The beaded see-through white vest Paige was wearing plunged to a deep V between her breasts. Strategically placed pearls covered their tips, but not much else. The top was paired with a long white skirt that looked conservative enough at first glance. It was only when she moved across the room that Doc discovered it was slit clear up to her thigh on one side. She’d pulled her hair back from her face in a high braid that showed off both her delicate features and a pair of huge, butterfly-shaped white earrings that his Paige would never have tolerated.
Doc found himself admiring this seductive creature and at the same time missing the familiar, comfortable woman who usually bundled herself in bright plaids and ankle-length jumpers and never bothered with jewelry.
Once again he experienced the unsettling sensation of seeing the lines he’d drawn so carefully around his different lives blur past all distinction. His voice had a testy edge to it when he responded to her greeting.
“Good morning.”
Paige blinked, clearly taken aback by his curt tone. “What’s the matter?”
His pen tapped on the desk for a moment. “I’ve been waiting for Maggie to check in,” he said at last, forcing the words out. His rational mind acknowledged Paige’s need to know, but it was tough to overcome both his desire to shield her and a deep-seated, conditioned reluctance to discuss OMEGA matters with anyone outside the agency.
“Check in? Where is she?”
“I’ll brief you about it at breakfast.”
Doc recognized his response as the feeble attempt to delay the inevitable that it was. Rising, he grimaced and rolled his shoulders to ease their ache.
“Didn’t you sleep well?” Paige asked sweetly. Too damn sweetly, in Doc’s opinion.
“No I didn’t.”
“Good. Just remember whose brilliant idea it was to keep our sleeping arrangements separate. Among other things.”
With that, she headed for the bedroom to get her purse.
She wasn’t in a much better mood than he was this morning, Doc acknowledged wryly. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he leaned against the desk and waited for her to reemerge. This wasn’t shaping up to be a good day.
Where the hell was Maggie? And how was he going to explain to Paige without ruffling her feathers further that he’d have to shorten her leash considerably if he needed to make a quick trip to Saint-Agnès?
Not long after they were seated at one of the wrought-iron tables on the Carlton’s sun-drenched terrace, Doc heard a low, resonating hum. He’d just filled Paige in on Maggie’s early-morning excursion, so she was as relieved as he when he palmed the gold cigarette case and saw that he had a message from Chameleon.
Although most of the other tables on the broad terrace were unoccupied, Doc wasn’t taking any chances. With a murmured admonition to Paige to stay put, he went to find some privacy.
Struggling to contain her curiosity, Paige watched the waiters nod deferentially as David weaved his way through the wrought-iron tables. She had to admit he carried himself with an air of authority that commanded respect. His red knit shirt emphasized the straight set of his shoulders and his lean, tapered waist. Paige hadn’t seen those expensive-looking tan slacks or those loafers before. With a small shock, she realized that David must maintain a complete separate wardrobe for his various missions.
Frowning, she spooned a bite of the raspberries and cream she’d ordered, then leaned back in her cushioned chair. The flower-decked terrace overlooked the Croisette and gave a spectacular view of the sea beyond, but she was too tightly wound to appreciate the scenery this morning.
She nudged the purse tucked securely beside her on the chair with one thigh, just to reassure herself it was still there. How in the world was she supposed to pass the gold mesh halter inside the purse to this French banker, who might or might not be Meredith’s contact and might or might not be locked away on some secluded island?
“So, mademoiselle, you are up early, no?”
Paige swiveled around to see a pug-nosed, freckle-faced boy leaning his disreputable moped against one of the palm trees that lined the boulevard just beyond the terrace. With casual aplomb, he sauntered up the broad stone steps.
“Henri! What are you doing here?”
At Paige’s startled exclamation, one of the nearby waiters turned. A scowl marred his features when he spied the boy’s grubby shorts and ragged sweater. He hurried over, and a rapid, rather heated exchange in French followed. Only after Paige’s repeated assurances that she knew the boy did the waiter retire, still scowling.
