Dangerous to Know

by Merline Lovelace

  “It’s clean,” she told him, still stunned by his uncharacteristic behavior. “I cleared it this morning.”

  Using the electronic “sweep” Special Devices had designed to fit into the handle of her hairbrush, Maggie had surreptitiously checked for bugs and hidden cameras when she first arrived.

  She’d found one, a sophisticated listening device that she’d foiled with a simple countermeasure. The small gadget looked like a travel clock, and would filter a conversation just enough to make the words indistinguishable. It would also drive any listener batty with the effort to make them out, the chief of Special Devices had informed her smugly.

  Doc, however, didn’t appear particularly gratified by the knowledge that they could talk in the open.

  Although dressed in a conservative business suit of fine gray worsted, his powerful body radiated a fierce, controlled tension as he swung Maggie around to face him. His dark brown hair, gleaming with subtle mahogany tints, lacked its usual neat style. In fact, it looked as though he’d thrust his hand through it. Several times.

  “Control is checking the license tag. Claire should get back to us in five minutes or less,” he informed her in a low, ominous voice. “Which means you have exactly four minutes and fifty-nine seconds to tell me just how Paige Lawrence got into the picture. And what do you mean, she got picked up by mistake? By whom? When? Dammit, Maggie, how in the hell did you get her involved in this?”

  Maggie took an involuntary step backward as Doc leaned over her. She’d never seen him like this. And she’d never realized just how intimidating he could be when all one hundred and ninety pounds of him emanated a cold, hard fury.

  “I didn’t get her involved,” she protested. “Well, I did, I suppose, by encouraging her to buy an outfit similar to mine. That must have been what caused the mix-up. That, and our coloring. But…” She craned her neck back and stared up at David in utter perplexity. “But…”

  “But what?” he snarled.

  Enough was enough. This was her partner, for heaven’s sake. She would trust David Jensen with her life. She’d done just that, in fact, one hot, muggy night in Malaysia, two years ago.

  “But what’s with this ‘Paige’ business?” she retorted. “You say her name as if you know her.”

  His smoky eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. “Of course I know her. She’s my fiancée.”

  “Your fiancée!”

  Ignoring Maggie’s surprised gasp, he pinned her with a hard look. “What I don’t know is why she came to Cannes before I called her, and why you involved her in this operation.”

  She debated which issue to address first—the fact that David apparently no longer had a fiancée, at least according to Paige Lawrence, or the fact that Maggie hadn’t involved the younger woman in this operation. After another quick glance at Doc’s tight jaw, she decided to take the easy one first.

  “I don’t know why she’s here a week early, and I didn’t involve her in the mission. It was a mistake. A mix-up. My contact evidently mistook her for me.”

  Doc ran an eye down her bright gold-and-red-clad form. “Unless your contact is completely blind, there’s no way he could mistake Paige for you. She wears dresses, not spangles. And sensible shoes, not elevators.”

  “Platforms,” Maggie said, trying to find a way to break the news that the last time she’d seen Paige Lawrence, she was wearing spangles and three-inch platforms and not much else.

  “Look, Doc, I don’t understand this any more than you do. It’s incredible that she’s here and we just happened to bump into each other. Just a crazy coincidence.” She paused, her brows drawing together. “Or is it?”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean? What else could it be?”

  Still frowning, Maggie folded her arms across her chest. “Just what do you know about Paige Lawrence? Who is she, Doc?”

  He stared at her for a long, incredulous moment. “I know all there is to know about her,” he stated with savage intensity. “I’ve been engaged to her for over a year, and we dated for almost that long before deciding to marry.”

  “You don’t know what she’s doing in Cannes,” Maggie pointed out.

  He drew in a sharp breath, obviously struggling to contain himself.

  “No doubt she got the dates confused. She does that occasionally. Well, regularly. Last month, she took me to her parents’ home for their fortieth anniversary party. She got the date right. Even the day of the week. Just the wrong month.”

