Stranded with a Spy

by Merline Lovelace

  Mallory counted to ten. “I’m sure there is. I lost my traveler’s checks.”

  “Yes, I know, but…”

  “But what?”

  She heard the sound of a keyboard clicking.

  “I really don’t understand the hold,” the supervisor said after a moment. “I’ll research it and get back to you. I’m sure we’ll resolve the matter soon.”

  “How soon is soon?”

  “By tomorrow, hopefully. We have the cell phone number you gave us, also the number where you’re staying. We’ll contact you as soon as we obtain approval to release the funds.”

  Mallory resisted slamming down the phone—barely!—but her jaw was locked as she dialed the American Consulate. It remained tight all through the runaround she got from the Foreign Service officer.

  Disgusted, she thudded the phone into its cradle and started to push away from the desk. Desperation convinced her to make one last try. With a mental note to reimburse her hostess for all these calls, she dialed the country code for the United States followed by Dillon Porter’s private number at the Rayburn House Office Building.

  She wasn’t surprised when she got a recording. It was midmorning back home, and Dillon attended as many meetings as Congressman Kent. Chewing on her lower lip, Mallory waited for her former coworker’s voice mail to end in a loud beep.

  “Dillon, it’s Mallory. I’m in France. Wish I could say I’m having a great time. Unfortunately, I lost my passport and can’t seem to get hold of the right person at the American Consulate in Paris to authorize a temporary replacement. I’m getting a first class runaround.”

  No need to go into detail about everything else she’d lost. The sorry tale of riptides and sunken Peugeots would only make her sound as stupid as she felt.

  “I know it’s a lot to ask, but would you pull a few strings at State for me? Please?”

  She cringed inwardly at the irony of her request. She’d accused Kent of sexual impropriety and left his employment in a huff. Now here she was, asking his senior staffer to throw her former boss’s name around on her behalf.

  “I’d appreciate anything you can do. Here’s the number where I’m staying until I get this mess sorted out.”

  She rattled off the number, repeated it more slowly, and hung up. After that, there was nothing to do but fill the tub with perfumed bubbles and soak away the irritation generated by the calls.

  The bubbles helped. So did the elegant skirt, lace-trimmed jacket and feathery mules. But it was the sight of her dinner companion in his tailored slacks, silky black turtleneck and a rust-colored suede sport coat that put the glow back in her day. He was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, an elbow resting on the carved newel post.

  “Madame Picard insists her veal Normandie can only be properly appreciated if eaten in the right setting. I’ve been sent to escort you to the main dining salon.”

  He crooked an elbow, and Mallory slid her arm through his. The suede felt buttery soft under her fingertips. The flesh beneath it was hard and smooth. Heat transferred from the material to her palm as he led her into the dining room.

  The two place settings should have looked lonely all by themselves at the far end of the long banquet table. But candles, sparkling crystal and a tall spray of blood-red gladioli in a porcelain vase created a small island of elegance.

  “Are we celebrating?”

  The question jerked Mallory from her contemplation of the play of sinuous, suede-covered muscle.

  “Huh?”

  “You said when you went upstairs that you were going to make some calls and, hopefully, be ready for a farewell celebration at dinner. Do we pop a cork?”

  “No. Everything is still a tangled mess.”

  She had to work to keep her spirits from taking another dive as Gilbért came forward to seat her in one of the throne-like chairs. She was wearing Yvette d’Marchand, Mallory lectured herself sternly. Basking in the glow of Limoges chandeliers. About to chow down with a man whose kindness was steadily chipping away at her unflattering opinion of the male of the species.

  She continued the self-lecture while Gilbért set out a tray of antipasto and prepared an aperitif tableside. The elaborate ritual involved drizzling water through a slotted spoon holding a sugar cube. The water infused an anise-flavored liqueur called pastis and slowly turned the cloudy yellow liquid an opaque white.

  Pouring the drinks into tall glasses, Gilbért presented them with a flourish. “Voila.”

  “Merci.”