Henri occupied the seat David had just vacated and poured himself a cup of thick black coffee. Flooding it with cream, he took several satisfying swallows.
“I see you breakfast with the too-large gentleman,” he commented smugly. “I told you he had the passion for you. He hires you for the entire night, then?”
Heat crept up Paige’s throat, but before she could decide how to answer, he gave her a stern look.
“I just hope you collect the appropriate fee.”
She thought about the thick fold of notes David had tossed on the table last night, and the heat spread across her cheeks.
“I appreciate your interest in my, ah, business affairs, Henri, but I don’t think I should be discussing such matters with—”
Her voice faltered as the boy reached across the table to snag a croissant from the linen-covered basket. In the process, the sleeve of his sweater rode up, revealing vicious, swelling bruises on his bone-thin forearm.
“What happened to you?” she gasped.
“Pah!” Henri got out around the pastry he’d stuffed in his mouth. “Antoine, he tried to take the commission you paid me last night.”
Shocked, Paige searched her memory for a moment before she recalled that this Antoine was the man Henri carried money for.
The boy devoured the rest of the croissant, then grinned at her. “It appears I shall have to find a new business partner. You’re sure you don’t wish the manager, mademoiselle?”
Paige felt her heart constrict at that brave, irreverent grin. She swallowed, noting how his skin stretched across his sharp cheeks and how his thin, narrow shoulders were hunched under the baggy sweater.
“I’m sure,” she said slowly, pushing David’s untouched bowl of raspberries toward the boy.
She chewed on her lower lip as he attacked the berries with unabashed gusto. The entire bowl of fruit disappeared in less than a minute, as did the thick cream, which Henry slurped noisily from the silver spoon.
“Maybe there’s some other service you can provide while I’m here…” she said hesitantly.
Tugging the pastry basket closer to examine its remaining contents, the boy nodded enthusiastically. “Most assuredly, mademoiselle. I shall be your guide, yes? I know shops that carry dresses with the labels of Saint-Laurent and Givenchy—but not the price, you understand. And perfumeries that sell scents for a third what you pay on the Croisette.” His red brows waggled. “Not even your so-large gentleman will know it isn’t Arpège you wear, and we will split the difference in price, no?”
“No,” Paige said hastily.
Good Lord, was there anything this youngster wasn’t into? She took another look at his pinched face and swallowed the impulse to ask.
“Look, why don’t I order you breakfast and you can…you can tell me about Cannes, and some of the famous people who live here? Like Gabriel Ardenne,” she added in a flash of inspiration. If anyone knew about the international jet-setter, she suspected this boy would.
“The banker? Pah, you don’t want to waste your time on that one, mademoiselle. He is a pig.”
“He is?”
Her heart thumping, Paige summoned a waiter. After ordering half the items on the menu, Henri recited a list of the banker’s astonishing excesses, some of which he knew for a fact to be true, he swore.
He ran out of information at precisely the moment the first covered dish arrived at the table. His brown eyes alight with pleasure, He
nri cut off a chunk of sizzling sausage and popped it into his mouth.
By the time she caught a flash of a red knit shirt out of the corner of one eye, Paige had extracted a few more interesting bits of information from the boy, including one or two about the reclusive film star Victor Swanset. She wondered if David knew that Swanset made private visits to the wing he’d endowed in the huge convention hall that was home to Cannes’s famous film festival. According to Henri, his silver Rolls-Royce had been spotted parked at the back of the Palais des Festivals several times of late.
Anxious and excited, Paige scanned David’s face as he wound his way through the scattered tables. At the silent, reassuring message he telegraphed to her, she sagged in relief. Wherever Maggie was at this moment, evidently she was all right.
When David approached, he caught sight of the diminutive figure ensconced in his seat. The array of empty dishes in front of the boy sent his brows soaring.
“Do you remember my friend Henri?” Paige asked.
