All The Queen's Men

Not even for a woman like Niema Jamieson.

Chapter Fifteen

The telephone beside her bed rang at six A.M., jerking Niema out of a sound sleep. She rolled over and groped for the receiver. "Hello." She sounded as groggy as she felt.

She heard a stifled chuckle. "You certainly sound alert."

John. The sound of his voice did funny things to the pit of her stomach. She settled herself deeper into the pillow. "We social butterflies need our sleep."

"Has the fluttering attracted any attention?"

"It certainly has." She yawned. "Within minutes."

"Told you. We're amoebas."

"I hope this line is secure," she said in sudden alarm.

"If it isn't, then the Company isn't doing its job.

All lines into the embassy are secure, and I'm on a secure phone. Tell me everything about last night."

How did he know she'd met Ronsard last night? she wondered in annoyance. "Are you keeping tabs on me? How? Where are you?"

"Of course I'm keeping tabs on you," he said calmly. "You didn't think I'd bring you into this and just leave you on your own, did you? I'm nearby, for the moment."

And that was all he intended to tell her, she realized. Still, it was enough. Until she heard his voice, she hadn't realized how much she had missed him, missed the constant challenge of his presence. If he was nearby, that meant she had to be on her toes, because he could pop up at any second. She didn't want to step out of the shower, stark naked, and come face to face with him. On the other hand . . .

Whoa. She backed away from that thought without finishing it. Instead she began a recital of the previous night's events. "He followed me onto the patio and introduced himself and asked for a dance later. When we danced, he asked me out to dinner. I refused. We're having lunch today at one, at Le Cafe Marly. Do you know where that is?"

"It's in the Richelieu wing of the Louvre. It's where you go to see and be seen."

"And here I thought having lunch with him would be more discreet than dinner."

"Not at Cafe Marly. Why are you trying to be discreet?"

"If I'm this fine upstanding citizen and an old family friend of the ambassador's wife, it would seem more reasonable to at least worry about seeing an arms dealer."

"Ronsard is seen by every influential person in Paris," John said dryly.

"Yes, but I'm different." She said that with an airiness that had him chuckling.

"When will you give in and have dinner with him? With enough time, I can arrange to have some of our people placed around you, the table wired, things like that."

"I don't think I will. I'll have lunch with him, but other than that I don't want to encourage him too much."

"Just make certain you encourage him enough to be invited to his estate."

"I'll be friends with him, but that's all."

A pause stretched over the line. "If you're trying to tell me you won't sleep with him, I never intended for you to," he finally said, his tone flattening out.

"That's good to hear, because sex was never an option. Even though I did go on those damn birth control pills the way you ordered."

Silence again. "The pills weren't in case you wanted to have an affair; they're in case something goes wrong."

She understood, then. If anything went awry and she was captured, she could be raped. "Got it," she said softly The issue of birth control pills hadn't arisen on the job in Iran, because she had been taking the pills anyway. She and Dallas had wanted to wait a year or so, maybe longer, before starting a family.

"I'll be in touch," he said, and hung up.

Slowly she replaced the receiver and snuggled back in bed, but any chance of sleep was gone. Her brain felt alert, racing along the way it always did when she talked with John. What she needed was a good, long run. The more she thought about it, the better the plan sounded. She would ask Eleanor where the best place to jog was. She hopped out of bed and began digging out her sweats, which she had packed for a just-in-case occasion.

Not only did Eleanor know, she arranged for one of the off-duty Marines who was a dedicated jogger to run with her. Niema and the serious young man with the sidewall haircut raced side by side until they were both dripping with sweat. By the time they returned to the embassy, she had teased him out of his stiffness and he had spilled out his life story to her, as well as the details of his wedding, which would take place during his next long leave.

Feeling both energized and relaxed by the run, she showered and ate a light breakfast, then decided to get in a bit of shopping before meeting Ronsard for lunch. Eleanor gave her a list of interesting shops, and Niema ventured out into the French capital.

When the taxi let her out at Cafe Marly's terrace on Cour Napoleon at two minutes 'til one, she was carrying a large shopping bag. She looked at the cafe and for a moment a strong yearning swept over her. She would like to be meeting John for lunch in a place like this-No, she told herself sternly, cutting off the thought. She couldn't let herself lose focus on the job. She had to concentrate, not think about what John was or wasn't doing, and what it would be like to have lunch dates with him, and dinner dates-"I'm doing it again," she muttered.

