All The Queen's Men

How did you know I run every morning?" she asked as they returned to the house. The run had mellowed her considerably; early morning was her favorite time of the day. The sky was beginning to turn shades of pearl and pink, and the birds were awake and singing. She felt tired but also energized, the way she always did after a run.

"I told you, Frank kept tabs on you over the years." "Bullshit."

He burst out laughing. She gave him an irritated look as she fished the house key out of her pocket and unlocked the door. "What's so funny?"

"Hearing you curse. You look like such a madonna-"

"What!" She stared at him in amazement.

"Angel, then. It's that sweet face of yours." Grinning, he stroked one finger down her cheek, then deftly maneuvered past and stepped into the house ahead of her. She hadn't seen him reach for it, but a pistol was in his hand. "You look as if you wouldn't understand most swearwords if you heard them." He was moving, examining the house, as he spoke.

She rolled her eyes and followed him inside. "I'll try to stick to 'gosh' and 'darn,' then, so I won't shock you. And don't think you can change the subject Mr. Vinay hasn't just 'kept tabs' on me, has he? I've been under pretty dose surveillance. Tell me why."

"The surveillance isn't constant. It was at first, to establish your routine. Now it's just often enough to make certain you're okay and to see if anything's changed."

"Tell me why you've wasted Agency time and manpower like that." She had to raise her voice because he was down the hall checking the bedrooms.

"I haven't. Frank used a private agency."

Before, she had been irritated and disbelieving; now she was downright astounded. She slammed the door with a thud. ""You paid for a private agency to watch me? For God's sake, Tucker, if you wanted to know, why didn't you just pick up the phone and call?"

He was coming back up the dark hall toward her, Because he was wearing black, he was difficult to see; only his fade and bare arms and hands made him visible. Part of it was the way he moved, she thought absently. He was fluid, noiseless; you had to rely only on your eyes to detect him, because he was utterly silent.

"John," he said.

"What?"

"You called me Tucker. My name is John."

He stood directly in front of her, so close she could feel the animal heat generated by their run, smell the hot odors of sweat and man. She took a step back and tilted her head so she could look at his face. "I haven't quite adjusted yet. You were Tucker to me for five years, whether or not I ever saw you. You've been Medina for less than twelve hours."

"Not Medina. John. Call me by my first name."

He seemed strangely intent on this name business, standing motionless, his gaze fastened on her face. "All right, 'John' it is. I'll probably slip, though, especially when I get pissed at you-which so far is averaging at least once an hour."

He grinned, and she wondered if it was because he so easily irritated her or because she had said 'pissed.' What did the man think she was, a nun? He was going to make her uncomfortable if he kept laughing every time she said something the least bit blue.

She poked him in the chest with one finger. It was like poking a steel plate, with no give beneath the skin. "Since you'll be using another name when we get to France, shouldn't I be getting used to calling you that? What if I slip up then?"

"I'll be careful not to piss you off."

"You aren't going to tell me?" she asked incredulously.

"Not yet."

She pushed past him. "I'm going to take a shower. Lock the door behind you when you leave."

She fumed as she showered. There was no reason for him not to give her his cover name. He just loved being contrary and secretive, though it was such a habit for him now he probably didn't realize-no, of course he realized. He did everything deliberately; she had noticed that about him in Iran.

It followed, then, that he had intentionally revealed his own name, rather than being so surprised to see her that he blurted it out. John Medina didn't blurt out anything. He couldn't have lived this long if he did. The question was-why? He could have posed as Tucker, and she would never have known any differently. Mentally shrugging, she put the question aside. Who knew why Medina did anything?

She took her time in the bathroom, indulging in her morning ritual of moisturizing her skin, then smoothing on a body oil with a subtle scent that lingered all day. She didn't have to be at work until nine, so she didn't have to hurry. That was one reason she got up so early; she didn't like rushing around and arriving at work already frazzled. Of course, she usually got more sleep than she had last night, but Medina hadn't left until well past her normal bedtime.

Going into her bedroom, she took out a matching navy blue set of underwear, but only put on the panties. She wore a bra while she was jogging and at work, but didn't bother while she was at home. She put on her terry-cloth robe and snugly belted it, pulled her wet hair out from under the shawl collar, and walked barefoot down the hall to the kitchen to see if the coffee Medina had made was still drinkable.

He was sitting at the island bar, drinking coffee, much as he had been before. She checked only briefly, then went to the coffee pot and poured herself a cup. "I thought you were leaving."

"Why?"

She turned to face him, leaning against the cabinet and cradling the cup in her hand. His hair was wet, she noticed.

"I used your other bathroom for a shower," he said. "Hope you don't mind. I had to put these clothes back on, though."

"No, I don't mind. But I still thought you were leaving. I have to go to work."

"No, you don't. You're on indefinite leave."

She sipped her coffee, hiding her shock-and, yes, her irritation. "That's news to me."

"Frank took care of it last night. Until this job is finished, you're mine."

She didn't know if she liked the sound of that. A funny little pang tightened her stomach. She took refuge in her coffee again, hiding her expression.

He looked so pantherish and male, dressed all in black, lounging at his ease in her cheerful kitchen.

The T-shirt he wore clung to him, revealing the breadth of his shoulders and the flatness of his stomach. He was tall and lean, but more muscular than he looked when wearing street clothes. He had meant his words one way, but his physical presence was so strong she couldn't stop herself from a brief sexual speculation. Did his stamina extend to lovemaking? If so ... wow.

Immediately she pulled her thoughts away from that direction; nothing but trouble there. "So what am I supposed to do with my time until we're ready to leave? When do we leave, anyway?" she asked briskly.

"About a week. It takes time to set up a cover as foolproof as yours will be. In the meantime, we train. How are you with a handgun and self-defense?"

"Rusty."

"Have you had any formal self-defense training?"

"No. Just a rape-prevention course, the usual self-defense stuff." And the rudimentary training Dallas had begun with her, but that was five years ago, and she hadn't kept it up.

"Okay. We won't have time for anything in-depth, but in a week's time I can have you at a level where you can hold your own with most men. You're in good shape already, so that helps."

Great. It looked as if she was going to be in his company nonstop for a week. She sighed and took a skillet out of the cabinet. "I'm not doing anything else until I eat. What do you want for breakfast?"

"Take your pick," Medina said, indicating the small arsenal he had laid out on a bench. They were in a private firing range, used by CIA personnel. The huge, barnlike building was empty except for the two of them.

It wasn't anything fancy, having been built more for use than looks. The far wall of the range was stacked with sand bags and bales of hay, so no rounds of ammunition went through the walls to do damage to anything or anyone outside. The walls themselves were lined with what looked like pegboard, to contain the noise. Big industrial lights hung overhead, but they were individually controlled so that the lighting conditions could be adjusted

He indicated the first weapon. "This is a Colt .45. It's a heavy-duty cannon, with a lot of stopping power. The next one is a Smith & Wesson .357 revolver. Again, it's pretty heavy. But they're both as reliable as the sun, so you might want to practice with them. I wouldn't recommend them for regular use, though, because of the weight. You need something lighter."

He indicated the other weapons. "The next one is a SIG Sauer P226, 9mm. It's my personal favorite. The other automatic is an H&K P9S. It's half a pound lighter than the Colt, and H&K makes a fine weapon. You can't go wrong with either one."

Niema studied the handguns, then picked each one up in turn. The two revolvers were so heavy she could barely aim them. The H&K was more manageable, but for sheer ease of handling the SIG suited her much better.

"Looks like the SIG is going to be my favorite, too." She wasn't an expert with firearms, but neither was she a rank beginner. Dallas had been constitutionally unable to bear a wife who didn't know how to fire a weapon, so he had taught her the basics and insisted she practice. But that was five years ago, and she hadn't been on a firing range since.

"The SIG doesn't have a thumb safety," he said. "That lever on the left side of the frame is the decocking lever. Never, ever lower the hammer except with the decocking lever. Some SIGs are double-action and won't have the lever, but you need to get used to using it."

"It's awkward," she said after a minute spent familiarizing herself with the lever. "I can't work it without shifting my grip."

"Try using your left thumb. I learned to shoot it left-handed because I ran into the same problem."

She slid a glance at him. "Accurately?"

"Of course," he said coolly. "Or I wouldn't do it."

"Pardon me for insulting your manhood."

"My manhood isn't connected to my weapon, honey."

She bit the inside of her lip to hold back any rejoinders. That particular subject could rapidly get into dangerous waters.

A surprising amount of expertise returned as soon as she handled the weapon. She put a clip in the SIG, and Medina set the first man-shaped target at ten" yards.

"Is that all?" she asked, wondering whether or not she should be insulted.

"Most situations where you would use a handgun are fairly close quarters, and things happen fast, in five seconds or less. Work on your accuracy before you start worrying about distance. Anything much over thirty yards and you'd be better off with a rifle or shotgun, anyway."

"How do we get our weapons on board the plane?"

"We don't. I could, but it would attract too much attention. I'll get them once we're in France. By the way, we won't be traveling together."

She nodded, put on her headset, and raised the pistol. Dallas had taught her the point-and-shoot method; studies had found that people were very accurate in pointing at something, but when they tried to aim a weapon the mechanics of doing so somehow interfered with that natural ability. The idea was not to aim, but simply to point.

Medina's arms came around her from behind, his hands closing over hers and making minute adjustments in her grip. "Gently squeeze the trigger," he murmured, his voice coming through the headset.

She took a deep breath and slowly let it out, the way Dallas had taught her. When she had exhaled about half, she stopped and squeezed the trigger. The weapon jumped in her hands as if it was alive, the barrel recoiling upward from the released energy. With the headset protecting her ears, the shot was a flattened crack, like a board popping. Smoke and cordite burned her nostrils. Without a word she steadied the weapon, took a breath, and shot again.

This time Medina braced her wrists with his own hands, but this time she was more prepared for the recoil. She didn't fight it, but let her forearms absorb the shock.

"Good," Medina said, and let his arms drop from around her.

Taking her time, not rushing her shots, she emptied the clip at the target. When the clip was empty, per Medina's previous instructions, she removed the empty dip and slapped a new one in. While she was doing that he called up a new target and set this one at twenty yards. She shot all the bullets in that clip, too.

Afterward he pulled the targets up for examination. On the first target, out of a fifteen-shot clip, she had scored two rounds in the head, one in the neck, and five in the chest. "Only eight," she said in disgust. "Barely over fifty percent."

"This isn't a marksmanship competition, so don't try to be Annie Oakley. And look at it this way: With the other seven bullets, you probably scared the hell out of whoever was standing beside the target."

She had to laugh, even if it was ruefully. "Thanks a lot."

"You're welcome. Take a look at the second target."

The second target made her feel better. With both targets she had tried to divide her shots equally between the head and chest. It hadn't worked very well with the first target, and in one way she didn't approve much: only three shots went into the head. But eight shots were clustered in the chest area, meaning she had made all of those shots.

She told John what she'd been trying to do. "Forget the head," he advised. "In a tense situation, the chest is a much bigger target. You don't have to kill someone, just stop him. Now let's switch to another weapon."

"Why?"

"Because you never know what will be available. You need to be able to use whatever is at hand."

He made it sound like she was going to make a career of this, she thought grumpily. But she moved to the H&K as instructed and went through the same exercise. She ran into trouble with both the Colt and Smith & Wesson, though. The pistols were so heavy it took all her strength, using both hands, to hold her wrists steady. The first shot with the .357 jarred her teeth.

Medina stepped behind her then, wrapping his hands around her wrists and adding his strength to hers. "Unless you're with me, I'm not going to be much good with these," she said between gritted teeth.