  Mallory had learned her lesson with the apple brandy. She took only a few cautious sips, savoring the licorice tang that enhanced the flavors of the olives and prosciutto-wrapped melon slices.

  “Care to give me a status report?” Cutter asked when Gilbért had left them to enjoy their aperitifs. “Maybe I can help with the untangling.”

  “The status quo hasn’t changed. The rental-car agency is still dithering over liability, American Express says there’s a flag on my account, and you wouldn’t believe the runaround I got from the U.S. Consulate. I called a friend back home who has some pull with the State Department. He should be able to help.”

  She tried for a Gallic shrug and was pretty proud of its nonchalance until the import of what she’d just said pierced her breezy facade. Like a backhanded slap, it wiped the smile from her face and knocked the breath from her lungs. Her eyes huge, she stared at Cutter in mounting dismay.

  “Mallory?” Frowning, he set aside his glass. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

  “I—I just realized…The bureaucratic runaround…All these delays…” She could barely breathe. Swiping her tongue over suddenly dry lips, she croaked out an anguished whisper. “They may be deliberate.”

  Cutter went still. She wasn’t surprised at the wary look that leaped into his eyes. He had to be wondering just what the heck he’d gotten himself into.

  “What makes you think they’re deliberate?” he asked with a cool edge to his voice.

  She had to tell him. Much as it killed her, she had to hang the dirty linen out for him to see.

  “I caused a stink back in the States, one that involved a very influential man. I wouldn’t put it past him to retaliate by having one of his pals at the State Department label me in the system as a troublemaker, or worse.”

  Mallory couldn’t believe it hadn’t occurred to her before this moment. Like an idiot, she’d asked Dillon to drop his boss’s name and pull a few strings without once considering that Congressman Kent could pull a whole bunch more. He hadn’t spent twenty-plus years in Congress without building a wide circle of cronies who owed him favors.

  “That’s how they play the game in Washington,” she said, struggling to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch whatever portion of your anatomy you point in my direction.”

  Cutter regarded her for several silent moments. She could only imagine what he was thinking.

  “Why don’t you tell me who you crossed and how?” he said slowly.

  “My former boss, Congressman Ashton Kent.”

  His lips pursed in a soundless whistle. Hers twisted in a wry grimace.

  “I know, I know. Nothing like pitting yourself against one of the most powerful men in the United States.”

  “What happened?”

  “Kent grabbed my ass once too often, so I filed a sexual harassment complaint.”

  Blowing out a ragged breath, Mallory stripped weeks of torment down to the sordid basics.

  “Kent claimed I dressed too provocatively. That I left the top buttons of my blouse undone to entice him. He even produced a picture of the two of us, taken shortly after I joined his staff. There I was, smiling up at him in what he asserted was an open invitation.”

  Try as she might, Mallory couldn’t hold back the tortuous doubts. They swamped her now, as they had so many times in the past weeks.

  “I admired the man, Cutter! At first, anyway. Ashton Kent is a living legend in American politics. I was
pretty jazzed to be asked to join his staff and probably didn’t hold back when I was with him those first few weeks.”

  She cringed now at the memory of her initial, awestruck admiration for the silver-maned legislator. Maybe she had flirted a little. Maybe her eagerness to be considered a team player could have been interpreted as a come-on.

  Then there was that business with her blouse.

  “We were working late on draft legislation,” Mallory related. “I’d slipped off my suit jacket. I didn’t notice the top button on my blouse had come undone until Congressman Kent leaned over my shoulder and got an eyeful. That was the first time he fondled me.”

  Cutter said nothing, for which Mallory was profoundly grateful. The telling was difficult enough without editorial commentary.

  “I was as surprised as I was embarrassed, but made it clear I wasn’t interested. That’s when the congressman informed me that I hadn’t been hired for my brains.”

  Her listener broke his silence then. The pithy, one-syllable oath eased the tight knot in Mallory’s chest.