Pushing all thoughts of him out of her mind, she entered the cafe and was immediately greeted. All she had to say was "Monsieur Ronsard" and she was whisked away to a table.

Ronsard was already there, smiling as he rose to his feet. He took her hand and briefly kissed it, then seated her in the chair beside him, rather than in the one across the table. "You're even lovelier today than you were last night."

"Thank you." She was wearing a classic red sheath with a single-strand pearl necklace. If he had a discerning eye, and he seemed to, he would recognize the style and quality of Chanel. She looked around, intrigued by the cafe. Glass walls were all that separated the cafe from the stunning works of art in the Louvre.

"You're glowing. Boosting a nation's economy must agree with you." He nodded meaningfully at the shopping bag.

"A woman can never have too many pairs of shoes."

"Really? How many do you have?"

"Not enough," she said firmly, and he laughed.

Today his hair was gathered at the back of his neck with a simple, round gold clasp. But even though he was dressed in trousers and a linen jacket instead of a tuxedo, and his hair was confined, every woman in the cafe seemed to be staring at him just as they had at the ball last night. He had a natural, exotic flamboyance that drew the eye.

Evil should show on the face, she thought. It should twist and mar the features, give some indication of its presence within a person. But if Ronsard was evil, she hadn't seen any sign of it yet. So far he had been unfailingly polite and charming, with a tenderness to his manner that didn't seem at all feigned.

"So," he said, leaning back, perfectly at ease. "Tell me: Did Madame Theriot warn you about me again?"

"Of course. Eleanor cares about me."

"She thinks I'm a danger to you?"

"She thinks you're an unsavory character."

Taken by surprise by her candor, he blinked, then laughed aloud. "Then why are you here? Do you have a yearning for danger, or do you think you can rescue me from my wicked ways?"

"Neither." She regarded him with somber, dark eyes. "I think you may be a very nice man, but I can't rescue you from anything. And you're no danger to me at all."

"I think I'm insulted," he murmured. "I would like to be a danger to you, in one particular way. You must have loved him very, very much."

"More than I can say."

"What was he like?"

A smile broke across her face. "He was . .. oh, in some ways he was extraordinary, and in others he was like most men. He made faces when he shaved; he left his clothes on the floor when he took them off. He sailed, he flew his own plane, he took CPR courses and regularly donated blood, he voted in every election. We laughed and argued and made plans, like most couples."

"He was a lucky man, to be loved so completely."

"I was the lucky one. And you? Have you been married?"

"No, I haven't been so fortunate." He shrugged. "Perhaps one day." But it was obvious from his tone he thought marrying was as likely as the sun rising in the west.

"I don't think your wicked reputation scares off many women," she teased. "Every female in here has been staring at you."

He didn't even glance around, as most men would have done, to see if that were true. "If I'm alone, it's because I choose to be. I was thinking last night that I'd never felt anything like what you obviously felt- still feel-for your husband. Part of me thinks it would be pleasant to love someone that much, but a part of me is very grateful that I don't. But why am I saying this?" he asked ruefully. "Telling you I don't think I'll ever love you is not a good way to convince you to have an affair with me."

Niema laughed. "Relax," she advised, patting him on the hand. "An affair wasn't on the books anyway."

He gave her a crooked smile. "But I would very much like for it to be."

She shook her head, amusement still on her face. "It can't be. All I can offer is friendship."

"In that case, I would be honored to be your friend. And I'll keep hoping," he said, his eyes twinkling.

Later that afternoon, Ronsard picked up the sheaf of papers Cara had faxed to him. He had quickly read through them when they arrived, but now he studied them more closely. There was nothing suspicious about Niema Jamieson. She was from New Hampshire, had attended an exclusive women's college, married at the age of twenty-four, and was widowed at twenty-eight. Her husband had been killed in a yachting accident. They had been mentioned a few times in society columns, usually with a descriptive tag such as "devoted couple." She was exactly what she seemed to be, a rarity in his world.

He liked her. She could be surprisingly blunt, but without malice. In a way, he even liked that she wasn't romantically interested in him. He still wanted to take her to bed, but there was no pressure from her, no expectations to be met. She had simply had lunch with him, and that was that. Afterward she had taken a taxi back to the embassy, without hinting for another invitation-which, of course, made him even more determined to see her again. He had asked her out to dinner again, only to be gently refused. He persisted until she at least agreed to another lunch.

The telephone rang, his private line, and he absently answered it. "Ronsard."