"You're doing okay. Just take your time between shots."

She not only had to take her time, she had to work up her nerve. Now she knew why the big pistols were called hand cannons. She didn't make all her shots with them, either, but the ones that hit tore impressive holes in the cardboard targets. Afterward she had to massage her forearms to relax the muscles.

"That's enough for today," he said, taking note of her action, ""four arms will be sore if you keep on."

"Stopping suits me fine," she muttered. "I guess I'm not Rambo, either."

"Who is?" he asked dryly.

She laughed as she worked the kinks out of her shoulders. "What's next?"

"A workout, if you're up to it."

She gave him a wary look. "What kind of workout?"

"The kind where I teach you how to take care of yourself."

"I'll have you know I already take vitamins and moisturize my skin."

"Smart ass." He chuckled as he looped a companionable arm around her shoulders. "We're going to make a great team."

"A great temporary team," she corrected, ignoring the sudden thumping of her heart. No way was she going back into this full-time, or even part-time. This was a one-shot deal.

He let her have the last word, but she saw the self-satisfied quirk to his mouth, quickly smoothed out, that told her he planned otherwise. And that was almost as worrying as the job itself.

To her relief, he took it easy on her during the workout. The gym he took her to wasn't a gym at all, but an abandoned barn thirty miles south of D.C. Nevertheless, it was equipped with both weight machines and free weights, punching bags, what looked like gymnastic equipment, and a big, blue, three-inch thick foam mat.

"That isn't thick enough," she pronounced.

"It's thick enough. I'm not going to be dropping you on your head." He kicked off his shoes.

"It's my butt I'm worried about." Following his example, she took off her own shoes.

"I promise I'll take good care of your butt."

He was as good as his word. The workout didn't involve getting tossed around or twisted into a pretzel. "Rule one: Don't try to take anyone down," he said. "You aren't good enough. The best you can hope to do is get away, so that's what we'll concentrate on. You have the advantage of surprise on your side, because you're small-"

"I am not."

He cast his eyes toward the cavernous ceiling. "You're smaller than most men," he amended.

"But I'm wiry."

He laughed then. "Okay, you're wiry. Where, I don't know, but I'll take your word for it. But you look-"

This time she was the one who rolled her eyes. "I know, like an angel."

"You don't like that, huh? Then let's say you look like a lady. You look as if you've never been dirty, never sweated, never swore."

"Strike three, you're out," she muttered.

"And you don't look nearly as contrary as you are."

"I'm not contrary, I'm accurate."

"As I was saying..." He grinned down at her. "You look like a cream puff. An angelic, ladylike cream puff. So any guy who grabs you isn't going to be expecting you to do anything except maybe cry."

Deciding she'd bedeviled him enough for now, she shrugged her shoulders back and forth, loosening them. "Okay, so teach me how to make him cry."

"I'll be satisfied with just teaching you how to get away."

Courtesy of the rape-prevention class she'd taken, she already knew some of the basic stuff. John refreshed her on many of the moves: how to break the hold of someone who grabbed you from the front-you brought your arms up hard and fast inside your assailant's. A quick, stiff-arm jab of the palm up and into someone's nose might not kill him, though it could if done hard enough, but it would certainly cause him pain. So would slapping your cupped palms over his ears, a move designed to rupture the ear drums. A jab of stiffened fingers into the eyes or throat was disabling.

He showed her the most vulnerable place on the throat for crushing the trachea. Without immediate help, someone with a crushed trachea would die. Even if she couldn't manage crushing power, the blow, done properly, would disable.

They moved around on the mat, into different positions and scenarios. By necessity, the drill was close contact. Niema forced herself to ignore the sensations generated by having John's tall, hard-muscled body against hers, his arms wrapped around her in various holds as he patiently instructed her on how to break those holds.

They both worked up a sweat, and he kept at it until she was panting for breath.

"Would it help if I cried uncle?" she finally asked.

"We can stop any time you want," he said, surprised.

"Great. Now you tell me."

"I don't want to make you sore. We need to train every day, to build up your strength and stamina, and we can't if your muscles are too sore to work."

He actually looked worried, so Niema said, "No, I don't think I'll be sore, but I'm still ready for a break."

"There's some water in the fridge over there. I'm going to work with the weights while you rest."

She fetched a bottle of cold water from the rusty refrigerator standing in the corner and settled down on the mat to watch. He stripped off his T-shirt and tossed it aside. Quickly she looked away and drank more water. Seeing a man without his shirt was nothing out of the ordinary, but still... this was John Medina, and he wasn't ordinary.

She stretched out on the mat and closed her eyes, so she wouldn't give in to the temptation to stare at him. There couldn't be anything between them except the job. He was black ops, she was nine-to-five, two totally opposite lifestyles. Still, for a dizzying moment she thought of indulging in a brief affair with him.

What would it be like? She had enjoyed being with him today, even when he annoyed her. He challenged her, just by being himself. She was tired, but she could feel life coursing through her veins in a way it hadn't done in a long, long time. Had he done that, or was it the prospect of being back in action? Or was he irrevocably bound up in that action, so that she couldn't separate the two?

Her entire body felt sensitized after that workout with him. His forearms had brushed her nipples several times. His hands had been on her legs, her hips. His body had slid against hers, and several times, while they grappled, one of his legs had been between hers.

She rolled over onto her stomach and cradled her head on her arms. John Medina had "Danger Zone" written all over him, and for her own sake she should pay attention to the sign. She was already risking more than she could afford to lose.

"Time to get back to work, cream puff," he called from where he was doing bench presses.

"Cream puff, my ass," she snapped, and rolled to her feet.

Chapter Nine

Villa de Ronsard, the South of France

Louis Ronsard trusted in nothing he couldn't see, and very little that he could. Trust, in his experience, was a commodity with too high a price.

Even when he trusted, there were degrees: He trusted his sister, Mariette, to never deliberately do anything to hurt him, but she could sometimes be as foolish as she was lovely, so he trusted her with nothing that concerned his business. By necessity, he trusted a select few of his employees with some details of the business, but he made frequent checks on their financial and personal lives to detect any weakness that might pose a danger to him. His employees were forbidden to use drugs, for example, but Ronsard was under no delusion that just because he said it, it was so. So... drug tests for all the employees, from the lowest to the highest.

He was aware that he walked a knife edge of danger. The people with whom he dealt on a daily basis were not upstanding citizens. In his opinion, they were either fanatic or psychotic, or both. He had yet to be able to tell which was the most unstable.

There was only one way one could deal with such people: very cautiously.

He would not accept commissions from just anyone. The maniac who wanted to explode a bomb in a school as a protest for world peace was not going to purchase that bomb or the materials through him. Even in the world of terrorists there must be standards, no? Ronsard required an established organization, which would need his services again and so was not likely to turn on him.

For his part, he was absolutely scrupulous in delivering what he had promised. He took nothing for himself except the agreed payment. His own value, he knew, depended on his reliability. To that end, he went to extraordinary lengths to make certain nothing went wrong with any shipment, no matter how small. His business had flourished as a result, and his bank accounts in Switzerland and the Cayman Islands were ... healthy.

Because he was so careful, anything out of the ordinary made him wary. Such was the phone call he received that morning on his private line, the number only a very few people knew.

"So," he murmured to himself as he leaned back in his chair and rolled a fragrant cigar, taken from an inlaid sandalwood box on his desk, in his fingers.

"So?" Cara Smith, his secretary and aide-his first aide, as she liked to call herself-looked up from the computer she was using to track his various investments. He had been surprised, when he had her investigated, to discover her name really was Smith, and that she was from the unlikely named Waterloo, Kansas, which had given her the opportunity over the years to make some dreadful puns at his expense.

"We have a request from an ... unexpected party."

Cara, of all people, knew how much he disliked the unexpected. But she also knew him, better than was sometimes comfortable, and immediately saw his interest. Something intrigued him, or he would have immediately refused the commission.

She swiveled her chair toward him and crossed her long legs. Since Cara was six feet tall, they were very long legs indeed. 'And the name is . . . ?"

"Temple."

Her cornflower blue eyes widened. "Wow."

She was so American, he thought, so adept in the inelegant phrase. "Wow, indeed."

Temple, known only by the one name, was a shadow in the already murky world of terrorists. His name had been whispered in connection with some assassinations, with certain bombings. He did not choose his targets at random, for the sake of creating terror. He might bring down an airplane, but one person on that flight was his specific target. It was unknown whether he belonged to some even more shadowy organization or if he worked for himself. If for himself, no one knew what his agenda was. Temple was an enigma.

Ronsard didn't like enigmas. He liked to know exactly with whom, and what, he was dealing.

"What does he want?"

"The RDX-a."

To his relief, she didn't say "wow" again. Nor did she ask the obvious: How did Temple even know about RDX-a? It had been tested only a week before, and though the compound had performed as it was supposed to, its existence was still known to only a few. There were a few problems in production that were currently being eliminated, such as the tendency of some batches to decompose at an accelerated rate, with unpleasant results for the handler. It was a delicate balancing act, to stabilize an unstable compound just enough to be able to predict its rate of decomposition, without rendering it too stable to perform.

"Find every available bit of information on Temple," he said. "I want to know what he looks like, where he was born-everything."

"Are you going to accept the commission?"

"It depends." Ronsard lit the cigar, dedicating himself, for a few pleasurable seconds, to the ritual. When the end was glowing to his satisfaction he savored the subtle vanilla taste on his tongue. He would have to change his clothing before seeing Laure; she loved the smell of his cigars, but the smoke wasn't good for her.

Cara had already turned back to her computer and was rapidly typing in commands. Computers were something else he didn't trust, so none of his records were on the one Cara used, which was connected to that invisible electronic world the Americans called the Web. There were encryption programs, of course, but they were constantly being broken. Teenagers hacked into the Pentagon's most secure files; corporations spent billions in computer security that leaked like a sieve. The only secure computer, in his opinion, was one that wasn't connected to anything else-like the one on his desk, where he kept his records. As an added precaution he regularly changed his password, to a word chosen at random from the dog-eared volume of Dickens's A Tale of Two Cities that he always kept on his desk. He actually read the thing from time to time, though more to keep Cara from being suspicious about its presence than from any actual interest in the book. He would turn down the page from which he had chosen his password and leave the book lying out in the open as if it were of no importance.

His system wasn't perfect. He changed the password so often that sometimes he forgot which word he had chosen, hence the turned-down page. He could always recognize the word once he saw it, if he was on the correct page.

"Where's Temple from?" Cara asked. "I'm not finding anything on him using a broad search. I need a closer focus."

"America, I think, but I've heard rumors he had lived in Europe for at least ten years. Try Scotland Yard."

She sighed as she tapped keys. "This is going to get me arrested some day," she grumbled.

Ronsard smiled. He did enjoy Cara; she knew exactly what his business entailed but managed to maintain the same attitude as if she worked in a corporate office somewhere. Nor was she intimidated by him, and though a certain amount of intimidation was necessary in his chosen field, sometimes it was wearying.

Nor had she fallen in love with him, which was fortunate. Ronsard knew women, knew the effect he had on them, but Cara had bluntly told him that though she liked him she wasn't interested in sleeping with him. That, too, had been a relief.

She slept with other men, most recently his Egyptian bodyguard, Hossam, who had been obsessed with the tall blonde woman from the day he first saw her. Ronsard only hoped Hossam wouldn't lose control of his Middle-Eastern temperament when his American Norse goddess lost interest in him.

"Damn," she muttered and typed furiously. The Scotland Yard computer was giving her problems, he concluded.

