Paige had wanted to discover what lay beneath the assured, loving exterior David had always shown her. She saw it now in the mirror. And her pulse leapt in wild, unfettered response to this stranger’s blatant desire.
His fingers splayed downward, following the V-shaped bottom edge of her corset. The taffeta skirt whispered a protest as he spread his hands over her stomach and pressed her back against the rock-hardness of his body.
Then his hands, those sure, strong hands, moved to the bottom hook on the stiff-boned bustier. The hook gave with a soft snicker of sound.
“You’re every man’s secret fantasy in this thing,” he growled, his warm breath stirring the fine hairs at her temple.
The second hook separated, and his hands slid up to the third.
“Your waist is so small.”
Unconsciously Paige sucked in her breath to make it even smaller.
The third hook gave.
“That pulse in your throat is driving me crazy.”
He bent and brushed her neck with a kiss.
Another hook came open.
“And your breasts, my sweet, seductive Jezebel, your breasts have made me ache with wanting you all night.”
The last hook came undone, baring her from the waist up. She kept her arms stiff, her fists buried in her skirt as he eased the stiff corset from between their bodies. It dropped to the carpet, unheeded.
Her breath suspended, Paige watched him watching her. Their images seemed to blur. To merge in the dimness.
Her nipples peaked, either from the cool air or from the fierce masculine hunger in his eyes.
She thought he’d touch her then. She wanted him to touch her. She arched her back a little, offering herself.
Yet when his hands reached for her, they flattened against her midriff. With slow, sure strokes, he soothed the red marks left by the bodice’s stiff ribs. His touch was gentle, so gentle, and erotically possessive.
Then his fingers brushed the underside of one breast, and she shivered.
“David…”
His name on her lips was a sigh. A plea. A promise.
“No, little Jezebel,” he told her, bending down to nuzzle her neck once again. “Not yet.”
His mouth and teeth and tongue played with the soft skin of her throat. His breath was warm and moist in her ear, his lips were firm. Fires curled in her belly. When she thought she would go wild from wanting more than just his lips, he kissed the spot at the base of her hairline where the tiny chip had been inserted, then moved back half a step.
Paige felt his fingers at the small of her back. The skirt’s buttons slipped free, and then the taffeta slithered to a black pool at her feet.
Embarrassed and more than a little shocked by the image in the silvered glass, Paige fought the urge to close her eyes. Never, not even in her most secret fantasies, had she imagined herself standing before David clothed only in sheer black bikini panties, a black lace garter belt, thigh-high stockings and a velvet ribbon around her throat.
His palms planed her hips, her bottom, then slid around to her stomach. One moved up to cup her breast and played with the stiff, throbbing nipple. The other moved down to shape her mound. Paige felt the heat of his hand through her sheer panties.
“Open for me,” he ordered softly.
Laying her head back against his shoulder, she eased her legs apart. He tugged the nylon aside, exploring her, preparing her. The pressure of his fingers against her core sent hot, liquid desire spiraling through her loins. She gasped and pressed her bottom back against his rampant arousal.
Was this really her? she wondered wildly. Was she really standing here like a…like a high-class call girl, in diamonds and velvet and black lace, while this shadowy stranger played with her body?
“I told you we might not recognize ourselves when this is all over,” David murmured, as if reading her mind.
His fingers probed deeper, and suddenly the thought that a stranger was touching her so intimately frightened her. Suddenly she didn’t want to uncover any more of the man in the mirror. She wanted David. Her David.
Twisting around, Paige flung herself against him. The diamond studs cut into her flesh as she dragged his head down. Her mouth was demanding, insistent, anxious.
With a low, savage sound, he wrapped his arms around her waist. She strained into him, both relieved and excited by the faint tremor in the muscles of his shoulders as he fought to control his passion. Whoever she might have seen so briefly in the mirror, this was her David.
She felt his rigid member against her stomach. She tasted the raw hunger in his mouth. She was gasping with need when he swept her into his arms and carried her into the bedroom. He dumped her on the wide bed with a noticeable lack of his usual gentleness and ripped off her panties.
She didn’t stay prone for very long, however. As he yanked at his shirtfront, she scrambled to her knees. Her fingers tore at the studs while he shrugged out of the white suspenders. Tiny diamonds flew in all directions, followed in short order by his shirt, then the rest of his clothes.
When he tumbled her onto the satin coverlet and covered her body with his, Paige was ready for him. More than ready. The flesh between her legs was hot and slick and tight with anticipation.
He filled her, as he always did. And stroked her. And fanned the flames higher and higher.
But this time, his careful control slipped its bonds. For the first time, he let her feel the full weight of his body. For the first time, he lifted her hips clear off the bed with the force of his thrusts.
And this time, for the first time, when she arched her back, groaning with the force of her climax, he slammed into her with a shattering force and spilled himself into her.
Chapter 8
Restless and edgy, Maggie wandered out of the darkened sitting room and onto the small balcony. Although this suite faced the mountains instead of the sea, the view was almost as magnificent, especially in these last few hours before dawn.