It was Cara. "Ernst Morrell has been in contact." Ronsard's lips thinned. He neither liked nor trusted Morrell. Though by the nature of his business he dealt on a daily basis with fanatics, madmen, or plain murderers, Morrell was probably the most vicious. He was the head of a small but particularly virulent terrorist organization and had a particular fondness for bombs. He had set explosives in a hospital in Germany, killing six patients in retaliation for Germany's cooperation with the United States on a military action against Iraq.

"What does he want?" "He's heard about RDX-a. He wants it." Ronsard swore a lurid phrase. First Temple, and now Morrell. But Temple was one thing, and Morrell something else entirely; though he had expected information about RDX-a to leak, he hadn't expected it to happen quite so fast. He and the manufacturer had an agreement; he would be the lone conduit of the compound. Such exclusivity would be enormously profitable to both of them, at least until someone else was able to duplicate the compound. He had not told anyone, because the explosive still wasn't perfected; it would be much more in demand if it were reliable, rather than having an unfortunate reputation for early detonation. That meant the manufacturer was logically responsible for, as the Americans would say, everyone and his brother knowing about RDX-a.

But it seemed as if his partners had decided to sacrifice large future riches for immediate gain. He sighed. To hell with them. He would collect his percentage and issue a warning to the buyers that the compound wasn't yet reliable. He had to protect his business on that end, since the source had proven so short-sighted.

"When does he want it?" he asked in resignation, rubbing a sudden ache between his eyes.

"He didn't say. He wants to talk to you."

"Did he leave a number?"

"Yes, and he said you could reach him there only for another forty-five minutes."

That was common, at least among the more efficient organizations: They moved frequently and had only short windows of time during which they could be contacted. Such tactics greatly reduced their chances of being located.

Ronsard jotted down the number Cara recited, and as soon as their call was disconnected he began dialing. It was a London number, he saw. The rings brrrd in his ear, then stopped as the receiver was lifted. "Bakery." The one word was heavily accented.

Ronsard said only one word, his name. There was thirty seconds of silence, then a different voice said heartily, "You are prompt, my friend." Morrell was a stocky, barrel-chested man, but his voice was incongruously light. He always spoke as if he were throwing the words from his mouth, trying to counteract the lightness of his voice by sheer velocity.

He was not, and never would be, Morrell's friend. "You have an order, I believe."

"I hear such interesting rumors about a new recipe! I have use for one thousand kilograms."

A thousand kilograms! Ronsard's eyebrows arched. That was enough explosive to destroy London, not that Morrell would use it only in one place. No, he would wreak destruction all over the industrialized world, or perhaps sell some of it himself. "Such an amount will be very, very expensive."

"Some things are worth their cost."

"Did the rumors tell you that the recipe has not been perfected?"

"Not perfected, how?"

"The results are unreliable. Unstable."

'Ah." There was silence as Morrell processed this. No sane person wanted to work with an explosive that might go off during transport, but then, Ronsard thought with grim humor, sanity was not required with these people.

"What brings about these unfortunate results?"

"Rough handling. Being dropped, for instance."

Another "Ah." If one used RDX-a on an airplane, then it would have to be in a carry-on bag so one could control the motion-a suicide mission. Or one could always use an unsuspecting courier, as on Delta Flight 183.

"One must accept these risks," Morrell finally said, meaning that he himself would not be handling the explosive.

"There is one other problem."

"So many problems!" Now Morrell sounded petulant, as if a favorite toy had been broken.

"The recipe must be used within a certain amount of time or it will . . . perform unexpectedly. Timing must be precise."

"So I have heard, my friend, so I have heard! It is a most interesting recipe."

"A thousand kilograms is a considerable amount to be handled."

"But an organized person can handle such a task. When will the shipment be ready?"

From that statement, Ronsard deduced Morrell already had his targets selected, and that they would be hit almost simultaneously. He did not, however, have enough people in his organization to do it all himself. Different organizations occasionally cooperated with each other, especially if they had mutual enemies.

To Morrell he said, "I'm not certain. That's such a large amount; the manufacturer perhaps doesn't have that much available." In fact, Ronsard was certain of it.

"It is worth a great deal of money to me to have this recipe within two weeks."

"I'll give the manufacturer your order."

"Good, very good! I will call again tomorrow."

Ronsard hung up. He was extremely irritated; by precipitously putting RDX-a on the market, the manufacturer had increased not just their risk, but his. Such risk would have to be compensated, of course. Highly compensated.