"Damn!" she shouted a minute later and slapped the monitor. "The bastards have added a wrinkle-"

She began muttering to herself as she tried to electronically wriggle into the Scotland Yard database. Ronsard waited, puffing on his cigar. Cara's mutterings were only half intelligible, thank God, because as she worked her language deteriorated alarmingly.

" Shitpissfuck-"

His eyebrows rose as she got up and stalked around the office, swearing under her breath and waving her hands in the air as she appeared to be having a conversation with herself.

"Okay, what if I try this," she finally muttered and resumed her seat to pound out another series of commands.

Ten minutes later she sat back with a blissful expression on her face. "Outsmarted the sons of bitches," she crowed. "Okay, let's see what you have on 'Temple, first name unknown.'"

A file popped on the screen. Cara hit the print button, and the printer whirred to life, spitting out a single sheet of paper.

"That isn't much," Ronsard murmured as she got up and brought the sheet to him. "Try the FBI; if he's American, they may have more on him."

He began reading. Scotland Yard didn't have many hard facts on Temple. "Believed" to have worked with Baader-Meinhoff in Germany. "Believed" to have been associated with Basque Fatherland in Spain. "Believed" to have had contact with the IRA. Evidently Scotland Yard "believed" a lot of things about Temple and knew very little.

Temple was either American or Canadian, believed -that word again-to be between the ages of thirty-five and forty-five. No known place of residence.

As sketchy as the information was, at least it gave him a place to begin, Ronsard thought. He had contacts throughout Europe. If anyone in either of the three organizations mentioned had any knowledge of Temple, he-Ronsard-would shortly be in possession of the same.

Cara was muttering and swearing her way through the process of gaining access to the FBI's database. When he heard the triumphant "Aha!" he knew she had succeeded.

"Well, kiss my ass, we got us a photo!" she said in astonishment. "Not a good one, his face is half-hidden, but it's something."

Ronsard left his desk to cross the room and lean over Cara's chair, peering at the computer screen. "Can you enhance it?" he asked, studying the grainy, blurred picture that showed a dark-haired man about to get into a car.

"I can enhance what we have, but nothing will show what the camera didn't get, which is half his face."

"He's wearing a ring on his left hand. A wedding band?" Interesting, Ronsard thought. Not that Temple might be married; things like that happened, even in the terrorists' world. But for him to wear such a conventional symbol as a wedding band was amusing.

The photo showed a dark-haired man, fairly tall, given the scale of the car beside him. His face was turned partially away from the camera, giving a good view of his left ear. The photograph could have been taken anywhere; no license plates were visible on any of the cars; even the make of the car was impossible to tell. The red brick building in the background was equally anonymous, without any helpful lettering or a convenient sign to give a hint of the location.

"I'll print out the information for you to read while I work on enhancing this," Cara said and set the printer to working.

The FBI had more information than Scotland Yard, which illustrated exactly how closely the two bureaus worked. What information the FBI had on an international terrorist, Interpol was supposed to have. What Interpol had, Scotland Yard should have. That was the whole purpose of Interpol. The FBI had been holding back, and he wondered why.

"Temple," he silently read. "First name Josef, or Joseph. Birthplace unknown. First identified in Tucson, Arizona, in 1987. Disappeared, resurfaced in 1992 in Berlin. Brown hair, blue eyes. Identifying marks or scars: left scapula, a diagonal scar approximately four inches long, believed to have been made by a knife or other sharp object."

Knifed in the back, Ronsard thought. Mr. Temple had indeed lived an interesting life.

"Subject wanted for questioning regarding 1987 bombing of courthouse in Tucson, Arizona; 1992 hijacking of NATO munitions truck in Italy-" Ronsard's eyebrows rose. He thought he had a sure finger on the pulse of his chosen world, but he hadn't heard anything about the NATO hijacking. The list went on. In all, the FBI wanted Temple for questioning in fifteen separate incidents.

Temple was thought to be an independent, with no known affiliation with any one organization. He was a hired weapon, Ronsard thought; he didn't kill for pleasure or for himself, but for whoever bought his services, which would not be cheap. From the list of incidents for which he was the main suspect, none of the targets were "soft." All of them were difficult, and the more difficult, the more expensive.

Who was paying him this time? Who had heard of RDX-a and hired Temple to procure it? Why hadn't he-or they-simply approached him themselves, instead of using Temple as a go-between? It had to be someone with a lot to lose if they became known.

"It isn't a wedding ring," Cara announced, printing out the photo.

Ronsard picked up the sheet as soon as the printer spat it out. She was correct; the ring seemed to have a peculiar braided design, like a dozen tiny entwined gold ropes. No, not ropes-snakes. That looked like a snake head on the ring.

And Mr. Temple's left ear was pierced. The gold hoop in it was discreet, but the photo enhancement plainly revealed it.

The people or person behind Mr. Temple were careful, sending him out to do their work while they remained safely in the background.

But Ronsard was just as wary, just as cautious. He didn't deal with anyone he didn't know.

"I think I want to meet the elusive Mr. Temple," he murmured.

Chapter Ten

McLean, Virginia

Niema hit the alarm on the clock before it could go off, got up, and dressed in her running outfit, did her usual routine in the bathroom, and sauntered into the kitchen. As she expected, Medina was sitting at his usual place at the island bar, sipping coffee. "Very funny," he growled, and she laughed. "Don't pout. You got in anyway, didn't you?" "Yeah, but I had to climb in through the laundry-room window. Very undignified."

And very silent, she thought; she was a light sleeper, but she hadn't heard a thing. "I suppose you bypassed the alarm on the window, too."

"No, I disabled the entire thing. Get one that works off infrared or motion, not contact."

She scowled at him. The alarm system had set her back over a thousand bucks, and now he was proposing she spend another two thousand. "Why don't I just do the same thing to all my windows and doors that I did to the back door? Low tech seems to work where high tech doesn't."

"Both would be good." He grinned and lifted his cup in salute. "That was a good idea."

"Low tech" was a good description of what she had done to her back door. She bought two ordinary hook and latch sets at a hardware store, installed the first one in the usual manner with the eye screwed into the frame while the hook was mounted on the door. Then she had turned the second one upside down, butted it up against the first one, and installed it with the eye screwed into the door and the hook mounted on the frame.

With only a single hook latched, anyone with a credit card, knife, or any other thin object could slip it in the crack and force the hook up, freeing it from the eye. With two hooks, one upside down, that method wouldn't work. If you slid the credit card up from the bottom, you hit the upside down latch and pushed the hook into the eye, instead of out of it. If you came down from the top, you were pushing down on the upper latch, with the same results.

Of course, someone who was very strong or who had a battering ram could knock the door off its hinges, but that wasn't a very quiet way of breaking and entering. She was inordinately pleased that her simple solution had stymied him.

When they left the house, instead of turning right, toward the park, Medina turned left.

"The park's in the other direction," Niema said as she caught up and fell into step beside him.

"We ran there yesterday."

"Does this mean you never run the same route twice, or just that you're easily bored?"

"Bored," he said easily. "I have the attention span of a gnat."

"Liar."

His only response was a grin, and they ran in silence then, down the deserted street. There were no stars visible overhead, and the weather felt damp, as if it might rain. Her forearms were a little sore from all that shooting the day before, but other than that she felt great. Her thigh muscles stretched as they ran, and she felt her blood begin to zing through her veins as her heartbeat increased.

They had been running for half an hour when a car turned a corner onto their street, heading straight for them. It was rolling slow, as if looking for something.

John looped his right arm around her waist and whirled her behind a tree. She bit back her instinctive cry and barely got her hands out to brace herself before he crushed her against the tree trunk, holding her there with the hard pressure of his body. She saw the dull glint of metal in his left hand. She held her breath and pressed her cheek even harder into the rough bark of the tree.

"Two men," he said in an almost inaudible whisper, his breath stirring the hair at her temple. "They're probably from the private agency Frank hired."

"Probably? Don't you know?"

"No, I don't know your surveillance schedule, and they don't know I'm here. They're probably looking for you since you aren't on your usual route."

The thought of having a "surveillance schedule" was annoying. Equally annoying was the realization of how many times over the past few years cars had passed by her in the early morning hours and she hadn't thought anything of it, except to watch, with a woman's natural wariness, until the cars had turned the corner and disappeared. She had been so oblivious she was embarrassed. She should have been more alert.

The bark was scratching her cheek, and her breasts were being crushed. "Ease up," she panted. "You're squashing me."

He moved about an inch, but it helped. He remained behind the tree until the car was a block away, then lifted himself away from her. She grunted as she pushed away from the tree. "If they're ours, why don't we just let them see us?"

He resumed his steady stride, and she took up her place beside him. "Because I'm not positive they're ours, for one thing. For another, I don't want them to see me, much less see me with you."

"Some bodyguards they are anyway," she grumbled, "letting you break into my house two mornings in a row."

"They weren't there when I arrived. They must be on a drive-by."

"Why don't you just tell Mr. Vinay to call off the surveillance for now? That would be the most logical thing to do. Then, if anyone drove by, we'd know they aren't ours."

"I may do that."

The car must have just circled the block. It turned onto the street again. "Pretend to chase me and let's see if they'll shoot you," Niema said, and put on a burst of speed, knowing the car's headlights couldn't yet pick her out. She barely contained a giggle at Medina's soft curse behind her. She had taken three steps when a heavy weight hit her in the back and two arms wrapped around her, dragging her down. They landed on the soft grass beside the sidewalk, with her on her stomach and him on top of her. In the pre-dawn darkness, no one was likely to see them unless they were moving.

He held her down, despite her wriggles and erupting giggles, until the car had passed by again. "You little witch," he said breathlessly, as if he were trying to hold back his own laughter. "Are you trying to get me killed?"

"Just keeping you on your toes, Medina."

"On my belly is more like it," he grumbled, climbing to his feet and hauling her upright. "What if someone looked out their window and called the cops?"

"We'd be long gone. And if we weren't, I'd just say I stumbled and you tried to catch me. No problem."

"I hope you're having fun," he growled. A little startled, she realized she was having fun. For the first time in a long while she felt as if there was some purpose to her life, as if she had something important to do. No matter how interesting her work with surveillance devices was, benchtesting circuits didn't give her a kick.

But she felt alive now, rejuvenated, as if she had been existing in some sort of half-life for the past five years. She had kept up her running all this time, but until yesterday she hadn't been aware of the workings of her muscles, the pumping of her blood. She enjoyed sparring with Medina, both verbally and physically. She wasn't a gun fanatic, but she had also enjoyed learning about the different handguns, learning how they felt in her hand, learning her own limits and then stretching those limits. She wanted to know more, do more, be more.

This was the danger of fieldwork. She had known the lure, resisted it for five years, but now the excitement was flowing through her veins like a potent drug. She didn't know whether to hate Medina or thank him for dragging her back into this.

Was five years' penance enough? Would a hundred years be enough to empty the guilt and anguish she felt over Dallas? Her stride faltered as she thought of the times they had jogged together; afterward they had showered together, then fallen into bed and made love.

Would Dallas have been attracted to the woman she had been for those five years, the woman she had made herself become? Or would he have been bored by the insistence on structure and security, the lack of risk? She was afraid she knew the answer. Dallas had been a risk taker; for all his low-key persona, he'd been a man who thrived on challenge and danger. Why else would he have become a SEAL, then a contract agent? What had attracted him most to her, and she to him, was the instinctive knowledge that they were alike.

Medina was the same type of man, only more so. Alarm bells, suddenly loud and clear, shrilled in her head. It was one thing to allow herself to be sucked back into the heady world of espionage and contract work, but letting herself develop feelings for another man in that same world was something else entirely.