Cannes slumbered peaceful, its subdued lights glowing like yellow diamonds against the inky blackness. In the distance, the city climbed upward at a sharp angle, clinging to the steep slopes of the Maritime Alps. The golden lights grew sparser there and appeared at higher and higher intervals, until a scattered few seemed to hang freely in the night sky.
Maggie wrapped both hands around the balcony’s wrought iron railing and stared up at those distant pinpoints of light. These were the villas of the ultrarich, she knew, sumptuous turn-of-the-century mansions that clung to the high hillsides or perched atop almost inaccessible peaks.
Her fingers tightened on the railing. In one of those villas resided Victor Swanset, the reclusive English expatriate whose classic films and right-wing political views had made him legendary in the thirties. He descended from his hilltop aerie only on rare occasions, Claire had reported. When he did, it was in a silver Rolls-Royce like the one that had whisked Paige off this afternoon.
Of the two possible suspects Claire had identified, Swanset was the only one whose location they had a fix on right now. The French banker, Gabriel Ardenne, had gone underground somewhere in this glittering city.
As she studied those soft, flickering lights, Maggie toyed with the idea of taking a little night reconnaissance trip into the hills. She knew the aging film star’s private fortress sat in isolated splendor atop one of those high peaks. Unfortunately, Claire had ascertained that the villa was accessible only by helicopter or via a narrow, winding mountain road guarded with state-of-the-art security surveillance systems. Without Doc’s backup, Maggie didn’t dare try a reconnaissance.
And Doc was otherwise occupied.
Providing Paige close cover.
A rueful smile tugged at Maggie’s lips as she recognized the source of her late-night restlessness. Ever since she’d turned off the cameras and listening devices, she’d alternated between a hope that Doc and his fiancée would work through their differences and a sneaking, silent envy that they had differences to work through
.
It wasn’t that Maggie was lonely, exactly. Her life was too full, her career too challenging, to allow time for loneliness. Nor did she lack for male companionship when she desired it. In addition to the circle of friends she’d established in her civilian life, she’d met one or two men during her missions for OMEGA who desired something far more intimate than friendship. A certain drop-dead-gorgeous Central American colonel made it a point to call her whenever he was in Washington. And a brilliant, somewhat clumsy young physicist was still pestering the president to have Maggie permanently assigned to the United Nations nuclear-site inspection team he headed.
Yet she had no desire to share this balmy night with either of those two men. She closed her eyes and breathed in the heady scent of primroses and cyclamens and tamarisks that drifted from the lush gardens below. Instantly, a vivid mental image rose of just the kind of man she’d like to have beside her on this small balcony.
Someone who could move easily amid the rarefied atmosphere of a city like Cannes, yet enjoy a quiet moment in the still hours before dawn.
Someone who combined a powerful masculinity with an inbred elegance that was all that more potent for being understated.
Someone like Adam Ridgeway.
A stab of pure physical desire tightened the muscles low in Maggie’s stomach. Startled, she opened her eyes.
Damn! She was going to have to do something about her growing preoccupation with OMEGA’s aristocratic director. Soon. She wasn’t sure exactly what, since both she and Adam were too professional, too dedicated to their work, for either of them to step over the invisible line between boss and subordinate. Of course, Maggie admitted with a wry grin, she wasn’t above bending the rules on occasion, but Adam…
No, not Adam Ridgeway.
None of the dozen or so OMEGA agents were privy to the exact details of their director’s past, but they trusted him with their lives. His cool, ruthless logic and absolute authority were legendary. Maggie knew Adam would never allow personal considerations to color his judgment or his decisions when directing his agents. What was more, she valued her independence in the field too much to give him any more control over her activities than he already possessed. They’d had some rather strenuous differences of opinion in the past over her somewhat unorthodox solutions to problems she encountered in the field.
Still, if she could’ve chosen one man to stand beside her on this tiny balcony and breathe in the heady, perfumed air, she knew darn well who it would be.
It was this city, Maggie decided as she surveyed the dim, glowing lights. This center of sybaritic luxury. Cannes saturated the senses with its breathtaking vistas, pristine white beaches and fragrant air, not to mention its unapologetic devotion to pleasure. In a place like Cannes, it was easy to fantasize and forget such things as working relationships and—
Maggie stiffened, her fingers clutching the railing. There was another side to Cannes, she reminded herself. One that rarely pierced the consciousness of the pleasure-seekers. A small army worked behind the scenes to keep those beaches so white. Fishermen got up before dawn to drag from the seas the mussels and bream and other local delicacies that appeared on the linen-covered tables each night. The crews manning the yachts had families tucked away in the old town who depended on their wages.
A whole population of city dwellers out there actually worked for a living, Maggie reminded herself. What was more, those workers maintained an informal intelligence network that operated at warp speed. Word had probably already circulated among the dockworkers about the American tourist who’d fallen off the gangplank of a yacht this afternoon. Those workers would know the name of that yacht, and its current location.
Shedding her unaccustomed lethargy like a butterfly sloughing off its cocoon, Maggie headed for the small briefcase that housed the master communications unit. She hated to do this to Doc, but duty called. Biting her lower lip, she punched in his code.