“Of course.” David eyed him thoughtfully. “Do you breakfast at the Carlton often, or was there some purpose to this visit?”
“I came to inquire how mademoiselle fares, of course. And to see if she has reconsidered my offer to act as her business manager.”
“Her business manager?”
At David’s startled glance, Paige shifted guiltily in her seat. She’d been so overcome by nervousness last night, she’d neglected to inform him of Henri’s previous offer to act as her agent.
The boy scooted back the heavy iron chair and rose. Hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts, he rocked back on his heels. “I fear mademoiselle has not the head for numbers. She needs someone to watch out for her and protect her interests.”
“I won’t argue with you there,” David drawled.
“I’ve explained to Henri that I am not in the market for a manager right now,” Paige put in. “Of any kind. But I’m thinking of engaging his services as a guide.”
David’s frown told her he didn’t think much of the idea.
“He’s been sharing some very interesting information with me. About Cannes, and some of the people who live here,” she added, hinting heavily.
“He has?”
“I have, monsieur. Just to entertain mademoiselle, you understand, since you leave her unattended for so long.” There was no mistaking the disapproval in Henri’s voice, or the implication that he would manage Paige’s time far more efficiently.
“Thanks for watching her for me,” David responded in a dry tone. “I’ll take over from here.”
Paige didn’t particularly care for this turn in the conversation. She felt like a pet poodle being passed from keeper to keeper.
“Bon!” Henri announced. “I will go, then.” Contrary to his words, he rocked back on his heels and waited expectantly.
David’s mouth twisted in a small smile. “Let me guess. I owe you another fifty francs.”
“Oui.”
“For what?”
“For my time, of course. Like mademoiselle, I am paid by the hour.”
With a shake of his head, David reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet.
Henri made an elaborate show of folding the bill and tucking it into his pocket. Then he brushed past David to give Paige a gallant little bow.
“If you wish me to show you the Palais des Festivals, mademoiselle, you have only to come to my headquarters. The telephone kiosk at the corner of the Croisette and the Allées de la Liberté,” he added, at her blank look.
“Yes, of course.”
“A bientôt.” He took a jaunty step toward his moped.
“Henri?”
“Oui, monsieur?”
“I’d like my wallet back before you leave.”
Paige gasped, and a look of wounded innocence filled the boy’s brown eyes.
“Your wallet, monsieur?”
“It’s in your left pocket, I believe.”
Henri’s freckled face scrunched in disgust as he dug into his shorts. “Me, I am losing my touch.”
Her jaw sagging, Paige watched him hand over the wallet, then saunter down the steps to his moped. With an unrepentant wave, he was off.
Calmly David took his seat and signaled for the check. During the brief interval while the waiter cleared the table, he scribbled a few quick words in a small leather-bound notebook.
Still struggling to recover from her shock at the attempted larceny, Paige craned her neck and saw that he’d jotted down the location of Henri’s telephone kiosk.
“You’re not going to have him arrested, are you?” she asked anxiously as soon as the waiter moved out of range. “I’m sure he just needed the money for food. He was so hungry.”
David slid the notebook into his pocket, then eyed the five-digit total on the check. “Hungry isn’t the word for it.”
He caught Paige’s anxious look and scrawled his name and room number across the bottom of the bill.
“I’m just going to have control check him out,” he told her, rising. “Come on, let’s go upstairs. Maggie’s on her way back to the hotel. She’s discovered some rather interesting information about our friend Gabriel Ardenne.”
“That one, he’s a pig,” Paige murmured, unconsciously imitating Henri’s scornful tone. At David’s quick glance, she lifted her chin. “Maggie’s not the only one who can do a little extemporaneous sleuthing. Did she discover that Ardenne’s into drugs, big-time?”
“She did,” David said, holding the heavy door of the elevator cage. “But not the kind you think, perhaps.”
The door clanged shut, and the elevator began to wheeze upward. Ignoring the panoramic vista of the Carlton’s gilt-and palm-strewn lobby, Paige turned to the man beside her.