She would have to keep her guard up, because emotions could boil over in such high-stress situations. And Medina was an attractive man; more than attractive, really. If he ever let his guard down, he'd be devastating. He seemed relaxed with her, but not once had he let any personal details slip. She knew nothing about him.

She had already felt warning twinges of physical attraction during the close contact required by training. A woman would have to be dead not to notice that lean, rock-hard body, especially when he was pressed against her.

Was that why she had teased him about making the surveillance team think he was chasing her, so he would catch her and hold her? In a flash of self-awareness, she realized she had been flirting with him. Uh-oh, she thought. She'd have to be more careful in the future.

What future? This was a one-time thing, wasn't it? They would work together briefly just this once, then she would return to her safe, familiar job and he would disappear again.

"Are you ready to pack it in?"

She glanced at the luminous dial of her wristwatch; they had already been running for over an hour. Luckily they hadn't gone in a straight line, or it would have taken them another hour to get back to her house; they had circled blocks and backtracked several times, so they were no more than half a mile from home. Dawn was dose, so close that details were clearly visible now. "What if the surveillance team is still looking for me?"

"They had better be, or-" He didn't finish the sentence, but she could guess what he had meant to say: Or they would be looking for another job.

"They'll see you," she pointed out.

"Ill split off and let you go home alone. Once they see you're safely home, they'll break off surveillance."

"What else is on the agenda today? More target practice?"

"That and more self-defense training."

With her new insight into herself, she didn't know if close-contact training with him was such a good idea. "I thought only the basics were necessary."

"We might as well do something with our time.

Who knows? It may come in handy some day. By the way, some boxes will be delivered to you today. It's a new wardrobe, jewelry, things you'll need."

"Why do I need a new wardrobe?"

"It's part of the cover. You'll be attending embassy parties, posing as the daughter of old friends of the ambassador."

She would be playing dress-up, Niema thought with amusement. She looked forward to that part of the job. Like most women, she liked good clothes and the thrill of knowing she looked good.

"Try everything on," he continued. "The clothes have to fit perfectly. What doesn't will be replaced or altered."

"They can't be returned if they're altered."

"Don't worry about it, you can keep them." He looked around. "This is where I leave you. See you in five minutes." He peeled off to the right, his stride lengthening as if he hadn't already been running for over an hour. He cut between two houses, jumped a fence, and disappeared from view.

Niema turned on the afterburners. Her thighs ached from the effort, but she pushed harder, her feet pounding. It was silly to compete with him when they weren't racing; all she had to do was leisurely jog back to her house and let the surveillance team see her, so they knew she was all right. She knew it was silly; she did it anyway. She fought to suck air deep into her lungs as she raced down the sidewalk. Anyone seeing her would think she was running for her

life, she thought, except there was no one behind her.

Up ahead she saw the surveillance car, or at least she thought it was. She hadn't gotten a good look at it in the dark, but the tail lights looked the same, and there were two men in it. The car was parked at the curb; she blew by it in a dead run, without giving the men so much as a glance. When she was twenty yards past them, she heard the car engine start.

She was two blocks from home. She ignored the messages her thigh muscles were screaming at her and forced herself to maintain her speed. When she reached her house she pounded across the small front yard and to the front door. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the car cruise past. She unlocked the door and practically fell inside, gulping in huge breaths.

She leaned against the wall beside the door, wondering if the goal had been worth the effort. Her heart was pounding so hard there was a roaring in her ears.

Or was there? She forced herself to breathe regularly, her head tilted as she listened.

The shower in the second bath was running.

Muttering to herself, she stomped off to take her own shower.

Niema faced Medina across the blue foam mat. "Today I'm going to show you some strike points," he said. "Done properly-and it takes a lot of practice to do them properly-these are death blows."

She drew back and put her hands on her hips, eyeing him suspiciously. "Why would I need to know anything like that? Am I going to be in hand-to-hand combat?"

"If I thought you were, I wouldn't take you. This is partly just in case and partly because I have time on my hands." He motioned her forward. "Come on."

"You want to turn me into a trained killer because you're bored?"

That drew a flashing smile. "You won't be a trained killer. At most, you'll be able to stun someone so you can get away. I told you it takes years of practice to do this properly. The only way you'll kill someone is if you accidentally get it right." Again he motioned for her.

Warily she approached, but still remained out of his reach.

"Relax, there's no hitting in this session. I'm just going to show you some of the points and the striking motions." He took a quick step forward, grabbed her wrist, and dragged her to the middle of the mat before she could retreat.

"This is part of t'ai chi. Actually, it's the basis. Dim-Mak is death-point striking, and it involves acupuncture points. Never, never use it unless it's a life and death situation, because like I said, you might accidentally get it right." He brought her hand up and caught her fingers, then held them against the outside corner of his eye.

"Here. This exact spot. Feel it."

"I'm feeling."

"Even a slight blow here can do major damage- nausea, memory loss, sometimes death." He showed her how to do the strike, using her fingertips. Positioning was important, to get the right angle. He made her go through the motion over and over, using himself as a dummy for her to aim at; she actually hit him once, nothing more than a touch. He whirled away from her, bent over from the waist, gagging.

"Oh God, I'm sorry!" She rushed over to him and put her arms around his waist as if she could hold him up. Panic surged in her as she remembered what he'd said about a slight blow. "Should I call 911?"

He shook his head and waved off that suggestion. He pressed under his nose, and rubbed from the corner of his eye back toward his ear. His eyes were watering a little. "I'm okay," he said, straightening.

'Are you sure? Maybe you should sit down."

"I'm fine. Things like this happen all the time in training."

"Let's do something else," she suggested uneasily.

"Okay, let's move on to the temple-"

"I meant like judo."

"Why, are you going into professional wrestling?" His blue eyes were like lasers, pinning her to the spot. He caught her hand and brought it to his temple. "Here. Hit hard, straight in. It's a knock-out point, and if a vein is ruptured the attacker will die in a day or so. CPR might revive him, but he could still die from the hemorrhage.

"Here." He moved her hand to just under his nipple. He showed her the exact spot, and the positioning of her hands. "This is instant death-"

"I'm not doing it," she said hotly. "I am not going to practice on you again."

"Good." He pressed her hand in the center of his chest, between the nipples. "A blow here makes the lower body spasm and go stiff, and the attacker falls down. Here-" He pulled her hand lower, just below his sternum. "A correct blow here stops the heart."

He was relentless. The gruesome lesson went on and on. He made her perform the motions until her hand positioning was correct, but she was adamant about not using him as a dummy again. She was still shaken that such a light touch had been able to produce such a strong reaction; what if she actually hit him?

Finally, he called a halt. He had just shown her a couple of strikes that caused instant diarrhea, and she thought she really should practice those on a live target. Medina stepped back, shaking his head and grinning.

"No way. You're mad enough at me to do it."

"Damn right I am."

"You'll thank me if you're ever in a tight spot and need to know how to bring someone down."

"If that ever happens, I'll make it a point to find you and let you say 'I told you so.' But I think I'll practice the diarrhea strikes instead of the death strikes."

He walked over to get one of the bottles of water they had brought with them. He twisted off the cap

and tilted it up, his strong throat working as he swallowed. Helplessly, Niema watched him. Even though she knew she should be wary and keep a mental, if not a physical, distance, he was a fine specimen of masculinity and everything in her that was female appreciated the scenery. His sweat pants were soft, clinging to his ass and thighs like a second skin, and that black T-shirt didn't do a thing to hide the muscular contours of his chest and arms.

Her nipples tingled an alert, and a wave of heat swept over her. Clearing her throat, she tore her gaze away from him and turned her back to do some stretching exercises. Her legs especially needed the stretching, after that run this morning. She would have stretched even if they hadn't, just to give herself something to do besides think about John Medina's body.

I have to be careful, she thought. Very, very careful.

"Ready for target practice?" he asked behind her.

She groaned and straightened. What on earth had she gotten herself into?

Later that night, after a stop at the hardware store where she purchased their entire stock of hook and eye latches and spent a couple of hours installing them-except on the window in the second bathroom, which was high and small and she wanted to see if he could get in that way-she tried on the boxes of clothes that had been delivered.

Everything had a designer label. The underwear

sets were silk, the hosiery was gossamer. Each pair of shoes had to have cost upward of two hundred dollars, and there were over a dozen pairs. There were cocktail dresses, evening gowns, smart little suits that showed more leg than she normally revealed; shorts, camp shirts, lacy camisoles, jeans, cashmere sweater sets, skirts. And there was the jewelry: pearl earrings and a matching necklace, a web of small diamonds that hung on an illusion chain, gold bracelets and chains, and an enormous, breathtakingly lovely black opal pendant with matching earrings. She carefully put the opal set back in its box and reached for a yellow diamond solitaire ring.

The phone rang. She stretched to reach the receiver, holding the ring in her hand. "Hello." "Have you looked at the clothes yet?" "I'm going through them now." Funny how he didn't need to identify himself, she thought. Though she had never talked to him on the phone before, she recognized his voice immediately. "Do they fit?" "Most of them."

"I'll have that taken care of tomorrow. Have you gotten to the opal pendant yet?"

"I just put it away. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." There was a touch of awe in her voice.

"There's a transmitter behind the stone, hidden between the prongs of the set. Be careful and don't jostle it. See you in the morning."

The phone clicked as he hung up. Slowly she

replaced the receiver. His last words could be taken as a warning, considering his penchant for breaking into her house. She smiled, thinking of that small bathroom window.

"Oh, yes, Mr. Medina. I'll definitely see you."

Chapter Eleven

>

Bingo," John said softly, and hung up the phone. Ronsard had taken the bait. The message had gone to a computer in Brussels, as per his instructions; the message had then been relayed to a computer in Toronto, which he had accessed using a calling card. Calling cards were untraceable, assuming Ronsard would even make the effort. He wouldn't expect Temple's name and number to pop up on caller ID, or for the number to be traceable.

Now he had to finesse the timing. First he had to bring Niema to Ronsard's notice and see if she was invited to the villa. If not, he would have to adjust his plan. But if Niema bagged the invitation, he didn't want to arrive at the villa until after she was already there.

Niema. As much as he had enjoyed these past few days with her, she was driving him crazy. Teasing her, touching her during her self-defense "lessons"-he had to have lost his mind to subject himself to such torture. But she delighted him on so many levels, he couldn't bring himself to stop. She was so quick to learn, and so competitive she automatically rose to any challenge. He had quietly laughed to himself that morning while he showered in her guest bath, knowing she had raced full out in an effort to beat him back to the house-after already running for over an hour.

She was aware of him now, where she never had been before. She hadn't had a clue, in Iran, how much he had envied Dallas. But he had seen her watching him when he took off his T-shirt, seen the effort she made not to stare. It was still too soon to make a move, though, so he'd had to fiercely concentrate to keep from getting an erection every time he got close to her. She had just today fully realized her attraction to him, so she was nowhere ready for him to do anything about it.

It wasn't as if they had just met and begun seeing each other. Under those circumstances, he would have felt free to move at his own pace, or at least as free as he ever felt with a woman. But they had baggage in common, the two of them; the manner of Dallas's death was something that both linked them and stood between them. No other man had been able to scale that wall because no other man had been able to understand it; he was the one who had been in that cold, dirty little hut with her, the one who watched her white, still face as she listened to her husband's last words, saw the screaming in her eyes. He was the one who held her when she at last was able to cry.