Then he had an amusing thought. Production was, he knew, still very limited. An order of a thousand kilograms would be difficult to fill, and he didn't yet know how much of the compound Temple would want. Perhaps he should simply let Temple and Morrell settle between them who got the RDX-a. A showdown, as they said in the Westerns. Yes, that would definitely be amusing.

Chapter Sixteen

I'm having a house party in three days," Ronsard said to Niema several days later as they strolled in a small, quiet park. "At my home in the Rhone-Alpes region, south of Lyon. The countryside is beautiful, and my home is comfortable. I would like very much for you to attend the party."

She was silent, her head dipped as she walked along beside him. The canopy of trees shaded them from the warm summer sun, and birds sang overhead. They were not the only people enjoying the little park. Young mothers and nannies supervised shrieking children of all ages as they dashed about, skipping and jumping, rolling in the grass. Joggers pounded up and down the paths, singly and in pairs. Lovers walked hand in hand, sometimes stopping to kiss. Older people occupied the benches, some of them playing board games, some of them just watching the activity that surrounded them. The sweet perfume of flowers lay on the warm air like the touch of a lover.

"You aren't saying anything," he observed after a moment. "Are you worried about Madame Theriot's disapproval?"

"That, and though you say you expect only friendship, somehow I don't think you've given up hope that. . . well, that I'll change my mind."

"Of course I hope," he said matter-of-factly. "I am a man-a Frenchman. I would like very much to sleep with you. But it's also nice just being with you. You don't want favors from me, and you don't want my money. Do you realize how few people like you I have in my life?"

"Your life is what you've made it." She glanced up at him. "I refuse to feel sorry for you."

Smiling, he caught her hand and swung it between them. "There, that is what I mean. You say what you think."

"Not always," Niema said. "I'm too polite for that."

The smile became a chuckle. "Are you insulting me?"

"Of course. You know what I think of your ... profession."

Something closed in his eyes, some expression that was shuttered before she could read it. "We all do what we must."

"Not everyone. Some people do what they can."

"And there is a difference between 'must' and 'can'?"

"There seems to be. People say they do what they must when what they've done has hurt someone. People who do what they can are usually helping."

"A matter of semantics." He shrugged. "But perhaps you're right. I made a choice, when I was a young man, and now I mustn't whine. Perhaps I had other options, but at the time, at that age, I didn't see them. Given the same circumstances, I would make the same choice again."

There was no regret in his voice, only a pragmatic acceptance of who and what he was. He didn't despair over the mistakes he had made; there was no angst, no wrestling with his conscience. He had set his feet on a certain path and never looked back.

She wanted to ask him why he had made the choice he had, but the answer seemed fairly obvious: money. He had needed money, and that was the means he had chosen to get it. The "why" didn't matter; by his own free will, he had put himself across the line that divided legal from illegal. She couldn't help liking him, but at the same time she had no qualms about presenting herself to him under false pretenses. Ronsard was an adversary, however friendly and charming he might be.

"My profession aside, I still want an answer to my invitation."

"A house party." That was exactly the function to which John had wanted her to get invited, but there was no enthusiasm in her voice. "How large a party?"

That question had him smiling again. "Are you wondering if it would be a party of two, which I would much prefer? I believe there are about a hundred people invited."

"Then your house must be more than just 'comfortable,' " she said dryly.

"Perhaps that was an understatement. But there are separate guest quarters that house half that number, so not everyone is staying under the same roof."

"That is still a large roof."

"Yes, it is. Don't hold my roof against me, please."

She laughed. "I'm sure it's a very nice roof. Would you mind if I ask who the other guests are?"

His eyes gleamed. "You wouldn't ask unless you were considering accepting," he said with satisfaction. "You met many of the same guests at the prime minister's ball that you'll meet at my home."

Many, but not all. Undoubtedly some of his guests were the sort who wouldn't be invited to government functions. It was a cynical world, when the lawmakers and the lawbreakers mingled together behind the scenes. John would be there, as one of the latter group. She wondered if he would be surprised at any of the other guests, then dismissed the idea. No, he wouldn't be surprised. He probably knew of them all.

"Please say yes," he cajoled. "I won't be in Paris much longer, and your visit may end before I return."

"Yes," she said, and sighed. "I'll probably go home afterward. It would be awkward for me to visit you, then come back to the embassy. I don't want to do anything that would damage Albert's career."

