Stranded with a Spy

by Merline Lovelace

  “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. Machine-gun 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.

  Here it was the heat that hit like a slap to the face. Sweat beading on her temples, Mallory followed Monsieur Villieu along rows of copper pots that looked like big, squat gourds with long necks.

  “Here is where we boil the wine. It must heat to 212 degrees Fahrenheit for fourteen hours.”

  While Mallory discreetly dabbed at the sweat beading her upper lip, her host pointed to the tubes coiling from the necks of the copper pots.

  “And there is where we capture the vapors that become Calvados. We boil seven hundred gallons of wine, yes? From that we get two hundred gallons of eau de vie.”

  She understood the goal was to capture only the purest of the vapor, but she lost him when he tried to explain the difference between the heart, tailings and heads. The end product was a clear, amber liquid that was then stored for two to four years in Limousin oak casks inside caves cut into the hillside behind the distillery.

  The potent fumes inside the caves were starting to get to Mallory by the time they emerged into the sunshine. The fresh air cleared her head enough to nod and smile when Monsieur Villieu insisted his visitors join him and his wife for lunch at a table set under an ancient oak tree.

  As scarecrow-thin as her husband, Madame Villieu heaped bowls and plates for her guests before doing the same for herself and her husband. Her English was as spotty as Mallory’s French, but the banquet she set out crossed all language barriers. A tureen of potato soup was followed by salade Niçoise and gargantuan platters of tomatoes, cheese, spicy sausage and sliced mutton. Following their host’s lead, Mallory and Cutter slapped slab upon slab of meat, tomatoes and cheese onto fresh-baked baguettes.

  In the midst of the feast, Monsieur Villieu poured stiff shots of his award-winning Calvados. “For le trou Normand, yes?”

  “The Norman hole?” Mallory translated dubiously.

  “Oui,” he beamed. “We Normans have the long tradition. We drink Calvados in the middle of a meal such as this. It makes the hole, you understand, for more food to follow.”

  Tipping his head, he tossed back the brandy and thumped his glass on the table. His wife did the same.

  “Now you,” he urged.

  Mallory glanced at Cutter, caught his grin, and raised her glass. “Le trou Normand.”

  “Le trou Normand,” he echoed.

  The Calvados slid down her throat like buttery apple cider. She tasted a hint of vanilla and rum raisin and started to smack her lips. Then the brandy hit her belly.

  “Whoa!” Breathing fire, she fanned the air and regarded her empty shot glass with awe. “That is some potent stuff!”

  Delighted by her pronouncement, Monsieur Villieu waved aside her protests and filled her glass again. She sipped cautiously this time and still had most of the brandy left when Cutter and his host excused themselves to talk business.

  The women tried to converse during their absence. After a few moments of labored conversation, Madame Villieu got up to clear the table. Mallory helped by toting the tureen into the stone farmhouse that had probably stood on this site as long as the gnarled fruit trees and twisted vines.

  They had the table cleared when the men returned. Their negotiations must have gone well, Mallory mused. Monsieur Villieu practically skipped across the lawn and Cutter wore a satisfied smile.

  Feeling extremely mellow from the sunshine, good food and fine brandy, Mallory accepted the gift of a bottle of Monsieur Villieu’s bes
t before bidding her host and hostess goodbye and climbing into the car.

  Cutter followed a different route back to the château, one that wound away from the coast. As she had the day before, Mallory found herself gazing across vast orchards. Now, however, she nursed a new appreciation for the apples of lower Normandy. Her head lolled against the seat. The breeze teased her hair.

  Her mellow feeling dissipated somewhat when she noticed the time, but she couldn’t bring herself to regret a whole day spent roaming the French countryside…especially with a companion as relaxed and easygoing as Cutter.

  The château welcomed them home with windows gleaming gold in the afternoon sun and the roar of the sea loud against its cliffs. When Cutter pulled into the courtyard and came around to help her out, Mallory felt the sizzle again. It was there, arcing through the crisp fall air, tingling from the touch of his skin against hers.