And he was the one who was going to break down that barrier of disinterest she had installed between herself and the male sex. He could do it because he understood her, because he knew that beneath her ladylike exterior beat the heart of an adventuress. He could give her the excitement she needed, both professionally and personally. God, the way she had come alive these past few days! She literally glowed. It took all his willpower not to grab her and let her know exactly how he felt.

But there was a time for that, and it wasn't now. She still wasn't comfortable with the idea of wanting anyone who wasn't Dallas, in general, and him in particular. But she would be; he would see to it.

Restlessly he got up and paced the room, automatically avoiding the window. He couldn't remember any woman's response being so important to him, not even Venetia's.

He stopped and stared sightlessly at the unremarkable framed print on the wall. After what had happened with Venetia, maybe he didn't deserve Niema. And maybe Niema wouldn't want anything to do with him, if she knew about Venetia. Maybe, hell; it was almost guaranteed. If he were honorable, he'd tell her about his dead wife.

His mouth quirked in a humorless smile. If he were honorable, he wouldn't have done a lot of the things he'd done in his life. He wanted Niema, wanted her with an intensity that continually took him off guard. And he was going to have her.

Ville de Ronsard

"Could you trace the message?" Ronsard asked Cara, who was staring at her monitor while she tapped out commands on the keyboard.

Absently she shook her head, her attention focused on the monitor. "Only to the first relay; after that, it disappeared into the ether. Temple has a damn good encryption and switch system."

Ronsard strolled around the office. The hour was early, very early, but he didn't need much sleep, and Cara adjusted her hours to his. "I thought you told me that everything on a computer leaves its print."

"It does, but the print may be a dead end. He could have programmed the first relay with a self-destroy code after the message went through. The first relay may not even be a relay; it could be the destination, but you don't seem to think Temple would be that easy to find."

"No, he wouldn't be," Ronsard murmured. "Where was the first relay, by the way?"

"Brussels."

"Then he is likely in Europe?"

"Not necessarily. He could be anywhere there's a phone line."

Ronsard tilted his head, considering the situation. "Could you tell anything if you had the actual computer in your possession?"

Her eyes gleamed with interest. "You betcha. Unless the hard drive is destroyed."

"If this is his usual means of contact, then he wouldn't destroy the link. He would safeguard it with encryption, but not destroy it. If you can discover the location of the computer, I will have it brought here."

She turned back to the monitor and began typing furiously.

Satisfied that he would soon have the computer in his possession-or rather, in Cara's possession-Ronsard returned to his desk. Laure had had a difficult night, and he was tired. He had staff who saw to her care, of course, but when she was upset or didn't feel well she wanted her papa with her. No matter where he was or what he was doing, if Laure needed him he dropped everything and went to her.

He hadn't yet gone through the mail from the day before, though Cara had opened it and put the stack on his desk. He began leafing through the bills and invitations; as usual, the latter outnumbered the former. He was invited everywhere; connections were everything in the world of business, even when that business was not of the approved sort. A great many hostesses were thrilled to have him at their functions; he was single, handsome, and carried an air of danger about him. Ronsard was cynically aware of his own attractions, and of the use they could be to him.

"Ah," he said, taking a cream-colored vellum invitation from the stack. The prime minister cordially invited him to ... He didn't bother reading what function was involved, merely checked the date. Such social gatherings were invaluable. He had ceased being amazed at how many of the world's business, social, and political leaders found a need for his services. They felt free to approach him at a charity ball or political dinner, for after all that was their world, and they felt safe and comfortable there. Once that had been his world too; he was still comfortable there, but now he knew that nowhere was safe, not really.

"Got it," Cara said and gave him the address.

Brussels

The middle-aged man looked like any other in Brussels; he was average in height, weight, coloring; there was nothing about him to cause interest. He walked at a normal pace, seemingly paying more attention to the newspaper in his hand than to where he was going, until he came to a certain apartment building. He mounted the two stone steps and let himself in the door, then took the stairs instead of the creaky elevator, so he wasn't likely to meet anyone.

On the top floor, the third one, he unlocked the door to a certain room. It was empty except for the computer humming quietly on a wooden crate, cables hooking it to the electrical outlet and phone jack. There was no printer.

The lights were programmed to go off and on at random times. The window was covered with shutters. Sometimes he came in the mornings and opened the shutters, then returned in the afternoon to shut them, so it looked as if someone was living there. He didn't think anyone ever had; there was only the computer.

Per that morning's instructions, he walked quickly over to the computer and tapped a few keys on the keyboard, entering the program called Norton Utilities. On that program was a feature called "government wipe." He pressed a few keys, waited a moment, then pressed another one. He watched briefly as the computer performed as instructed.

He took his handkerchief and wiped off the computer keyboard, then the doorknob as he was leaving. He wouldn't be back to this empty room with its electronic inhabitant.

No one saw him arrive or leave, but then, he was so very average looking.

Later that afternoon, a white van stopped down the street from the apartment building. Two men got out and walked up the narrow street; they were dressed as laborers, in paint-stained coveralls, though their van bore none of the accouterments of painters.

They went into the apartment building and took the stairs up to the third floor. Once in the narrow, dingy hallway, they each took heavy automatic pistols from inside their coveralls and quietly approached the closed door to one of the apartments. One positioned himself to the side of the door, his pistol held ready. He nodded to his companion, who cautiously reached out and tried the knob. Surprise etched both their faces when the door swung open.

Quickly they peeked around the frame, automatically jerked back, then relaxed; the room was empty. Still, they held their pistols ready as they entered the room and quickly searched it. Nothing. Not only was the room uninhabited, it showed no signs that anyone had lived there in quite some time.

On the other hand, there was that computer. It sat on the crate, quietly humming. The screen was a pure blue.

The two men were professionals; they got down on their knees and inspected the computer, following the power and telephone cords to their outlets, looking for anything unusual. Not finding anything, one of them finally reached out and turned off the computer. The screen went blank and the quiet hum died.

They briskly unplugged the computer and carried it downstairs to their van. They didn't bother closing the door behind them when they left.

Ville de Ronsard

Cara was swimming when Ronsard sent word the computer had arrived. She hauled herself out of the pool and bent over from the waist to wring the water from her hair. She knew Hossam was watching her, his dark eyes hot with excitement. She ignored him and wrapped a towel around her head and another around her torso.

Poor Hossam. All that jealous lust was getting tiresome. Hossam was getting tiresome. Cara was quickly bored with her lovers, because once they got her in bed they all seemed to get possessive and territorial. Why couldn't they just be satisfied with good sex, the way she was? She didn't like hurting them because she cared for them all, just not the way they wanted. On the other hand, she wasn't going to spend her life with a man she didn't want just because she felt sorry for him.

Extricating herself from the relationship with Hossam could be tricky. She was well aware of the cultural differences; in the beginning, they had even been exciting. Now she felt stifled whenever she was with him.

What she needed, she supposed, was a nice boy toy for her to keep, someone who knew she was the boss, at least of herself. She wasn't into dominance, just independence.

The truth was, no man she had ever met, with the exception of Ronsard, was as interesting as her computers-and she was smart enough to know Ronsard wasn't the settling-down type. Not ever. She liked him, but he wasn't for her. Maybe no one was. Maybe she was going to end up one of those eccentric, world-traveling old ladies. She kinda liked the image that brought to mind.

Hossam approached and laid his hand on her arm. "You will come to my room tonight?"

"Not tonight," she said, moving away as casually as possible. "Mr. Ronsard has brought in a computer he wants me to investigate, so I'll be working all night."

"Tomorrow, then."

"You know I can't promise that when I don't know what my schedule is."

"Marry me, and you will not have to work."

"I like working," she said. "Good night." She hurried away before he could stop her again. Yes, this situation with Hossam was definitely getting tricky. Perhaps she would ask Ronsard to reassign Hossam, though she hated to do that; after all, Hossam was only being himself. He shouldn't be punished for that.

She stopped in her room to get dressed and pin up her hair. In the States she would have hurried to the office in her bathing suit, but Ronsard was very European in his dress standards. She liked that, actually. It was nice to have standards.

He was waiting for her, his long dark hair pulled back in its usual style, giving his lean face a more exotic slant. He was dressed in black trousers and a white shirt, which was as informal as he got. "Your gift," he said, nodding to the unit that now occupied her desktop.

Quickly she hooked up the machine and sat down in front of it. She turned it on and waited for it to boot.

Nothing happened. She tried it again. The screen still remained a blank blue.

"Uh-oh."

"Is something wrong?" Ronsard asked as he approached.

"It's been wiped."

"Erased?"

"Yeah. Maybe he just used a C-prompt command. If he did, there should still be some information on the hard drive."

"And if he didn't?"

"If he used a government wipe, then there's nothing left."

'A government wipe ..."

"It's just what it sounds like. If there's anything you don't want the government to see, you use a government wipe. It's in Norton Utilities-"

He held up a hand. "Details aren't necessary. How long will it take you to find out which type of erasure he used?"

"Not long."

He waited patiently while she got into the hard drive and began searching for bits of data. There was nothing. The drive was as pristine as the day it came off the assembly line.

"Nothing," she said in disgust.

Ronsard put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "That is what I expected, really."

"Then why get the computer?"

"Because I want to know Mr. Temple. If he were careless enough to leave data on the computer, then perhaps I shouldn't deal with him. As it is-" Ronsard hesitated and gave a thin smile. "I've learned that he is almost as careful as I."

'Almost."

"I'm not going to him," Ronsard said gently. "He is coming to me."

Chapter Twelve

Your name is Niema Jamieson," Medina said, handing over a passport, driver's license, and social security card.

She looked down at them in both interest and disbelief. "Niema?" she questioned.

"Your name is so unusual you'd probably slip up if you had to answer to anything else. It's always best to stay close to your real name."

"Is that so, Mr. Darrell Tucker?" she murmured.

He gave a faint smile in acknowledgment of the hit. "I've used so many names, I ran out of similars."

She opened the passport. Her photo was there, as well as several pages of stamps. According to her passport, within just the past year she had been to Great Britain twice, once to Italy, once to Switzerland, and once to Australia. Niema Jamieson was certainly well-traveled.

The driver's license looked just as authentic. She was a resident of New Hampshire, evidently. Niema Price Jamieson.

"My middle name is Price?" she asked in disbelief.

"That's your maiden name. Your family is old friends with the ambassador's wife's family."

"So I'm married?"

"Widowed." He gave her a steady, unyielding look, as if expecting her to object to a cover line so close to her own life. "Your husband, Craig, was killed in a boating accident two years ago. The ambassador's wife-her name is Eleanor, by the way-persuaded you to join them in Paris for a vacation."

She was silent. Of course so many of the details paralleled her own life; that way the story was easy to remember.

"And if Ronsard does invite me to his home and does a background check on me, he'll find. . . what?"

"He'll find that you're exactly who you say you are. He'll find society page articles mentioning you. He'll find an article on Craig Jamieson's death that mentions his grief-stricken widow, Niema. Don't worry; your cover will stand up to any scrutiny."

"But what about the ambassador and his wife? They obviously know I'm not an old family friend."

"Yes, but they're accustomed to covers. You know how many Agency personnel are in our embassies. It's standard."

"Then why won't Ronsard suspect me?"

"Because you aren't staff. Believe me, they know, or have a good idea, who is Agency and who isn't."

She took a deep breath. "When do I leave?"

He pulled a ticket folder from the inside pocket of his jacket. "Tomorrow, on the Concord."

"Cool." Her eyes lit. She had always wanted to fly on the supersonic jet. "When will you get there?"

"You won't see me until we're both at Ronsard's villa. If he doesn't invite you-" He broke off and shrugged.