  “That’s pretty much what I thought, too. So the second time Kent grabbed me, I filed a complaint. What followed wasn’t pretty.”

  “No,” Cutter growled, “I would imagine it wasn’t.”

  She slumped against her chair back, relieved she didn’t have to hide her dirty little secret from him any longer. “I’m surprised you didn’t recognize me. My face, my personal history and detailed accounts of my sexual proclivities made just about every paper in the country.”

  “I travel a lot.” His glance softened as it swept over her. “I’m guessing the media were a lot harder on you than they were on the congressman.”

  “You got that right. He came out looking like the poster boy for Viagra. I was painted as the promiscuous slut who tempted the poor man to sin.”

  Her dinner companion snorted. “Who in their right mind would believe Kent was a helpless victim?”

  “His wife, for one. The arbitrator, for another. And a dozen or so jerks like the one who hit on me at Mont St. Michel, all convinced Mallory Dawes was good for some raunchy, no-holds-barred sex.”

  Cutter toyed with his aperitif glass. He had strong hands, she thought, big and blunt-fingered.

  “You sure that’s why that guy hit on you?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “He didn’t just spot a beautiful woman sitting by herself and forget his manners?”

  “Thanks for the compliment. God knows, I wish that was all it was. He made it clear, though, that he recognized me from the news stories and fully expected me to live up—or down—to my reputation.”

  She shrugged, feeling fifty pounds lighter now that she’d unburdened herself. “Sorry, Cutter. I guess I should have warned you that you were hooking up with the next best thing to a porn star.”

  She didn’t expect the laughter that rumbled around in his chest. His gray eyes invited her to share in the joke.

  “I didn’t know there was a next best thing,” he commented, grinning.

  An answering chuckle gurgled up, surprising Mallory. She couldn’t believe she was actually trading jokes about the degrading incident that had left a permanent stain on her psyche.

  Okay, maybe not so permanent. The blot seemed to lighten a little more with each hour spent in Cutter’s company. She was searching for a way to express her gratitude when Gilbért returned and held the door open for his wife to roll in a heavily laden cart.

  The antipasto tray was whisked away. Wine goblets replaced the pastis glasses. Domes came off an array of silver serving dishes. With a beaming smile for his wife, the majordomo presented a platter garnished with parsley and cleverly carved lemon swans.

  “I give you le veau de la Normandie.”

  Chapter 8

  Mallory’s account of her run-in with Congressman Kent gave Cutter a good deal more to chew on than Madame Picard’s succulent veal.

  Her account, brief as it was, tallied with the detailed summary in the background dossier OMEGA had put together on the Kent incident. She hadn’t tried to gloss things over or minimize her part in the mess. If anything, she seemed to take a disproportionate share of the blame, and that left Cutter quietly seething.

  He’d crossed paths with Ashton Kent. Twice. Once while Cutter was still in uniform and Kent had been part of a Congressional junket touring the Middle East. Again at Nick Jensen’s high-priced D.C. restaurant, when Kent had disappeared into one of the private rooms with the well-endowed widow of a wealthy campaign contributor. Both times the old goat had struck Cutter as a walking, talking prick.

  He didn’t doubt for a minute Kent had felt up his bright-eyed new staffer. What really pissed Cutter off was that Mallory appeared to have taken most of the heat for it.

  Had that made her bitter enough to walk away with a disk containing personal financial data belonging to millions of government workers, up to and including the President of the United States?

  No way in hell!

  His conviction grew firmer by the hour. Problem was, it was still based more on gut feeling than fact. He needed something definitive to eliminate her as anything more than a possible unwitting courier.

  He waited until they’d finished dinner and agreed to Gilbért’s suggestion they take coffee and dessert in the conservatory before steering the conversation back to the subject of retribution.

  “So you think Kent may be retaliating against you by asking a pal to hold up your replacement passport?”

  “I think it’s a distinct possibility.”

  “How would he know you lost it in the first place?”

  “Good question.”