  The tenderness Maggie had glimpsed in his eyes when he told her of his wedding plans a few days ago flickered in their depths once again.

  “Paige has a mild form of dyslexia. One that causes her to transpose numbers. It’s what drew me to her in the first place,” he added wryly. “That, and the two-hundred-dollar fee she mistakenly charged my department for a two-dollar technical publication. She’s smart and generous, and far too trusting for her own good, but she gets a bit muddled at times. She needs someone to look after her.”

  The tenderness vanished, to be replaced by a fierce, flaring protectiveness. “Which is why I intend to find her, and quickly. However she got involved in this operation, she’s out of her depth here. Way out of her depth. Tell me exactly what happened,” he ordered.

  Maggie did, although she found herself glossing over Paige’s hesitant confession that she and Doc wouldn’t be making a down payment on a house together. When they located the young woman and extracted her from the situation she’d inadvertently been drawn into, Paige could tell Doc about that herself, Maggie decided.

  He listened to her brief account without interruption, absorbing every detail. When she finished, he began to pace the spacious suite.

  “All right. We know the problem. This driver appears to have mistaken Paige for you. Now let’s break it down into small pieces and find the solution.”

  Maggie felt a surge of admiration at the way Doc deliberately, ruthlessly controlled his emotions and engaged his mind. She tended to operate more on instinct, yet she knew firsthand how many potentially dangerous situations Doc had neutralized with just this kind of swift, brilliant analysis.

  “The driver will have instructions to take her someplace private. Someplace where your contact can remove and examine the chip. Someplace with access to a computer sophisticated enough to read the lines of code and verify that they contain the fiber-optic technology.”

  His face set with intense concentration, Doc paced the blue-and-green Savonnerie carpet that covered the sitting room’s parquet floor.

  “I’d guess we have a half hour, an hour at most. When this contact discovers that Paige doesn’t have the microdot, he’ll either let her go or…” His jaw worked. “Or he’ll make sure she doesn’t tell anyone about her visit to wherever he’s taken her.”

  “We’ll find her, Doc.”

  “Yes, we will. All right, here’s how I think we should—”

  He broke off and dug in his pocket. Maggie’s pulse leapt in anticipation as he pulled out his gold cigarette case. With the information control would provide, they could kick into action.

  “Doc, here. Go ahead, Cyrene.”

  For a second or two, the only sounds disturbing the sunny stillness of the sitting room were the wash of the waves on the beach across the street and the hum of traffic that drifted in through the open balcony doors. Then Claire Huffacker’s calm voice filled the air.

  “There are more Rolls-Royces per capita in Cannes than in any other city on earth…” she began.

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Maggie murmured, glancing at the priceless antiques scattered about the sitting room.

  “But I found two that fit your description. One belongs to a reclusive film star, Victor Swanset. He’s an English expatriate who owns a villa on avenue Fiesole, in La Californie.”

  From her intelligence briefings prior to this mission, Maggie knew La Californie was an exclusive residential area that clung to the rugged hills above Cannes. According to the intel briefer,
its grandiose Edwardian villas had once been home to a sparkling mix of European royalty and distinguished diplomats and their bevies of mistresses. They sat tucked away among the fragrant stands of pine and eucalyptus trees, and the only access to them was via a steep, winding mountain road.

  “No one has seen Victor Swanset in public for over a decade,” Claire continued. “My sources indicate he’s an anonymous, driving force behind the Cannes Film Festival. Supposedly he’s donated millions to preserve his art. I don’t have anything else on him right now, except…”

  “What?”

  “The computer cross-referenced a missing-persons report with Swanset’s name listed as a contact. The report was filed about a year ago, on a cook who disappeared from his villa. I’m following up on that now.”

  “What about the owner of the other Rolls?” Maggie asked.

  “It checks to a French banker. Gabriel Adrenne. He was in Tokyo at an International Monetary Fund conference until two days ago. He supposedly stopped over in Cannes for a few days’ rest before flying back to Paris.”