"Then I won't see you again." She tried to keep her tone matter-of-fact, but inside she didn't feel that way. In just a few days he seemed to have become the central element of the excitement she felt. But she had known from the beginning how things would be, known that he would leave as abruptly as he had appeared.

"I didn't say that."

"No, but I've worked with you before, remember? When the job's finished, you disappear. And now that I know who you are, I know why."

"Niema ..." He put his hands in his pockets, looking oddly ill at ease. Medina was always in such control of himself that his expression diverted her. "I'll be back. That's all I can say now."

She was immediately intrigued, and alarmed. Did he mean he wanted to use her on another job? Part of her wanted to shout "Hell, no!" but deep inside was a yearning, a craving for more.

Common sense took the upper hand. "This is a one-time deal, Medina; don't bank on sucking me into another job. I don't get hazardous-duty pay, you know."

"Of course you do."

Taken aback, she warily eyed him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean you get a hefty bonus for this."

"Oh, great! That means anyone in payroll-"

"Nope. This is black ops, remember? Everything comes out of an off-books account. And try to call me John, instead of Medina. John's a fairly common name, but there are a lot of people in this town who would perk up their ears if they heard you call me Medina."

Reluctantly she said, "John." She preferred thinking of him and referring to him as Medina; that kept him at a certain distance, at least in her mind. She was having a difficult enough time battling her attraction to him as it was. "Back to my original statement: This is a one-time deal. It has to be."

Hands still in his pockets, he wandered over to the kitchen window and absently fingered the hook and eye latches she had installed. For the past two mornings he had been reduced to wriggling through a damn small bathroom window, and the fit was so tight he had to do some major contortions to get in. She was so pleased with those little latches that he didn't tell her he'd figured out a way to unlatch them. The average burglar wouldn't have the means of doing it, and anyone who really, really wanted to get into the house would simply break a window anyway. The ordinary citizen usually couldn't afford the safety measures that would make a house truly burglar-proof, but then the ordinary citizen didn't need to go to that effort and expense. "Don't think you can ignore me," she warned. He gave her a brief, warm smile as he turned away from the window. "I've never thought that."

Both the smile and the statement rattled her. Deciding to change the subject, she took a deep breath. "Let's get back to the plan. What happens when-if- I wrangle an invitation to Ronsard's home? What if you aren't invited for the same time?"

"I've already received an invitation. Ronsard is hosting a formal party in ten days. He does it annually, as sort of a repayment to all the people who look the other way when delicate situations arise concerning his occupation. The security is extremely tight, even tighter than normal, because of so many people in the house. He would consider the meeting with me more controlled. If Ronsard invites you to the party, accept. If he merely invites you to his house for a visit, decline. That will only whet his interest."

"What I know about whetting interest would rattle around in a peanut shell," she muttered.

He grinned. "Don't worry, Mother Nature took care of that. We men are easy. We don't require much more than that a woman be breathing, and we're interested."

She tried to take umbrage, but instead found herself laughing. "That simple, huh?"

"Compared to women, we're amoebas. Our brains only have one cell, but it's dedicated."

So said the most complicated man she'd ever met. She shook her head. "I think we need to get to work, before your one cell goes completely haywire. What's on the agenda for today?"

"Nothing," he said. "Get some rest, pack, brush up on your French. I just came by to give you your papers."

She had become so accustomed to working out with him that the prospect of a day without that challenge seemed flat. "So this is it, huh? If I don't get that invitation, I won't see you again."

He hesitated, then reached out and lightly touched her cheek with his fingertips. He started to say something and stopped. Something like regret, only more complex, flickered briefly in his blue eyes. Without a word he turned and left, letting himself out the back door, his movements so silent she wouldn't have known he was there if she hadn't been looking at him.

She stood in the kitchen, fighting the chill that raced over her at his touch. No, she wasn't cold. She was shivering, but she wasn't cold. Just that light touch of his fingertips had set her nerve endings to tingling. Holy cow. What would it be like to actually-"No," she ordered herself aloud. "Don't go there." Don't imagine what it would be like to make love with him. Men like John Medina didn't make love, they had sex; they didn't have relationships, just encounters.

Though one couldn't tell it from the way she had lived her life for the past five years, she had sometimes thought, in a vague way, of remarrying and having children. That was always in the nebulous future, and even though there hadn't been any candidates for the position of husband, still she had expected her life to eventually take that route. If she became involved with John, though, she could kiss that dream good-bye. She wouldn't be able to settle for an ordinary Joe if she ever let herself indulge in an affair with him.

He might pass himself off as a sheep to most of the world, but she knew him for the wolf he was. And she knew her own nature, knew her craving for excitement. She'd never be able to get herself back, because sleeping with John would be going one step too far. That was the ultimate kick, and nothing else would ever equal it But if she didn't let herself taste him, she would never know what she missed. She might suspect, but she wouldn't know, and she would still be capable of happiness with that ordinary Joe who had to be somewhere in her future.

What difference did it make? she wondered, pressing a fist to the pit of her stomach in an effort to squash the butterflies that were fluttering there. He was gone. If this plan didn't work, she probably wouldn't see him again. Though he'd said he would be back, she didn't quite believe him. She couldn't let herself believe him, because if she did, she might start dreaming he was coming back for her, and that was the most dangerous fantasy of all.

Niema packed in the battered Vuitton luggage that had been delivered the day before. The luggage was a nice touch, she thought; it was expensive and fit with her supposedly well-heeled background, but still looked far from new. It looked, in fact, as if it had been around the world several times. The name tags carried her fictitious name and address.

She dressed in a stylish linen and cotton blend sage green dress for travel, a simple chemise style that she topped with a lightweight cardigan. On her feet were sensible taupe flats. For all its simplicity, or perhaps because of it, the ensemble shrieked "money." Old money, at that.

The day was bright and sunny; there wouldn't be any bad weather delays. She felt jittery and couldn't tell if it was due to anticipation or dread. But she felt ready; she wanted to be in Paris right now. She wanted to meet this Louis Ronsard and see if breathing was, indeed, all she had to do to be come-hitherish. John needed her inside Ronsard's villa; he would continue on his own, but the job was less risky if he had backup. She had to get that invitation.

Uneasily she thought of a precaution John had insisted she take: birth control pills. It was standard for female operatives, he'd told her. Did he expect her to sleep with Ronsard? She knew that sex was often the route women used to get to the men they targeted, in real life as well as in espionage. Well, her devotion to the job didn't go that deep; she would not, could not, sleep with the arms dealer, no matter how good-looking he supposedly was.

The cab arrived on time, and the driver came to the door to carry her bags. As he went back down the sidewalk she looked around at her comfortable home, wondering at the weird sense of disconnection, as if she would never see it again. This wasn't much different from going on vacation. A week, two weeks at the most, and she would be home again, once more settled into the routine of work and chores. This episode wouldn't be repeated.

She carefully locked the door and set the alarm, which John had reactivated. He had definitely made her more safety conscious, though; even with the alarm, she found herself going around to every window and door and hooking the latches. She had bought a timer for the lamps and television, to give the house at least the appearance of being lived in. And John had promised that Agency people would keep an eye on the house for her, so she wasn't really worried.

The cab driver was looking impatient, so she hurried down the walk, and with every step her spirits lifted. She was finally in action again!

* * *

She was met in Paris by a uniformed chauffeur who loaded her luggage and solicitously handed her into a large Mercedes-Benz. She sank into the leather seats and closed her eyes with a sigh. Did the Concord eliminate jet lag, she wondered, or did the body automatically note the position of the sun and know something was wrong? The supersonic flight was much faster than a regular jet, but she was still as exhausted as if the flight had taken the normal length of time. All she wanted was a long bath and a quiet place to lie down.

The Marine guards at the embassy checked the car and her passport before allowing her into the embassy grounds. As the car stopped out front, a tall, slender woman in her early sixties, with striking silver-white hair, came down the steps, her hands outstretched and her face wreathed in smiles.

"Niema!" she cried. "It's so good to see you!"

This must be Ambassador Theriot's wife, Eleanor, the old family friend. The chauffeur opened the door, and Niema climbed out, going straight to Mrs. The-riot with a warm hug.

"You look exhausted," Mrs. Theriot said, patting her cheek in a motherly way. "Jet lag is terrible, isn't it? Supposedly it's worse going west-or perhaps that's east, I can never remember which it is, but it doesn't matter because I get jet lag no matter what direction I'm traveling."

Mrs. Theriot was giving her recovery time by chattering, Niema realized. She managed a smile. "I am tired, but I don't want to waste my visit lying around."

"Don't worry about that," Mrs. Theriot cooed as she led her up the steps into the embassy. "A nap will do you a world of good. There's nothing you have to do, nowhere you have to go."

From that, Niema deduced that her presence not only wasn't expected at dinner that night, but for some reason would be a definite problem. "In that case, I would love a nap."

Still smiling, still chatting as if they had known each other for years, Eleanor Theriot led Niema to an elevator. They exited on the third floor. "This is your room," she said, opening the door to a spacious bedchamber decorated in a gorgeous combination of antique and modern pieces, and in a soothing pale turquoise color with touches of peach and white. The bed was so high there was a footstool beside it, and the mattress looked thick enough for her to sink out of sight.

"There's a private bath through here," Mrs. Theriot continued, opening a white paneled door and giving Niema a glimpse of gleaming brass bathroom fixtures -or were they gold? "Your bags will be brought up, and if you'd like a maid will unpack for you."

Niema started to say that wasn't necessary, then realized that Niema Price Jamieson was probably accustomed to such help, even if Niema Burdock wasn't. "A nap first, please," she said. "My bags can be unpacked later."

"Of course, dear. I'll tell everyone you're not to be disturbed." As she talked, Mrs. Theriot walked over to the desk and scribbled a brief note, which she gave to Niema. "When you're awake, we'll have a long talk just to catch up on gossip. I simply don't have the time to call all my friends the way I used to. Just tell me Jacqueline and Sid are all right, and I'll leave you to your nap."

"Jacqueline" and "Sid" were her make-believe parents. "Mom and Dad are fine," Niema replied. "They're in Australia now, for an extended vacation."

"How I envy them! But I won't ask any more questions now. Have a nice rest, dear." She gave Niema another hug, then let herself out.

Niema looked down at the note. "Don't assume you can trust everyone who works in the embassy," Mrs. Theriot had written. "Stick to your cover at all times."

She wadded up the note and started to toss it into the wastebasket, but on second thought tore the paper into tiny pieces and flushed it. She yawned mightily; that nap was becoming more necessary by the moment.

Her luggage arrived, carried by a serious young man who called her "ma'am." Once he was gone and the bedroom door was locked, Niema pulled the curtains closed, then stripped off her clothes and took a quick shower. Fighting to keep her eyes open, she toweled dry and stumbled to the bed, not bothering with a nightgown or pajamas. Using the two-step stool, she climbed upon the bed and stretched out between the cool, fragrant sheets. She groaned in relief as her tired muscles relaxed.

When was this ball at which she was supposed to meet Ronsard? She couldn't remember. Not tonight, for certain. Tomorrow?

Was she ready? She went over the details of her cover, even repeating "Niema Jamieson" to herself over and over, to make certain she responded when someone addressed her by that name. She couldn't just pretend to be Niema Jamieson, she had to become that person. Ronsard was sharp; he would notice if she appeared not to recognize her own name.

John had been thorough in building the cover identity. The documents would stand up to any inspection and investigation. She didn't have to worry about that aspect of her cover. No, what she worried about was her own ability; John might not have doubts about her, but she did. She had never played a role before, unless it was when they were in Iran, if wearing a chador and not speaking was the same as playing a role.