The ultralow-frequency hum emitted by the elegant gold cigarette case he would’ve placed within easy reach would wake him, but not Paige, Maggie knew. It was tuned to the absolute end of the spectrum of sounds he could hear.
“Doc here,” he replied after a few moments. “Go ahead, Chameleon.”
If she’d pulled him from sleep—or from any other bedroom activity—she couldn’t tell it from his voice. He sounded calm, and wide-awake.
“I’m going out for a while, Doc. Down to the wharves. To see what I can learn about our unidentified yacht. Can you, ah, cover Jezebel for the rest of the night?”
“I’ll do my best,” he replied dryly.
Maggie grinned.
“Try the rue Meynadier first,” he added. “It’s in the heart of the old city. The town’s wealthier merchants have their establishments there. Then the Vieux Port, particularly the quai Saint-Pierre. That’s where the ship chandlers who sell everything from fishing nets to diesel engines are located.”
Maggie blinked in surprise. “When did you gather all this information?”
“This afternoon, when you were packaging Meredith’s product.”
She might have known! While she and Paige were sorting through bustiers and ball gowns, Doc had been at work on one of his lists.
“Pretty good packaging, wasn’t it?” she asked lightly.
He hesitated a moment before replying. “Let’s just say it was very effective.”
Grinning, Maggie signed off and headed for the bedroom she’d appropriated from Doc when she moved out of Meredith’s suite. She dug through the items in the hastily packed overnight case, with little expectation of finding what she needed. There wasn’t much in the wardrobe she’d brought on this assignment suitable for a late-night excursion to the old town. She tapped her foot for a moment, thinking, then reached for the phone.
The concierge assured her that he would have someone from housekeeping bring her fresh towels immediately.
Twenty minutes later, Maggie left the suite wearing a beige-and-white-striped maid’s uniform. It hung a little loosely over her hips, but otherwise fit perfectly.
The housekeeper had departed just a few moments ago, having exchanged the spare uniform she’d fetched from a supply closet for a thick wad of notes. The worldly Frenchwoman had been most sympathetic to Maggie’s desire to don a disguise and slip away from an overbearing husband to meet a young and most virile lover.
After a quick glance at the closed door across the hall, Maggie stifled another small pang of envy and hurried toward the stairs.
Behind that closed door, Doc stood unmoving. He’d pulled on his slacks and padded barefoot into the sitting room to acknowledge Maggie’s signal, not wanting to wake Paige.
Now he needed to think through his partner’s late-night excursion. He and Maggie had planned to operate independently during this mission, as they had on past assignments, so her decision to go down to the old town this late didn’t surprise or particularly concern him. Maggie Sinclair wasn’t the type to sit quietly by and wait for events to unfold.
Nor was he, normally. Since Paige’s appearance on the scene, however, Doc had had to modify both his cover and his method of operation. He wouldn’t be making more than a token appearance at the international symposium of engineers that was his cover for being in Cannes. He’d already dropped a subtle hint or two in a phone conversation with one of his colleagues that he’d found something more stimulating than the sun and the beaches to occupy his days and nights on the Riviera.
Paige didn’t know it yet, but she wasn’t going to be doing any more advertising. She didn’t need to. When Meredith Ames left the casino tonight, she’d accepted more than just a onetime client. She’d entered into an exclusive contract for the duration of her stay in Cannes. Whoever wanted to claim the microdot from Meredith would have to work around Doc’s visible presence. Now he just needed to find a way to let Paige know about the change in her professional status. She’d been surprisingly stubborn this afternoon, and again this evening, about her involvement in thi
s operation.
He turned to head back to the bedroom, and a splash of deep rose pink snagged his attention. Doc smiled to himself as he moved toward the assorted articles of clothing still scattered across the plush carpet. Scooping up the stiff-boned top, Doc admitted that Paige had shown several new facets to her personality tonight.
He’d never seen her explode with quite that wild abandon before. Or felt himself drawn over the edge like that with her. He’d never quite lost all control with her before.
As he fingered the smooth satin, his smile faded.
With a painful honesty, Doc forced himself to acknowledge that until tonight he’d deliberately tried to fit Paige into one of those nice neat compartments she’d complained of. The day he met her, he’d formed an image of her in his mind that he’d both cherished and tried to perpetuate. An image that didn’t allow for either her stubborn insistence on carrying out this dangerous mission or her unsettling appearance tonight as Meredith Ames.
It disturbed Doc, as a man and as an agent, to realize that he’d underestimated her.
“David?”
He turned, still clenching the thick satin.
The wanning moon cast a silvery glow over Paige’s pale hair and delicate features. Her makeup was gone. Her hair was tousled. Her skin was flushed from sleep. She’d wrapped a sheet around herself, toga-style, and Doc thought he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life. Or more erotic. He loosed his grip on the pink top and tossed it aside.
“What is it?” she asked, her voice anxious. “Is something wrong?”
“No. I just got up to take a message from Maggie. She’s going out. To do some surveillance.”
Paige hitched the sheet up and padded into the room. “This late?”
“This early, you mean. She’s going to try to catch the fishermen and dockworkers before they begin their day, to see what they know about your yacht.”
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