  Her breath snagged. Her eyes locked with his. She couldn’t read the message in their cool gray depths, but she knew with everything female in her that Cutter had felt the heat, too.

  Now, what the heck would they do about it?

  The question was front and center in her mind as she returned Gilbért’s greeting and followed him inside. Halfway down the long hall, she spotted a folded newspaper lying atop a stack of mail. The newspaper was French and local, but the black-and-white picture on the front page stopped her in her tracks.

  Chapter 7

  When Mallory came to an abrupt stop, Cutter was only a couple of paces behind her. He took a quick sidestep to avoid a collision while Gilbért turned in surprise at her involuntary groan.

  “Oh, nooo!”

  The fuzzy warmth engendered by her day in the sun and the hours spent with Cutter evaporated on the spot. Her insides twisting, Mallory pointed to the newspaper lying atop the hall table.

  “It’s him.”

  The newspaper showed only a partial head-and-shoulders shot, just enough for her to identify the man who’d accosted her yesterday at Mont St. Michel. That was enough. She knew with absolute certainty that when she unfolded the newspaper, her photo would appear beside his.

  He must have seen her car float away and mouthed off to the people around him about the owner. Having such a notorious American lose her vehicle to the tides would make for a nice local news splash.

  Gilbért glanced at the photo before politely handing her the paper. “You know this man, mademoiselle?”

  “No, not really. I, uh, bumped into him yesterday at Mont St. Michel.”

  “It is tragique, how he dies.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “But yes. He falls down the stairs, there on the island.”

  Shocked, Mallory whipped open the folded paper. No mug shot of her, thank God, but the words American and mort leaped out from the caption below the photo.

  The recently deceased had been loud and boorish and uncouth. Mallory felt no particular regret at his demise, only surprise and a guilty relief that her name hadn’t been paired with his.

  “I guess that’s what happens when you combine steep steps and too much wine,” she commented.

  “Guess so,” Cutter replied from just behind her.

  His odd inflection brought Mallory’s head around. Disconcerted, she found his cool gray eyes narrowed on her instead of the photo.

  “Hey, don’t look at me. I didn’t push him down any stairs, although I might have been tempted to if he’d pawed me one more time. In fact…”

  Her joking tone faded. Brows drawing together, she glanced from Cutter to the photo and back again.

  “In fact,” she said slowly, “the last time I saw the man, you were holding his head under water.”

  Shrugging, Cutter disclaimed all responsibility. “He was still in the horse trough, swearing a blue streak when I left him. Too bad the dunking didn’t sober him up.”

  Mallory’s sudden and very uncomfortable pinprick of doubt faded. She’d spent more than twenty-four hours in Cutter Smith’s company now. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so relaxed around—or been so attracted to—a man with his charm and rugged masculinity.

  It was the comfort level that made her dismiss her momentary doubt as ridiculous…and the attraction that kept her lingering in the hall after Gilbért had confirmed they’d dine in that evening and departed in his slow, stately tread.

  “About yesterday, when this guy grabbed me…”

  She saw the question in his eyes. He had to be wondering where she was going.

  “Yes?”

  “I, uh, could have been more grateful when you came to my rescue.”

  “I wasn’t looking for gratitude.”

  “I know.” Remembering how she’d had to force a single, grudging word of thanks, Mallory grimaced. “It’s just that…Well…I’ve become a little gun-shy around men lately.”

  Not to mention curt, suspicious and distrustful. She could do better. And Cutter certainly deserved better. He didn’t know it, but he’d given her an incredible gift today. The relaxing hours in his company, the lunch under the trees, the long drive in the sunlight, had loosened the anger that had tied her in such tight knots these past weeks.

  “Does that include me?” Cutter asked, hooking a brow.

  “Not any more.” The smile in her eyes matched the one in her heart. “Thanks for today, Monsieur Smith. I had a wonderful time. Calvados will be my brandy of choice from now on.”