She didn't, however, doubt her ability to plant a listening device in Ronsard's office. When it came to that part of the job, she was confident she could handle it.

"Let the games begin," she murmured to herself, and went to sleep.

PART THREE

>Chapter Thirteen

Paris

Louis! It is wonderful to see you. You are looking as handsome as always." The prime minister's wife beamed up her toothy smile at him as she took both his hands and planted kisses on each cheek.

Louis carried her hands to his lips and returned the salute, briefly kissing her knuckles. He was actually fond of Adeline, who was good-natured and inherently kind. Her strong features bore an unfortunate resemblance to a horse, but in the Parisian way she made the most of her best features, her eyes, and after one got to know her, one saw only her nature and didn't think of the long boniness of her face. "I would never miss the opportunity to see you, my dear."

"Flatterer." She beamed at him. "I must continue greeting the guests, but promise me you won't leave without speaking with me again. I don't see enough of you, you rogue."

He promised, an easy thing to do, then left her to the receiving line and mingled with the throng of guests crowding the ballroom and adjacent rooms. A small orchestra was discreetly installed in an alcove and partially blocked from view by a gauze curtain.

Black-clad waiters carried trays of delicate flutes half-filled with golden champagne, while others offered a dazzling array of hor d'oeuvres. Ronsard plucked a glass of champagne from one passing waiter and a delicate pastry from another. He had just taken his first sip of the rather mediocre wine-it was always mediocre at such parties-when he heard his name being called.

He turned to see his sister, Mariette, bearing down on him with her husband in tow. Eduard Cassel's expression was indulgent, as always. Mariette was a bubbly froth of a woman, as giddy and harmless as a butterfly. She was three years younger than Ronsard and he had always been protective of the pretty creature. When she married, she had chosen a man fifteen years her senior, and Eduard had taken over as her protector.

Eduard had been beneficial to Ronsard on several occasions. Positioned as he was in the Ministry, he often knew interesting little details about the government, the economy, and some high-ranking officials' personal lives, which he passed along to his brother-in-law. In return, Ronsard had set up and regularly added to a substantial trust in Mariette's name, allowing the Cassels to live in a level of comfort that far exceeded Eduard's salary.

"Louis!" Mariette flung her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. "I didn't know you would be here tonight. This is wonderful. How is Laure?"

"She is well." Louis's voice was flat, his tone pitched so his words didn't carry. He didn't discuss Laure in public. Many of his acquaintances had no idea she existed.

Mariette wrinkled her nose in apology. "Forgive me," she said contritely. "I forgot."

"Of course," he said gently and kissed her forehead as he held out his hand to her husband. "How are you, Eduard?"

"Well, thank you." Eduard was slightly heavy, balding on top, and his features could best be described as "not ugly." His expression was usually bland, disguising the shrewdness that lurked in his eyes. "And you?"

"Well." Those social niceties out of the way, Ronsard settled his arm around his sister's waist. "You look stunning. That gown is very becoming."

She beamed and smoothed a hand down the shimmery pink fabric that brought out the color in her cheeks. "You don't think it too young?"

"My dear, you are young."

"And so I tell her," Eduard said. "She grows lovelier every day." As saccharine as the compliment was, he meant it. His devotion to Mariette always weighed heavily in his favor, in Ronsard's estimation.

"Oh, there is Juliet," Mariette cried, her attention instantly diverted. "I must speak to her." She darted away, her full skirt fluttering around her as if she would take flight.

Ronsard and Eduard drifted away from the crowd, strolling casually as if they had nothing more important to do than idly chat and look for acquaintances in the throng. "I think everyone in government is here tonight," Ronsard observed. "There must be something interesting in the air."

Eduard shrugged, his heavy lips set in a benign smile. "Elections, my friend. Everyone is courting everyone else. And commerce is always interesting, is it not? The Iraqis wish to buy a very expensive, sophisticated computer system from us, but the Americans, as always, are having a tantrum at the idea. Their economy is healthy, so they can't comprehend difficulty in other countries. Our industrial leaders don't like having the Americans intrude on their business; But if we tell them to leave-" He spread his hands. "The Americans have so many lovely dollars. What does one do?"

"Whatever one must, on the surface," Ronsard said dryly. No Frenchman liked the American presence that seemed to permeate the world. France was French, and would remain so. Whatever agreements the Americans forced, they could not be everywhere and oversee everything. France agreed, then did whatever was in France's best interests. Pragmatism was the cornerstone of the French character.

"The Russians, of course, are desperate for technology. Unfortunately they have no means to pay. Perhaps the Americans will pay for them. These are interesting times, are they not?"

"Very interesting." In the past ten years, old boundaries had been completely obliterated. Politics was in a state of flux, and such an atmosphere was very favorable to his business. Instability was the greatest of motivators to a certain type of person.

"The American ambassador is here, of course," Eduard continued. "His aide is drifting around with his ears on alert."

The ambassador's aide was an employee of their Central Intelligence Agency. Everyone knew who everyone was, but still an astonishing amount of information was passed around at these functions. Intelligence officers were often conduits of information that governments wanted to dispense to other governments, but by back channels. No one, after all, wanted to precipitate a crisis.

"A family friend is visiting the ambassador and his wife. She is the daughter of one of Madame Theriot's oldest friends. A lovely young woman, if I may say so. One always sees the same faces at these things, you know; anyone new is a welcome change."

Ronsard was a man. He was always interested in a lovely young woman, provided she wasn't too young.

He had no interest in giggly adolescents. "Point her out to me," he said idly

Eduard looked around. "There," he finally said. "By the windows. Brunette, dressed in white. She has the loveliest eyes."

Ronsard located the woman in question. She was not, he saw, an adolescent. She was standing beside Madame Theriot, a smile that managed to be both polite and warm on her face as she tilted her head, listening to a minister of finance who was probably expounding on his favorite subject, horse racing.

Ronsard exhaled in appreciation. Eduard had not exaggerated; she was indeed lovely. Not beautiful, not spectacular, but. . . lovely. She wasn't dressed in a manner calculated to draw attention, but somehow she did. Perhaps it was the quiet dignity of her manner, coupled with those stunning eyes. Even from there, Ronsard could appreciate Eduard's comment about her eyes. They were huge and night-dark, the type of eyes a man could look into and forget what he was saying.

Her gown was a simple, unadorned white, relying on its exquisite cut for its charm. Her complexion was pale, so pale he wouldn't have thought she could wear white without looking washed-out, but instead the color seemed to accentuate the faintest of pink flushes that made one think one could see the warmth of her blood under that delicate skin.

She was slender without being thin, as so many fashionable women were these days. The gown skimmed over nicely rounded hips, and her bosom, though not large, was enticingly shaped. She wore a single, gracefully long strand of pearls, which matched the bracelet on her right wrist and the earrings on her lobes. She turned as he watched, and the strand of pearls swung sideways to curl under and frame her left breast.

Unconsciously she touched the strand, restoring it to is previous graceful drape, but the brief image made Ronsard's loins pleasurably tighten.

"Is she married?" The French were sophisticated about such matters, but Americans remained, for the most part, annoyingly prudish.

"Widowed," Eduard supplied.

The orchestra at that moment began playing a gently stirring movement from Beethoven, as the dancing had not yet begun. As Ronsard watched, the lovely widow's head turned toward the orchestra, her expression arrested as she listened to the music. She became very still, and her eyes seemed to fill with an aching sadness. She turned to the ministry employee and said a few words, then inclined her head to Madame Theriot and seemed to whisper something. Madame Theriot looked sympathetic and touched the young woman on the arm. Then the young woman slipped out the open patio doors into the night.

Ronsard had no idea how long she had been widowed, but obviously the music had just brought a painful memory to mind. Sad young women, in his opinion, should always be comforted. "Pardon me," he murmured to Eduard and strode across the ballroom floor.

It was a tedious passage; everyone wanted to speak to him. Women called his name and gave him slumbrous smiles. He shook hands, kissed cheeks, and made graceful escapes while he kept his eye on the patio doors. The minister of finance to whom she had been speaking seemed to dither, but finally found the courage to approach the doors. By that time Ronsard was there, and he deftly stepped in front of the man. "Your solicitude is much appreciated," he murmured, "but won't be necessary."

"Ah ..." The man blinked at him as Ronsard's identity registered. "Yes, of course."

Ronsard went outside into the warm Paris night. The flagstoned patio was lit only by indirect light, from the windows behind him and by the lights strung in the ornamental trees in the garden. Small tables and chairs had been scattered about the patio, providing guests with an opportunity to take fresh air and escape the noise of the ballroom.

The widow sat at one of those tables, her hands quiet in her lap as she looked out over the garden. She hadn't wept, Ronsard saw when he drew near, his footsteps slow and purposeful. She had kept her composure, though he thought he detected a sheen of tears in her eyes, and her mouth had that soft, sad curve that made him want to kiss a smile onto it. A mouth that delectable should always smile.

"Hello," he said gently in English, and the slight start she gave told him that she hadn't been aware of his approach. "Forgive me, I didn't intend to startle you."

She turned those big dark eyes on him, and again he felt that surge in his loins. She looked so sad, so alone and vulnerable. Even as he watched she gathered herself and sought refuge in the social face she had probably been taught to assume from the time she was out of the cradle.

"That's perfectly all right," she said, beginning to stand. Her voice was low and feminine, without the annoying nasal tones of so many Americans. "I was just about to return to the party-"

"No, don't let me displace you," he said quickly, reaching out to gently touch her arm. He was always gentle in his dealings with women, and so many of them were endearingly susceptible to that tenderness, as if they didn't get enough of it in their lives. The widow, however, looked mildly shocked that he had touched her, and she drew back just a little.

"I saw you come out and thought you looked ...upset" He had to be cautious here and ease her wariness.

For a moment she didn't say anything. She turned her head to look out into the garden, and he admired the graceful line of her neck, the curve of her cheekbone. Then she said, "The music reminded me of another time."

That was all. There were no forthcoming details, no expounding. He sensed her reluctance to give him any personal information. He was accustomed to women responding to him, trying to hold his attention; this woman's very lack of response was intriguing.

"My name is Louis Ronsard," he said, settling into the chair beside her.

"I'm pleased to meet you," she said politely. "I'm Niema Jamieson."

"Niema." He said the name slowly, tasting the sound of it. "What a lovely, unusual name."

She gave a small, quick smile. "Too unusual, sometimes. People seldom know how to pronounce it if they see it spelled out-they usually pronounce it 'Neema' instead of 'Nye-ema,' and if they hear it they don't know how to spell it. When I was a child I often wished my mother had named me Jane, or Susan, or anything straightforward." "Is it a family name?"

"Nothing so dignified," she said, and the smile became a chuckle. He was delighted by the transformation of her face, from sadness to humor. "She liked the rhythm of the name Naomi, but not the name itself. So she substituted vowels until she found a combination she liked, and"-she spread her hands- "Niema was invented."

"I think it's lovely."

"Thank you. I've become accustomed to it." She glanced over her shoulder into the ballroom. "It's been nice talking to you. I think I should-"

"Of course," he said, getting to his feet. "You don't know me, and you're uncomfortable being alone with me." He paused a beat to give her an opportunity to demur, but she didn't, and he was amused. "Will you reserve a dance for me, Mademoiselle Jamieson?" He purposefully called her mademoiselle, to give her an opening to tell him she was widowed.

"Madame," she corrected, and he was pleasantly surprised by her accent. He was less pleased when she left it at that, withholding the fact of her widowhood; a woman who was interested would have made her marital status clear.