He was silent as they walked along. Perhaps he didn't like being told associating with him had repercussions for others, but she wasn't going to sugarcoat anything for him. She had a job to do, and so far her instincts had been on target; so many people sucked up to him, and he was pursued by so many women that the very fact she didn't made her memorable to him.

"So I won't see you again after you leave the house party," he finally said. He gave her a wry smile. "I don't think we normally travel in the same circles."

"No," she said. "We don't."

"Then it's all the more important for you to come. There's someone I'd like for you to meet."

"I got the invitation," she told John the next morning when he called.

"Good. When are you going?"

"Day after tomorrow."

"I won't be there until the next day. There's a fancy-dress party that night, and I'll probably schedule my arrival during the party."

"How do you know the schedule? And why in the middle of the party?"

"Everyone's attention will be splintered, including Ronsard's. It's just a small advantage for me, but every detail matters. We don't know his security arrangements, the floor plan, or his schedule, so we'll have to play that part by ear. Don't forget, I'll be smitten by you the first time I see you, so we'll have an excuse to be together."

"I'm turning into a love goddess," she muttered. "Men are being smitten left and right."

He laughed quietly. "Maybe you've found your niche in life."

"Smiting men?"

"I think you could get to like it."

"That depends on what I'm smiting them with."

"See you in three days, Mata."

Ronsard left that day for his villa, so she didn't have lunch with him for the first time since they had met. Glad of the downtime, she spent a good portion of the day assembling the things she would need once she got to Ronsard's house. The CIA station chief in the embassy was of great help in procuring the tiny transmitters, batteries, and wiring she needed. If he asked any questions, he didn't ask them of her. She knew he had to have cleared everything with Langley for him to be as cooperative as he was.

The station chief didn't know anything about the job she was doing, just that he was to get whatever she needed; the Paris-based CIA contingent didn't even know she had been meeting Ronsard, unless one of the case officers had taken it on himself to follow her one day, but she couldn't think why they would. So far as any of them had known until now, she had simply been a friend, visiting the ambassador and his wife.

Lyon was about three hundred kilometers from Paris, farther than she wanted to drive, so she booked a flight and called the number Ronsard had given her to arrange to be picked up at the airport.

She was eager to arrive, to look around and see what she had to deal with, so she could make concrete plans and decisions. Being a socialite, even a subdued one, wasn't her cup of tea. She wanted to do something besides shop and have lunch and attend parties.

The weather was beautiful the day she flew down to Lyon, the flight smooth. She was met at the airport by a man in a stylish gray suit, his blond hair cut military short and his eyes hidden by sunglasses. He didn't speak other than when it was necessary, but he was efficient. He collected her luggage and handed her into a silver Jaguar, and she settled back to enjoy the drive.

They went south on the expressway, then turned east, toward Grenoble. The region was beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful in France, with the French Alps rising in the east. The weather was warmer than it had been in Paris, the heat radiating through the expensive tinted glass of the Jaguar's windows.

Her first view of Ronsard's villa made her blink in astonishment, and she was glad she was wearing sunglasses to hide her expression. After all, she was supposed to be used to wealth and luxury. John should have warned her, she thought absently.

A sleekly paved drive, bordered with multi-colored flowers, led up to massive gates set in a twelve-foot-high gray stone wall that completely encircled the estate. The stone in the wall alone had to have been an enormous expense. The gates slid smoothly open as the car approached; when they drove through, the gates started closing again almost immediately.

The estate itself was massive; she estimated at least forty acres had been enclosed, though the grounds had been so artfully landscaped there were sections where she couldn't see the wall at all. The house itself-though she doubted a structure that huge could be called a mere house-was four stories high, with wings stretching out on each side. It had been built with huge slabs of pale, luminous gray marble, with faint streaks of pink and gold running through the stone. The effect was stunning.

To the right was a long, two-story building that was rather barrackslike in style, though more of that incredible landscaping went a long way toward disguising it. To the left, set like a jewel on a picturesque pond, was what looked like another house. She guessed that this was the guest quarters Ronsard had mentioned. It was large enough to be a small hotel, and looked small only in comparison to the massive-ness of the main building.

Illegal arms-dealing had to be a very, very lucrative business.

Until now she hadn't had any grasp of Ronsard's wealth, but now she had a better idea why he was pursued for his money.