“What do you mean? What kind of drugs is he into?”
“Experimental ones. Very experimental, and as yet unsanctioned by most medical authorities. The clinic at Saint-Agnès is one of the few places in the world that will administer them.”
“Why? What’s he being treated for?”
“It appears Ardenne is in the last stages of AIDS. According to Maggie, he’s on a respirator and IVs. He won’t be leaving Saint-Agnès again.”
Paige swallowed. “So…so it couldn’t have been Ardenne who was waiting for me on that yacht,” she said after a moment.
“No, it couldn’t.” David’s jaw tightened. “Which means the only lead we have at this moment is Victor Swanset. And he’s locked away in that impregnable fortress of his.”
“No, he isn’t! At least, not all the time.”
The elevator clanked to a halt, but David didn’t reach for the heavy lever that operated its door.
“What are you talking about?”
A thrill of excitement shot through her at the thought that she, plain little Paige Lawrence, had uncovered a nugget of information that this powerful secret agency David worked for hadn’t.
“Victor Swanset recently endowed a wing at the Palais des Festivals,” she said smugly. “The word on the street is that he visits it occasionally.”
Chapter 10
After a debrief with Maggie in the suit across the hall, Paige and David left her to catch upon a few hours of much-needed sleep. They’d hit the Palais des Festivals around noon, they decided, unless the individual seeking the microdot made contact with “Meredith” sooner.
“There’s still that possibility,” Doc reminded a restless, pacing Paige.
She turned, and her skirt swirled open to reveal a length of satiny thigh.
Doc drew in a quick breath, then suggested casually, “Why don’t you get changed while I work out our approach?”
She chewed on her lower lip for a moment. “Good idea. I’d better wear the halter, so the contact can identify me.”
Doc stifled a groan as she pulled the slinky thing out of her purse and headed for the bedroom. He experienced a pang of real regret for Paige’s plaids and bulky jumpers, which he suspected might now be a thing of the pa
st.
He pulled out his notebook and flipped to a clean sheet to compile a list of items he wanted Control to check for him.
A—the exact physical layout of the Palais des Festivals.
B—the hours it was open to the public.
C—this wing Swanset had reportedly endowed.
Doc tapped his pencil against the notebook, studying the neat, precisely printed letters. A crooked grin tugged at his mouth as he recalled Paige’s smug disclosure about Swanset’s supposed visits to the Palais. She was so pleased with herself for having uncovered that bit of information. As she should be.
Unless…
Doc stiffened. His grin faded as he flipped back a page and stared at the address of the telephone kiosk.
Unless the information had been planted. By a certain grubby-faced boy.
They’d all assumed Henri’s appearance on the scene after Paige fell into the sea was simple chance. Suddenly, Doc wasn’t so sure.
Cursing under his breath, he ripped out a clean sheet of notepaper and began a new list. When it was done, he studied the four entries that documented the boy’s involvement so far.
Henri had just happened to be in the right place at the right time to fish Paige out of the bay.
The chauffeur had accosted him outside the hotel, supposedly to find out where he’d taken the bedraggled woman.
Paige had reported belatedly that the boy had popped out of the bushes when she returned from the casino last night.
And now he showed up this morning, running up a breakfast tab roughly equivalent to the U.S. national debt while he cleverly fed Paige nuggets of information.
Christ! Doc shoved a hand through his hair, feeling like ten kinds of an idiot. They’d been sitting here all these hours, wondering just when Meredith’s mysterious contact would try to approach her, and it was entirely possible that he had. Several times.
The boy could very well be acting as a courier for whoever wanted the stolen technology. If so, Henri would’ve grasped at once that Paige wasn’t Meredith, when he plucked her from the sea. No wonder he’d been so obliging about delivering her to the Carlton. The boy wanted to find out exactly what Paige’s relationship was to the real Meredith Ames.
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