His own interest increased. Ronsard seldom had the opportunity these days to enjoy the chase. Women were all too willing, which was a nice state of affairs, but sometimes a man wished to be the predator.

His question hung in the air between them. Finally she said, "Yes, of course," but her tone held only politeness, not any eagerness for his company.

He was both piqued and amused. Perhaps he had become spoiled, but he knew he wasn't repulsive. Far from it, in fact. This woman, though, seemed totally unaware of him as a man.

Politely he offered his arm, and she laid a graceful hand on it. Her touch was barely perceptible; she didn't cling, didn't actually hold him. Together they walked back into the ballroom, drawing more than one pair of eyes. Ronsard saw Madame Theriot frown and whisper something to her husband. So, she wasn't pleased that her young friend had become acquainted with the notorious arms dealer?

Ronsard smiled at Madame Theriot, then turned to his prey and made her a small, graceful bow. Something in his manner must have alerted her, because her eyes suddenly widened and her soft lips parted. Before she could pull away he pressed his lips to her hand, a brief salute that he didn't allow to linger, and caressed her with his eyes. "Until later," he murmured.

Chapter Fourteen

Niema took a deep breath as she walked across the ballroom. A major hurdle had been crossed, and so swiftly, so easily, she was astounded. The plan had been for Eleanor to introduce her to people who had spoken with Ronsard, but not to the arms dealer himself. Eventually their paths would have crossed, but it would have looked odd for Eleanor to be the one who made the introductions, as she naturally would not have liked for her best friend's daughter to associate with someone like Ronsard.

None of that had been necessary. Out of the corner of her eye, she had seen him speaking with someone she had already met-his name escaped her- and both of them had been watching her. At that moment the orchestra had begun playing a particularly lovely piece of music and inspiration struck.

She allowed sadness to play across her features for a moment, then excused herself to the gentleman who was something boring in the French government. She leaned over and whispered to Eleanor, "He's watching. I'm going to slip out onto the patio."

Eleanor, whose acting skills were worthy of Hollywood, immediately saw the opportunity and what Niema was doing. She put on a concerned face and touched Niema on the arm-nothing dramatic, but a touch of sympathy that wouldn't go unnoticed.

Then Niema had simply sat on the patio and waited. Within five minutes, Ronsard joined her.

He was remarkably good looking. The photos she'd seen of him didn't compare to the man in the flesh. He was tall, with dark blue eyes set on a slant above his exotic cheekbones, and he wore his long dark hair loose on his broad shoulders. The hint of savage in an elegant tuxedo was a devastating combination.

His voice was smooth and low, his manners impeccable, and his eyes managed to convey both his interest and his concern over her sadness. A romantic, handsome Frenchman at a formal party was enough to give any woman weak knees.

As soon as she reached Eleanor, the older woman gripped her wrist and leaned over to whisper in Niema's ear, all the while frowning at Ronsard, as if she were informing Niema of his reputation. "Mission accomplished?"

Niema put a startled look on her face, then an alarmed one. She darted a quick glance at Ronsard. Yes, he was watching. She quickly looked away. "He asked for a dance," she murmured.

Eleanor, who knew only the basic story and that Niema was to draw Ronsard's attention, turned away with a practiced smile as the prime minister's wife approached, and Niema's attention was claimed by a young staffer from the embassy who was from New Hampshire and was evidently suffering from homesickness. Since Niema had never been to the state, she hoped he didn't start asking specific questions.

The only formal party she had ever been to in her life was her high school prom. This was far out of her league, but to her surprise she felt comfortable. The clothes were better, the food more exotic, the people more serious and aware of their own importance, but all in all the same dynamics applied: polite chitchat, polite laughter, the constant mingling. The politicians worked the room while the lobbyists worked the politicians. Everyone wanted something from someone else.

Her French had rapidly returned, once she heard it spoken again, but then French had been her best language. Ronsard had spoken in English, however, so that was how she had answered him. She doubted he was a man who ever let anything slip, but if he thought she didn't understand him he might be a little careless in what he said. It wasn't her intention to hide the fact that she spoke the language, though, as that was too easy to give away, and he would immediately be suspicious.

She had to avoid any appearance of being interested in him. Quite the opposite, in fact. He had to make all the moves, so he couldn't suspect her of maneuvering for an invitation to his villa. But at the same time she had to show she liked him, or she wouldn't have a reason for accepting.

In her favor was the fact that other women fawned over him. She would stand out in his mind because of her very lack of response. Men liked a challenge, and she was going to give him one.

The dancing started, and she let herself be steered around the floor by the first person who asked, who happened to be the boring gentleman she had been talking to earlier. He pumped her arm as if he expected her to spout water out of her mouth, and all the while he enthused about thoroughbred racing. She smiled and made an occasional comment, and he was happy.

Next the ambassador claimed a dance. He was a stately gentleman with silver hair and a sweet smile, a little shorter than his wife, but with a smooth tact that made her instantly comfortable. He spoke to her as if she were indeed an old friend of the family, chatting on about friends they supposedly had in common, a vacation their families had once spent together when she was a child. She wondered if one of the qualifications to an ambassadorship was to be a consummate liar, because he excelled.

After the dance with the ambassador ended, she excused herself and went to the ladies' room, where she killed as much time as she could. She didn't immediately return to the ballroom, but mingled in the other rooms, speaking to those people to whom she had already been introduced. If Ronsard really wanted to dance with her, he was going to have to find her.

He did. A warm hand closed around her elbow and he said, "You promised me a dance."

Niema hesitated. A small silence fell around them. Everyone knew who he was, of course, and waited to see if she would snub him. She saw his eyes begin to narrow, and into the silence she said, "Are you certain you want to risk your toes?"

Relieved chuckles rippled around them. His face relaxed, and a slight smile curved his lips. "My toes would be honored." He held out his hand, indicating the direction of the ballroom.

She walked calmly by his side, ignoring the hand that settled on the small of her back. The orchestra was just beginning a number slower than the others had been, and she realized that he had waited and chosen his moment-either that or bribed the orchestra.

"I thought you were going to refuse me," he said in a low voice as his arm closed about her waist and he swept her into a gliding circle. He held her closely enough that she could feel the warmth of his body, the movement of his legs against hers, but not so close that she would be alarmed and pull back.

"I was."

One dark eyebrow arched, his expression sardonic. "Why didn't you?"

"A dance won't hurt me," she said calmly.

"Neither will I." He looked down into her face, his tone gentle. "I assume Madame Theriot warned you against me."

"Understandable, don't you think?"

"Understandable, but unnecessary. I mean you no harm."

She didn't respond to that, her expression serene as he swept her around the floor. He danced with a grace that made the exercise effortless, and she thanked God that her parents had insisted she take dance lessons in high school even though she would much rather have learned how to hang glide; at least she wouldn't embarrass herself. A socialite would know how to dance, after all.

When she made no effort to pick up the conversational ball, he asked, "Are you just visiting, or have you been employed at the embassy?"

"Gracious, no!" She looked amused. "Visiting, only."

"For how long?"

"No definite time. A few weeks."

"That isn't much time," he complained softly, looking down at her with such apparent masculine interest that a woman would have to be blind to miss it.

"Monsieur Ronsard-"

"Please don't be alarmed. "You're a lovely woman, and I would like very much to see you while you're in Paris. That is all."

"There's no point in it." She looked away, staring at a point over his shoulder. She made her tone gentle and faintly sad.

He firmed the guiding touch of his hand on her back, pressing his palm against her. Her gown was fairly low cut in back, and his fingers brushed her bare skin. "There is always a point to pleasure."

"I don't seem to be very good at pleasure these days."

"Then you must learn how to enjoy yourself again."

Her lips trembled, and a look of pain haunted her eyes. He saw it, as she had meant for him to. "Forgive my clumsiness," he murmured, dipping his head so his mouth was close to her temple. "I never intended to distress you."

She firmed her lips and lifted her chin. "The orchestra is very good, isn't it? I love this piece."

He allowed her to steer the conversation into mundane waters, but she felt his unswerving gaze on her face the entire time. Louis Ronsard was definitely a man on the hunt. So far, she thought, she had done a credible job of appearing reluctant without insulting him.

The dance ended, she thanked him for it, and turned to leave. He fell into step beside her. "Have you been to Paris before?"

"Yes, of course."

"Ah. I had hoped to show you the city."

"Monsieur..." She hesitated, as if groping for words. "Forgive me if I sound presumptuous, but I'm not interested in any sort of romance. Even if your occupation wasn't a barrier I wouldn't-"

"Forgive me," he interrupted, "if I've made you in any way uncomfortable. I would like to spend time with you, yes. I would like to make you smile again, as you did out on the patio. A lovely lady should not have such sad eyes. And even if you say that, no, I may not kiss you, or delight myself in other ways, I would still like to take you out to dinner."

For a moment Niema was so diverted and charmed by the phrase "delight myself" that she couldn't stop herself from smiling.

'Aha! I have achieved one goal already." He touched one finger to the corner of her smiling lips, "Your smile is as lovely as I remembered. Please say yes to dinner. My reputation is greatly exaggerated, I promise."

She searched his face, as if looking for the truth. Finally she said, a bit hesitantly, "I haven't dated since my husband-" She broke off and looked away.

"I understand you're a widow," he said. "Yes, I asked about you. I'm sorry for your loss. It has been . .. how long?"

Five. The word echoed in her brain, and this time the sadness that flashed across her face wasn't an act. Five long years. "Two years," she managed to say, her voice constricted. "Most people think that's long enough to grieve, but... it isn't."

His expression was somber. "I think the heart has its own calendar. You mustn't let anyone rush you, including me. I give you my word I would attach no expectations to a dinner together. It would just be a meal in pleasant company, no more. Or perhaps you would prefer lunch?"

She let herself waver, then said softly, "Yes, lunch sounds ..."

"Safer?" he suggested.

"More casual. Less like a date."

He chuckled. "I see. Then, Madame Jamieson, will you not go out to dinner with me? Let's just have lunch instead."

She smiled up at him. "That sounds very nice."

As soon as he was back in his town house, Ronsard placed a secure call to the villa. Cara answered immediately, though it was late, after one A.M.

"Consult that computer of yours," he said. "I want to know whatever you can find out about Niema Jamieson, from New Hampshire. She's a widow, a friend of the American ambassador, and she's visiting them now."

"How do you spell her name?"

Ronsard hesitated, then remembered what she had said about her mother modeling the name on 'Naomi.' "N-i-e-m-a," he said. "Late twenties, early thirties. Dark hair and eyes."

"Got it. When do you want this?"

"In the morning."

"I'll get right on it."

Ronsard hung up and paced slowly around his luxurious bedroom. It had been a long time since he had been so intrigued by a woman, but that didn't mean he was careless. If Niema Jamieson wasn't what she seemed, he'd know it soon enough. And if she was, then he looked forward to a pleasant chase and seduction. Most women could be had, eventually, and he doubted she would be any different.

He had forgotten how pleasurable it was to be the pursuer, to feel that triumphant thrill when she agreed to meet him for lunch. He laughed at himself; such a small victory, but he felt like a conqueror. He would put a satisfied smile on the widow's face yet.

She had been faithful to her husband's memory for two years. Such steadfastness was rare in his world. He found he respected her for that and envied her the love she must have known. Such a love had eluded him; he loved Mariette, of course, and Laure was his heart, but a sweeping, romantic love ... no, he hadn't known one. Passion, yes. Lust. Possession. But not love. He suspected he never would love anyone in such a manner, that he wasn't capable of that depth of emotion. Or perhaps he was simply too wary, too guarded, with too much at stake to let himself become vulnerable.