There were men in shades everywhere-his private army. There seemed to be a system of dress to designate authority. Most of the men wore a dark green uniform-type pants and shirt, and these men carried weapons openly. Next in number were those wearing dark green pants, but white shirts, and they wore only side arms. Fewest in number were those wearing light gray suits like her driver.

A number of guests had already arrived. They were wandering in the formal gardens, casually but expensively dressed in what she had always thought of as country-manor style. Some sat on a side patio, indulging in cocktails. Six industrious individuals were on the tennis courts, batting the chartreuse ball back and forth with increasing languor as the heat sapped their strength.

Ronsard himself came down the broad, shallow steps to meet her, smiling, and his hands extended as she got out of the car. He took her shoulders in a light grasp and, bending, brushed his lips across her cheek. Startled, she drew back and blinked up at him. That was the first time he had done more than kiss her hand, and she must have looked uneasy because he rolled his eyes.

"One would think, from your expression, that I had attempted to remove your dress," he said dryly. "If my ego had been inflated, it would now be as flat as yesterday's champagne." He gave a rueful shake of his head. "And to think I've missed this."

"I'm sorry, I was just startled."

"No, don't apologize and ruin the effect."

"Now you're making me feel guilty."

"I'm teasing." He smiled down at her, then said briefly to the two young staffers who stood behind him like sentinels. "Put Madame's luggage in the Garden room."

"The Garden room," she repeated. "That sounds lovely."

"It's actually a small suite. I want you to be comfortable. And before your suspicious nature rears its ugly head, no, it is not next to my private suite. None of the guest rooms are."

"Consider my suspicions headed off at the pass." She took his arm, and he led her inside, where delicious coolness and airy space replaced the heat of outside.

Marble columns soared to a painted ceiling three stories high. The floor was granite flagstones, in a darker hue than the pale gray of the columns, and dotted by enormous, richly colored rugs with tight, thick weaves. Twin marble staircases curved to the left and right, coming together at the top of the arch with hallways opening off each side.

"I hope you're providing tour maps to everyone, so they don't get lost," she said as he escorted her up the stairs.

"The design is basically simple," he began, and smiled at the disbelieving look she gave him. "There aren't any cul-de-sacs. All secondary hallways lead directly back to the main hallway. If you have a sense of direction, you can find your way back to here without any difficulty."

As they mounted the stairs she looked up at an enormous tapestry hung on the left wall. "How old is your house?"

"It isn't old at all. It was built in the seventies by one of the Middle-Eastern oil billionaires. When the price of oil dropped, he needed to raise cash, and I was in a position to provide it."

Upstairs, the marble stairs gave way to dove-gray carpeting so thick her feet sank into it. Light streamed through Palladian windows; walking over to look out, she saw an enormous swimming pool in the courtyard below; the pool was irregularly shaped so that it resembled a lake, exquisitely landscaped, with a small waterfall sparkling over rocks before cascading back into the transparent turquoise water.

"The pool must be spectacular at night, like another world," she said.

"It's one of my pleasures. A long swim is relaxing after a difficult day."

He led her along the hallway, turned left down a secondary hallway, then opened a door on the right. "Here is the Garden room. I hope you will be comfortable."

Niema stepped inside, and her eyes lit with pleasure. "It's beautiful."

The reason it was called the Garden room was obvious: It was filled with greenery. Besides the lovely arrangements of cut flowers, there were eight-foot tall areca palms in strategic locations, succulent jade, rhododendrons. They were in a small sitting room; double doors to the right were opened to reveal a sumptuous bedroom. Straight ahead, glass doors opened onto a private balcony that was lush with potted trees and flowers. The balcony was the width of both the sitting room and bedroom, perhaps forty feet wide.

Ronsard was watching her move around the suite, touching the plants, smelling the flowers. "This is a peaceful place. I thought you would enjoy it; an escape from the social whirl."

"Thank you," she said sincerely. His thoughtful-ness in providing this retreat was touching. He was correct in thinking she enjoyed occasional solitude and serenity in which to recharge, but as she looked around she realized that the balcony would also provide an excellent means of clandestine entry, a la Medina. She would make certain the glass doors were always unlocked-not that they would provide much difficulty to someone as adept at breaking and entering as John was.

Her luggage had already been deposited on a padded bench at the foot of the bed. Ronsard took her arm. "A maid will unpack for you. If you aren't too tired, I have someone I'd like you to meet."

