate our country. I have the copy here, but the original is in the museum at Arromanches.”

  Cutter dragged his gaze from the document and swept it over the photos again. As a former Ranger, he knew the history. The initial wave of the First Infantry Division, the Big Red One, had hit Omaha Beach at 0630. The second wave came ashore at 0700. The Rangers and the 116th Infantry
regiment landed two hours later and were forced to wade through the bodies of their comrades before they finally cracked a breach in the German defenses. Supported by tanks and two destroyers delivering continuous bombardment, the Americans pushed through the breach and liberated the surrounding towns by the late afternoon.

  “You will visit the museum?” the clerk asked. “And the American Cemetery? It is not far, on the road between St. Laurent and Colleville-sur-Mer.”

  With real regret, Cutter shook his head. “We’ll have to visit the museum another day. This morning we go to Villieu Vintners.”

  “Ahhhh!” His face folding into paroxysms of delight, the clerk kissed his fingers. “You will sample the finest of Calvados brandies at Villieu. The best in all of France.”

  Afterward, Mallory was never quite sure how the day slipped away from her. She’d fully intended to return to the château by noon, untangle her affairs, and resume her interrupted vacation.

  But after a short stop in the village so she could purchase a few items of clothing and toiletries, they drove northeast toward St. Lo. The dappled sunlight sifting through the trees wiped away much of Mallory’s guilt that she wasn’t back at the château, working the phones. Monsieur Villieu’s ebullience and generous hospitality washed away the rest.

  Or it could have been his brandy. The tingling scent of potent spirits surrounded her the moment she and Cutter arrived at the stone buildings housing Villieu et Fils Distillery.

  Lean and spare, with cheeks chafed red by wind and sun, Villieu beamed as he walked his visitors through vineyards first planted by the Romans and orchards groaning with the weight of their fruit.

  “The grapes, they do not grow as fat here as they do in Bordeaux and Cognac. The climate is too damp, the soil too flinty. Aaah, but when we blend our tough little grape with the apple and the pear … ”

  He kissed his fingers and opened the door to the fermenting sheds with a flourish. A sour-mash smell rose in waves from the huge vats and almost knocked Mallory back a step. Nose wrinkling, eyes watering, she breathed through her mouth until they exited the fermenting shed and entered a different world.