  Claire paused, then added softly, “I’ve verified that he was also in Cannes last month, when the prototype fiber optics technology was smuggled out of the States.”

  Maggie and Doc exchanged swift looks.

  “Do you have a fix on his location here?” Doc growled.

  “Nothing firm. He keeps a condominium in one of the beach-front palaces, but isn’t using it on this trip. His staff doesn’t have a clue why. From what I’ve been able to gather on him so far, he’s a Donald Trump type. Early forties. Wildly extravagant. Overextended financially. Enjoys the finer things in life, including a string of very expensive ex-wives and mistresses, but is having trouble paying for them. I’ll have more for you when I get his health and social history over IIN.”

  “Thanks, Cyrene,” Doc replied, then quickly signed off. “Get changed,” he told Maggie, his eyes a flat steel blue. “We’re going hunting.”

  She nodded, already on her way into the bedroom. Slamming the door behind her, she peeled off the halter and stuffed it into her purse. That little dot was going with her wherever she went.

  Working frantically at the zipper of her red shorts, she hurried toward the ornate wardrobe that held Meredith’s clothes. She had the shorts halfway down her hips when she heard a sharp pounding on the door to her suite.

  Kicking off the clingy shorts, Maggie grabbed a pale lavender silk kimono from the wardrobe door and flung it on. She dug in her purse for her .22 and dashed out of the bedroom as another staccato rap sounded on the oak panel.

  His weapon in his hand, David melted back into the shadows beside the huge nineteenth-century armoire that housed the suite’s entertainment center.

  “It’s probably the boutique, delivering my purchases,” she told him softly.

  “Could be,” he replied. “Or it could be one of Meredith Ames’s customers, sent up by the accommodating concierge. Whoever it is, get rid of him. Fast!”

  “Right.”

  Tucking the .22 into a pocket of her kimono, Maggie pulled open the door.

  If the individual standing in the corridor was a delivery boy, he’d forgotten his packages. If he was one of Meredith’s customers, he was a precocious one. Small and wiry, with a shock of red hair and a splash of freckles across his thin nose, he couldn’t have been more than ten or twelve years old.

  To Maggie’s considerable amusement, he gave her a cheeky grin and ran his eyes over her bare legs with a blatant masculine approval that was all French.

  “Mademoiselle Ames?”

  “Oui?”

  “Bon.” He turned and called out, to no one in particular that Maggie could see, “Your friend is at home, mademoiselle. You can come out now.”

  Keeping a firm grip on the weapon in her pocket, Maggie leaned out the door and peered down the corridor. When a pile of laundry in a wheeled hamper a few yards away began to heave, her eyes narrowed. Sheets and towels tumbled over its sides, and then a disheveled blond head poked its way out of the mound.

  While Maggie gaped in astonishment, the street urchin went to help Paige Lawrence climb out of the laundry cart.

  The woman looked as though she’d run a marathon—and finished dead last. Her hair straggled down her back in wet, tangled snarls. Her bright red jacket had disappeared, along with one of her shoes. The narrow gold bandeau covered only the center of her breasts, leaving the full curves above and below bare. Her shorts rode down in front and up in back as she clambered awkwardly over the side of the cart and clumped down the hall on one high-soled platform shoe.

  “I’m sorry to bother you like this,” she murmured distractedly, “but I’m in something of a predicament.”

  “So I see.”

  Paige shoved her wet, tangled hair out of her eyes with one hand. “I fell into the bay and lost my purse, along with my passport and all my money.”

  She’d lost a lot more than that, Maggie thought wildly. She couldn’t even begin to anticipate Doc’s reaction when he saw his sweet, demure former fiancée.

  “Why don’t you tell me about it inside?” she suggested faintly.

  Paige flashed her a relieved smile. “Thank you. I was hoping I could count on you. This is all so embarrassing.”

  When she limped awkwardly into the foyer, the cocky boy strolled in right behind her. Hooking both thumbs in the waistband of his rather scruffy-looking shorts, he gave the ornate sitting room a quick once-over and whispered softly.