"No, I'm not tired," she said, remembering he had mentioned in Paris that he wanted her to meet someone. The electronic supplies she had brought were safely locked in her jewelry case, so she wasn't worried about the maid seeing them and reporting to Ronsard that one of his guests had brought some interesting equipment with her.

"My private wing is on the other side of the house," he said and smiled. "I wasn't lying when I said your suite wasn't next door to mine. I wish it was, but I deliberately remodeled so that the guest rooms were somewhat distant."

"For privacy, or protection?"

"Both." A tender look swept his face, an expression all the more astonishing because it seemed to be directed elsewhere. "But not my privacy, and not my protection. Come. I told her I was bringing someone to see her, and she has been excited all day, waiting."

"She?"

"My daughter. Laure."

Chapter Seventeen

His daughter? John hadn't mentioned that Ronsard had a daughter. Niema tried to hide her surprise. ""You've never mentioned her before," she said. "I thought your sister was your only family."

"Ah, well, perhaps I'm paranoid. I do everything I can to safeguard her. As you pointed out, I'm an unsavory character; I have enemies."

"I said Eleanor thinks you're an unsavory character," she corrected.

"She's right, you know. I'm far too unsavory for a woman like you."

She rolled her eyes. "Smooth, Ronsard. Women probably fall all over you when you warn them that you're too dangerous for them."

"Have I ever mentioned you have this annoying habit of seeing through my ploys?" he asked conversationally, and they both laughed.

They weren't the only people in the hallway. They passed several guests, all of whom had to speak to their host. One gentleman looked familiar, and he swept her with a knowing look. It took her a moment to place him as the horse-racing afficionado she had met at the prime minister's ball. She smiled at him and asked how his horse had finished in the weekend's race.

"You have a slave for life," Ronsard said as they continued down the hall. "He bores everyone with his talk of horses and racing."

"I like horses," she replied serenely. "And it doesn't take any more effort to be nice to someone than it does to be nasty."

Getting from one side of the huge villa to the other took some time, especially when he was continually stopped. At last, however, they passed into his private wing, which was guarded by heavy wooden double doors. "My suite is here," he said, indicating another set of double doors on the left. He showed her a family dining room, a den that surprised her with its coziness, a small movie theater, an enormous playroom filled with all manner of toys and games, a library so packed with books she doubted he could get another volume on the shelves. The titles were both fiction and nonfiction, with an amazing variety of children's books mixed in.

"This is one of Laure's favorite rooms," he said.

"She loves to read. Of course, she has outgrown fairy tales and Dr. Seuss, but I make certain there is always a selection of reading material appropriate to her age."

"How old is she?"

"Twelve. It's a delightful age. She's hovering between childhood and adolescence, unable to decide if she wants to play with her dolls or experiment with lipstick. I've forbidden the lipstick for another year, at least," he said, his lips quirking.

He turned to her, a smile still on his lips, but his eyes were somehow looking beyond her. "Laure is small for her age," he said. "Very small. I want to prepare you. Her health is ... not good. Every moment I have her is a gift from God."

An odd thing for a man like Ronsard to say, but then again, perhaps it wasn't. He opened a door into a room so cheerful and charming Niema caught her breath, and they stepped inside.

"Papa!"

The voice was young, sweet, as pure as the finest crystal. There was a whirring sound and she came rolling toward them in a motorized wheelchair, a tiny doll with an animated face and a smile that lit the world. An oxygen tank was attached to the back of the wheelchair, and transparent tubing ran from the tank to her nostrils, held in place by a narrow band around her head.

"Laure." His voice was filled with an aching tenderness. He leaned down and kissed her. He spoke in English. "This is my friend, Madame Jamieson. Niema, this is my heart, my daughter, Laura."

Niema bent forward and extended her hand. "I'm very pleased to meet you," she said, also in English.

"And I you, madame." The young girl shook Niema's hand; her fingers were painfully fragile in Niema's careful clasp. Ronsard had said his daughter was twelve; she was the size of a six-year-old, probably weighing only about fifty pounds. She was so very, very thin, her skin a bluish white. She had Ronsard's eyes, dark blue and intelligent, and an angel's smile set in an alabaster face. Her hair was a silky light brown, brushed to a careful smoothness and tied back with a festive bow.

She was wearing lipstick.

Ronsard noticed it the same time Niema did. "Laure!" he exclaimed. He put his hands on his hips and gave her a stern look. "I forbade you to wear lipstick."

