Honeymoon With A Stranger. Frances Housden

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СКАЧАТЬ still been seated he would have looked at him down the length of his nose.

      “You think I would carry it around in my pocket? I am not foolish. It would be far too dangerous. I enjoy living in la belle France. If I had a passion for desert sands I could have stayed in Algeria.”

      Mac caught a hint of something in Ahmed’s explanation that tightened the skin at the back of his neck.

      Damn, the weapon sounded worse than he’d heard. “It’s really that potent?” he probed. “I was led to believe its specifics named grain crops, wheat, corn…?”

      The Algerian shrugged. “Believe what you like. I refuse to take chances…and, anyway, I haven’t decided who gets it yet.”

      Mac whirled toward the door. “Then don’t waste my time!” he snarled, privately wondering if another buyer had come on the scene to make his life more complicated than it already was.

      Roxie took the stairs on the other side of the courtyard entrance and began to climb. A mumble of French drifted down from an upper landing, then cut off abruptly.

      Though it was dark enough to make her want to hurry, she took her time, just in case the men she’d seen thought they were being followed. At this time of night most deals being done in Le Sentier would be dirty.

      At the top of the first flight, the sign on the door facing read Claudette’s Lingerie. Not as startling as it might sound since Le Sentier was the garment district of Paris.

      Halfway up a third flight, she heard raised voices and, nearing the top, was relieved to see light leaking under a door.

      Her pace quickened with revived confidence,

      Charles had trusted her to do this for him.

      She hurried the last few stairs, the four-inch heels of her boots sounding an uneven tattoo on the wooden treads.

      The Algerian soon made it known he hadn’t done with Mac. “I want to know what makes this your fight? You tell me you want to bring the Russian bear to its knees, yet you were born in America.”

      Zukah spoke urgently, the soft sibilant accent of his home-land making it hard to follow. “The Cold War is over and those two old enemies are already swapping pillow talk. I would be a fool to take you at face value.”

      Mac’s tempered flared; though he kept his voice low, it sounded harsh, in keeping with the role he’d taken on. “When you were selling guns, did you always ask who your customer was going to shoot with them?”

      Mac had learned to be particular about his cover story, to fit into the skin of the character. Lip curling, he asked, “In your small conflicted world, did you ever hear of Grozny?”

      Zukah gave him a blank stare, but Mac noticed one of his men nod as if remembering the siege.

      Mac’s nose flared as he looked down on the Algerian. Zukah had a lot of native cunning but obviously wasn’t interested in events that didn’t affect him personally.

      “Not that it’s any of your damn business, but my mother’s family were there. Not one of them survived the siege.” A single step brought Mac chest-to-chest with Zukah. “So, you might say I have a large stake in acquiring that weapon.”

      It was a one-sided pissing match with only Mac speaking, but he continued, “And before you sell to someone else, it would be in your best interest to discover the punishments we mete out to those who cross us Chechens.”

      The uncomprehending expression reminded Mac that a threat was redundant if the one being menaced lived in blissful ignorance, but the same guy shifted his feet as if in discomfort.

      Mac reckoned it would pay to remember which one could be more easily unsettled, anything that gave him an edge.

      Not to be outdone, the Algerian blustered, “And we have to be sure of your—” All at once Zukah broke off and as one their heads turned in the direction of the swift footsteps outside.

      Mac spat out a curse and cast a murderous glance toward the door, wondering what else could go wrong. “If this is another trick, Zukah, it doesn’t sit at all well with me, so be warned.”

      It was silent as Roxie crossed the landing, as if someone had turned the sound down on a TV. Roxie put her ear close to the door and heard nothing. Not a sound.

      It could be the wrong apartment.

      She knocked lightly. Nothing.

      About to reach for the handle, she hesitated, thinking it could be very awkward if she was wrong. Then told herself, don’t be a coward. All you have to say is you’re looking for Madame Billaud, the seamstress who’s doing some specialized work for Charles Fortier, the couturier.

      Everyone had heard of Charles.

      Yes, if she made a mistake, she would simply ask them to redirect her. She tried the handle.

      The door to the apartment opened easily. She took a deep breath and called loudly, “Bon soir. C’est Roxie….”

      The rest of her announcement stuttered to a halt in the face of a deadly looking gun. She blinked in the bright lights for a few seconds, and still none of the men facing her spoke a word.

      It was she who broke the ominous silence by blurting out, “Bloody hell!” in English, the second of the languages she’d grown up speaking.

      The gun never wavered an inch.

      Not even when the thin, hollow-cheeked man grabbed the shoulder she was desperately trying to ease back through the open door. He pulled her into the room.

      Her eyes winced at the sudden transition from dark to light. But all the same, it looked as if she’d stumbled into the middle of a home invasion.

      Four strange men and one solitary woman. Latent instincts stirred in her brain, telling her that the danger she felt could come from more than just a gun.

      Chapter 2

      At first, Roxie’s shocked eyes merely grazed the others in the room. Now her gaze lit on the largest man, who held it with the fierce, glittering-gold intensity of his own.

      She drew a shuddering breath to still the mind-numbing fear crawling under her skin.

      The Kincaid family never showed weakness, and Grandmère had bred strong women. Yet she doubted if they’d ever met anyone like the huge, broad-shouldered man dominating the others.

      Not with physical force, but by the leashed power of his expression and the glittering light in his eyes.

      Consumed by a frantic need for survival, she latched onto the notion that this was the man to deal with. The one who could mend the faux pas she’d made by barging in without permission.

      Might this be the time to mention her muddle with the directions?

      As though in a dream, she watched the big man’s lips purse, a wry expression softening the sharp angles of ruggedly blocked features. Handsome features.

      She felt hypnotized, СКАЧАТЬ