  “A palace, mademoiselle,” he commented in swift, idiomatic French. “You must do very well of a night.”

  “I do all right,” Maggie returned dryly.

  It didn’t surprise her that this young tough had guessed Meredith’s occupation with one sweeping glance. In fact, it wouldn’t have surprised her to learn that he occasionally acted as a middleman in negotiations for just the type of services Meredith offered. His thin, pinched face and shrewd, too-knowing eyes hinted at a life on the streets.

  “May I borrow fifty francs?” Paige asked, wrapping her arms around her chest to ward off the cool, breezy air in the suite. “Just until I arrange to have my traveler’s checks replaced? I promised to pay—”

  She broke off, her mouth dropping, as a tall, broad-shouldered figure stepped out from beside the armoire.

  Glancing from her to Doc and back again, Maggie couldn’t tell who was the more thunderstruck.

  “Paige?” he growled.

  “David?” she squeaked.

  A cheerful young voice broke the stark silence that followed. “Me, I am Henri. Someone will pay me fifty francs, yes?”

  Chapter 4

  Stunned, Paige stood unmoving.

  Some distant corner of her mind registered the whisper of cool air that raised goose bumps on her damp skin. She heard the muted roar of the sea across the street. She tasted the tang of salt as she ran the tip of her tongue along suddenly dry lips.

  “David?” she repeated weakly.

  He didn’t answer, except to stride forward and sweep her into his arms.

  With a tiny sob, Paige lost herself in his solid, comforting warmth. Her fingers clutched at the scratchy wool of his jacket, and she strained against him for endless, wonderful moments. Then his hand tangled in her hair. He brought her head back and crushed her mouth with his. For once, he didn’t control his emotions.

  His rough kiss was all that she’d dreamed of. Hard. Searing. Scorching in its intensity.

  And over too soon.

  Far too soon.

  Paige gasped an indistinct protest as he dragged his mouth from hers and held her head steady in both hands, scrutinizing her face with narrowed eyes.

  “Are you all right?”

  Still dazed by the raw power of that kiss, she could only stare back at him. It took her a moment to realize that whatever he’d experienced in that brief, shattering moment, he’d already managed to bring it under control.

  While her heart was thudding erratically in her chest, David s
howed only an icy calm.

  While her lips ached for his touch, his were drawn into a thin, tight line.

  “Are you all right?” he repeated, his eyes searching hers.

  Still unable to speak, she pushed herself a little way out of his arms. Or tried to.

  As she stumbled back, the narrow lamé band caught on David’s tip clip. To her horror, the fabric dragged downward. She splayed one hand across her breasts and tugged frantically at the soggy band with the other.

  David unsnared her and shrugged out of his jacket. “Here, take this.”

  Her face flaming, Paige stood rigid as he dropped the worsted around her shoulders. She heard a stir behind her and remembered that there were others present. The heat in her face intensified even more.

  She glanced behind her and caught the other woman’s eyes. Friendliness shone in their green depths, and a carefully banked curiosity. Paige started to respond to the unspoken question there, and then noticed for the first time Meredith’s short dressing gown. The pale lavender silk brushed the tops of her legs. Her very long and very bare legs.

  The soaring combination of relief and joy that had swept through her when she saw David faltered.

  Meredith moved forward, the silk swishing against her bare skin. “Why don’t you bring her into the sitting room, Doc? So we can find out what happened?”

  Doc?

  The easy familiarity with which this woman addressed David plummeted through Paige like a stone dropping into a well. Numbly she felt him take her elbow and steer her toward the huge, vaulted room.

  Glancing down at the woman beside him, Doc struggled to bring his soaring relief and astonishment under control. His senses were still reeling from the vivid image of Paige standing before him, her green eyes huge in her pale face, wearing only a narrow strip of gold, a pair of red shorts that displayed a good portion of her firm, rounded rear cheeks, and one ridiculously high shoe. He gripped her arm in a tight hold, as if to reassure himself that this wet, unfamiliar creature was actually Paige.