Mac muttered a mental “oops.” Zukah might think he was being helpful, but he wasn’t doing him any favors.
The Algerian’s humor didn’t sit well with Roxie. But, for what must be the first time in her life, she kept quiet.
Not because she’d been struck speechless, because she hadn’t a clue what was happening. Playing dumb meant she couldn’t say the wrong thing or have Mac’s lukewarm rescue blow up in their faces.
If she gave in to the urge to run zinging through her, it might be the last impulse she ever acted upon. Though, the differences between being shot or facing a so-called honeymoon with a stranger didn’t seem particularly large.
Neither of them was on her top-ten list of things to do next.
The one called Yves approached her, once more sparking the fight-or-flight factor through her synapses.
Tensions coiled in the muscles hidden by her long coat.
Yves was the man who’d grabbed her as she entered the apartment and he looked like a man who enjoyed his work far too much. She held her breath as he began patting her down.
Never had she felt so alone, not even when Grandmère died.
All she’d felt then was numb, until the Fortier family took her under their wing, distracting her with work she loved.
It took every inch of her control to ignore Yves. Ignore his enjoyment as his hands slid over her. She turned away and watched the other Frenchman relieve Mac of his guns.
When they totaled three her initial panic segued to deep-seated dread, and its by-product, shudders, ran through her.
It was impossible to keep fear at bay.
Her breath hitched as Yves’s fingers circled her ankle and began inching upward.
Gasping, she took a step back, her gaze flying to Mac for help. But all she saw in response was the glittering warning he’d already verbalized. Blast!
What had she landed into?
How had she gotten surrounded by strangers, all of whom looked as if they’d been ripped from the underbelly of Paris?
Bottom line, it had been her own stupidity, and the urge to impress her bosses.
God help her, when she didn’t dare trust the best of them. Mac. And he, as the finest of a bad bunch, wasn’t saying much.
Darn it, the man had had the cheek to call her a bimbo.
There and then she decided if it were the last thing she did, she’d pay him back. Her spurt of righteous anger replaced fear.
Only once had a man made her feel like a victim. He’d showed his love with one hand and stolen her designs with the other.
It wasn’t a sensation she was comfortable with, or intended becoming used to.
Being a hostage hadn’t exactly been part of Mac’s plans, but crap happened when you least expected. And if Roxie was looking for a hero, she’d picked the wrong quartier of Paris to shop in.
Out on the landing Zukah lined them both up at the top of the stairs and began issuing orders, sending the Frenchman who’d pawed Roxie off to bring the car round.
“Enfin, we can go.” Zukah poked Mac in the back with his Mauser. “Remember, I’m right behind you.”
Beside him, Roxie practically jumped out of her knee-high boots as Zukah barked. Until now, Mac had never come in contact with a female agent whose footwear were impossible to run in, but there was a first time for everything.
He was curious to know what kind of cover story demanded heels higher than the Eiffel Tower. A couple of inches off them might have given her more of a chance.
Though it sounded clichéd, in Mac’s line of work he knew to expect the unexpected. That’s why he was prepared to tie a knot in his original plans and turn any new contingency into a plus. He hoped the same could be said for his new lady friend.
The woman posed a huge problem. Hell, she had more unknown quantity in her little finger than the other three put together.
Sure, she was putting on a good show of being scared. And she’d done right to keep up the act. The hot, resentful sparks she’d shot at Zukah had been her only sign of emotion in a while.
Talk about sex rearing its ugly head.
Yves had enjoyed running his hands over her a little too much.
Carrying out the role he’d assigned himself to the full meant he should have protested. Should have—would have—if her pleading glance hadn’t reminded him of Lucia approximately five minutes before she stuck a six-inch blade in his back.
That said, he wouldn’t be turning his back on Roxie anytime soon, not until he was certain she wasn’t carrying a knife.
His trust was on the meager side when it came to beautiful female agents.
Mac had felt disappointment coming off Roxie in waves, but there was no point in giving too much away to look better in her eyes.
He’d been there, done that, and learned one helluva huge lesson. One he wouldn’t forget in a hurry. Being a woman didn’t make her any less lethal to his health.
Happiness came in all guises, and this opportunity to go with Zukah suited him just fine. Damn fine.
Mac heard the car draw up outside as they splashed across the cold rain-soaked courtyard to the exit.
Juggling bodies, they ended up dancing the do-si-do, squeezing through the half-open double doors leading to the sidewalk.
In the watery glow from the street lamp, Mac caught her glance while their bodies brushed close, as if her puzzled eyes wondered what made him tick. Her conclusions would be wrong.
Hell, tonight he’d done something so off the wall it could take him years to figure it out.
He was an undercover agent, not anyone’s idea of a knight in shining armor, certainly not Jason Hart’s. When all this was over Mac would have to do some explaining to the chief of IBIS.
Maybe by then he’d have come up with an answer.
A blue minivan—the type with three rows of seats that soccer moms used—sat waiting at the edge of the sidewalk.
It didn’t take a huge leap of imagination to know who’d be sitting in the middle row. “Get in,” Zukah growled, playing the big man, nudging them toward the vehicle with the dangerous end of his pistol.
The guy was dumber than Mac had given him credit for. A wise man would be wondering if his plans had gone a little too well.
They’d hardly gone more than a couple of feet when someone staggered out of the shadows and grabbed Zukah’s gun arm.
Roxie squawked as the gun swung her way, while Zukah cursed roundly through the cloud of cheap-wine fumes as pandemonium ruled.
In the poor light the drunk could easily be taken for one of the many homeless found sleeping in doorways around Le Sentier and Les Halles.
But Mac wasn’t deceived.
He pushed Roxie behind him while the drunk grappled with the Algerian. Zukah rained blows down on the guy’s head and they were all treated to a stream of slurred French invectives.
Seeking to escape, the guy ducked under Zukah’s arm to clutch the front of Mac’s jacket as if begging for help.
But that close the drunk couldn’t hide the bright intelligence in his eyes, or the question in them he directed at Mac.
The smell of garlic breath was a good touch. Trust Thierry to think of it. Mac narrowed his gaze in warning at his fellow agent and slightly shook his head.
Message received.
“Get