  Mallory drifted to the tall windows, her gaze on the moonlit seascape outside. Cutter did his best to ignore the play of light and shadow on her profile as she scrunched her forehead and considered the possibilities.

  “Maybe the State Department contacted my place of employment to verify my identity before issuing a temporary passport. Or maybe,” she said slowly, “the contact came from American Express. They said there was a flag on my account. Congressman Kent chairs the House Committee on Banking and Trade. He exerts tremendous influence over the entire industry. He also works closely with NSA and Homeland Defense. I wouldn’t put it past him to have flagged the financial records of everyone on his staff. Maybe everyone on the Hill. All in the name of national security.”

  “He wields that kind of power?” Cutter asked with a carefully manufactured blend of curiosity and outrage. “What happened to our right to privacy?”

  The answer came swiftly and without the least hesitation.

  “9/11.”

  Abandoning the moon-washed cliffs outside, Mallory turned and jammed her hands in the pockets of her lace-trimmed jacket.

  “We’re at war. An undeclared war, some argue, but everyone agrees that it threatens all Americans. Desperate times call for desperate measures. By following the money trail across international borders, we’ve located countless Al Qaeda cells and their financiers.”

  He didn’t miss the collective we—or that Mallory Dawes identified with the good guys.

  “I can’t speak for anyone else,” she continued, “but I’m more than willing to let Uncle Sam peek into my personal financial dealings if it will help take down bin Laden and his thugs.”

  Cutter and the rest of the OMEGA operatives served in the front lines in the war against terror. Personally, he didn’t give a rat’s ass about the rights of a suspected suicide bomber. Professionally, he’d respect those rights for the simple reason that violating them might screw the case against the suspect. He made no comment, however, until Mallory came off her soapbox with a look of embarrassed chagrin.

  “I guess I’m just not real thrilled that Kent may be one of the ones doing the peeking.”

  “I can understand why.”

  As Cutter studied the moonlight dappling her upturned face, he had to admit there was something seriously wrong with this picture. Here they were, surrounded by th
e earthy perfume of the conservatory’s potted palms, with stars studding the sky outside and the sea crashing against the cliffs below. His overwhelming urge was to take advantage of the exotic setting to kiss Ms. Dawes senseless. Instead, he was doing his damnedest to get her to incriminate herself. Grimly, he plowed ahead.

  “Have you thought about getting back at Kent for all he’s put you through? May still be putting you through?”

  “God, yes!”

  The vehemence sent a sudden chill through him, icing his veins. The rueful shrug that followed started a slow thaw.

  “But I tried that once and failed dismally.” She gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I can be pretty stubborn at times, but I’m not into self-flagellation or masochism. I decided before I left for France that I wasn’t going to beat myself up over Congressman Ashton Kent any longer.”

  She slanted him a sideways glance and hesitated a moment before adding shyly, “You reinforced that decision, you know.”

  “Me? How?”

  “By coming to my rescue the way you did. By giving me a glorious afternoon in the sun and two nights like this. But mostly, by reminding me not all men are like Kent.”

  Cutter’s conscience started to squirm. He’d done exactly what he’d intended to do. Isolated the woman. Made her dependent on him. Gained her trust. So why the hell was he now feeling like a world-class heel?

  “Don’t pin a halo on me, Mallory. Kent and I have more in common than you think. You don’t know how hard it was for me to keep my hands off you this afternoon.”

  “There’s one significant difference,” she said quietly. “I want your hands on me.”

  Sweating now, he was reminding himself of all the reasons why he shouldn’t take her up on her starry-eyed invitation when she drifted closer.

  “I liked touching you, Cutter.”

  He managed to resist until she dropped her gaze to his mouth.

  “And I liked kissing you.”

  Well, hell! He’d never made any claims to being a saint. What’s more, he’d given her fair warning.

  Slamming the door on his conscience, he did what he’d ached to do earlier that afternoon. His arm snaked around her waist. His stance widened. Cradling her hips against his, he tunneled his free hand into her hair to hold her head steady and took what she offered.