  Mallory lifted a hand, aching to curve it over his cheek, but the no-grope rule worked both ways. She’d filed sexual harassment charges against a powerful legislator for inappropriate touching. In the process, she’d destroyed both her career and the warm spontaneity that had once been an integral part of her. The old Mallory might have completed the contact. The new Mallory hesitated.

  This time, though, the urge to touch was reciprocal. She could sense it with everything that was female in her. Still, she hesitated, too scarred by the ugliness of the past months to follow through. She’d collected almost as many wounds as Cutter, she realized with a catch in her throat, except hers were on the inside.

  Her hovering hand had started to drop when he resolved the matter by simply leaning forward. The warm skin of his cheek connected with her palm. His breath mingled with hers. She lifted her gaze, felt her pulse stutter.

  Cutter’s body reacted to the unspoken invitation even as his mind shouted at him to break the contact and back away.

  Now!

  She was his target, for God’s sake! A possible traitor, intending to sell data that could do irreparable harm to her country. He’d played this game once, had ignored his instincts and fallen for a woman who’d damned near killed him—literally. It had taken long, painful months to recover from that fiasco.

  Problem was, his instincts worked against his intellect this time. Common sense said to back off, but his gut said Mallory Dawes had no knowledge of the disk planted in her suitcase.

  Cutter went with his gut.

  Bending, he covered her mouth with his. He kept the contact light, the kiss gentle. This was her show. He’d let her take it wherever she wanted it to go.

  Okay, maybe a perverse corner of his mind was waiting to see if the stories about her were true, if she was as hot and hungry as her lovers had suggested.

  If so, she had her hunger under control. His, on the other hand, bit into him with unexpected ferocity. His entire body protested when she broke the kiss and stepped back.

  “I, ah, better go make some calls.”

  Cutter had to clench his fists to keep from reaching for her again. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

  “Mmm. Hopefully, I’ll have some good news about my various lost possessions by then and we can make it a farewell celebration.”

  “Hopefully,” he agreed, still battling the ridiculous urge to drag her against him and take another taste of those soft, warm lips. He didn’t breathe easy until she’d mounted the stairs and disappeared into her room.

  Madame Picard had raided her em
ployer’s closet again. A long, multitiered skirt lay atop Mallory’s bed, shimmering in a rainbow of rich jewel tones. Next to it was a short, boxy jean jacket trimmed with lace and sparkling crystals. The slip-on mules were also done in denim and lace and pouffy peacock feathers that ruffled in the sea breeze drifting through the windows.

  Stroking the soft feathers, Mallory tried to picture Cutter’s face when she glided into the petite dining salon decked out in Yvette’s finery. Would she see the same hunger she’d glimpsed in his eyes a few moments ago? If she did, what would she do about it?

  She knew darn well what she wouldn’t do. She wouldn’t back away after a mere brush of her mouth against his. Her pulse was still skittering from the kiss. She wanted more from Cutter Smith than one kiss, she acknowledged. Much more.

  Her heart thumping at the thought, she blew softly on the peacock feathers. To heck with the legal bills still piled up at home. Before she left France, Mallory vowed, she’d treat herself to a pair of Yvette d’Marchand originals. She darn well deserved them. Assuming American Express came through for her, that is.

  Setting aside the mules, she scrounged in her purse for her list of telephone numbers and seated herself at the desk in the sitting room. The first call had her tapping her foot. The second came close to shredding her temper. By the third, she was gritting her teeth.

  “Excuse me, but I did exactly as you requested. I had a notary witness my signature and faxed you his stamped certification. What more do you need to reimburse me for the lost checks?”

  She gripped the receiver, quietly seething. She knew it wouldn’t do any good to lose her temper, but she could feel it oozing through her fingers like slimy dough. When the officious clerk at the other end of the line indicated that he needed yet another level of approval before reimbursing her, Mallory asked to speak to his supervisor. The woman who came on was calm and apologetic.

  “I’m so sorry this is taking so long, Miss Dawes, but there’s a flag on your account.”