She gave him a long-suffering look, as if she despaired of ever making him understand. "I wanted to look nice, Papa. For Madame Jamieson."

"You are beautiful as you are; you don't need lipstick. You are too young for makeup."

"Yes, but you're my papa," she said with unassailable logic. "You always think I'm beautiful."

"I think the shade is very flattering," Niema said, because females should always stick together. She wasn't lying; Laure displayed an intelligence beyond her years by choosing a delicate shade of rose and using only a light application. Anything more would have looked garish in such an unearthly pale face. She ignored the girl's tiny size; what was important here was her mind, not her body.

Ronsard's eyebrows flew up in disbelief. "You're taking the part of this . . . this disobedient hoyden?"

Laure giggled at hearing herself described as a hoyden. Niema met Ronsard's accusing look with an innocent expression and a shrug. "Of course. What did you expect me to do?"

"'Agree with him," Laure said. "He expects all of his women to agree with him."

This time Ronsard's astonishment wasn't feigned. Stunned at hearing such a statement issuing from his innocent daughter's lips, he stared speechlessly at her.

"But I'm not one of his women," Niema pointed out. "I'm just a friend."

"He has never brought any of the others to meet me. Since he brought you, I thought perhaps he wants you to be my maman."

Ronsard made a little choking sound. Niema ignored him to grin at the child. "No, it's nothing like that. We aren't in love with each other, and besides, your papa is allergic to marriage."

"I know, but he would marry if he thought that was what I want. He spoils me terribly. He will get anything I ask for, so I try not to ask for very much, or he would be too busy to do anything else."

She was an alarming blend of childlike innocence and trust, and an astuteness far beyond her years. Whatever her physical problems were, they had forced her to look inward much earlier than young people usually learned to do. "While he is recovering," she said, briskly turning the wheelchair, "I'll show you my rooms."

Niema strolled beside the chair while Laure gave her a guided tour of her suite. Everything had been specially outfitted so she could reach it from a wheelchair, and attached to one side of the chair was a long pair of tongs so she could pick up anything she dropped. A middle-aged woman came forward, smiling, to be introduced as Laure's nurse, Bernadette. Her bedroom opened off Laure's, so she was available during the night if she was needed.

Anything that could possibly interest a young girl had been made available. There were books, movies, dolls, games, samplers she had made, fashion magazines. Laure showed all of them to Niema, while Ronsard trailed behind, bewildered and bemused at being made to feel unnecessary.

Laure even showed Niema her makeup case. Ronsard made choking noises again. This was not a little girl's pretend makeup, but the real stuff from Dior, stunningly packaged in a silver train case. "I ordered it," Laure said, unperturbed by her father's horror. "But nothing looks right when I put it on. Even the lipstick is too . .. too much like a clown. Today, I rubbed my finger on the stick, then on my lips."

"That's good. It's called staining," Niema said, pulling a chair over to sit beside the girl and taking the train case on her lap. She began pulling out the sleek containers of makeup. "Makeup is like anything else, it takes practice to use. And some things will never look good because they don't flatter your coloring. You learn by experimenting. Would you like me to show you?"

"Oh, please," Laure said eagerly, leaning forward.

"I forbid it," Ronsard said, with more desperation than sternness. "She is too young-"

"Louis," Niema interrupted. "Go away. This is girl stuff."

He didn't go away. He sat down, a charmingly helpless expression on his face, watching as Niema demonstrated how to use each item.

A pink blush was much too dark for that white face. Niema took a tissue and wiped most of it off, leaving only a delicate tint. "Remember, none of this sets into stone when you apply it. If it is too much, wipe part of it off. I always have a tissue and cotton swabs with me when I put on makeup, so I can make the effect more subtle. Do you see my eyeliner?" She leaned closer, and Laure nodded as she stared hard at Niema's eyes.

"I use a black pencil, like this-very soft, so it doesn't pull my skin. Then I use a swab to wipe most of it away, so it's barely noticeable. But my coloring is dark, while yours is fair, so black would be too harsh for you. When you are old enough to start wearing eyeliner, use a soft gray or taupe-"

The makeup lesson went on, with Laure hanging on every word. Under Niema's tutelage, very little was actually applied to the small, skeletal face, just the merest hint of color. Laure peered in a mirror, studied herself, and smiled. "Now I don't look so ill," she said with satisfaction. "Thank you very much, Madame Jamieson. Were you watching, Papa?"

"Yes, I was watching. It looks very nice, but-"

"If I die, I want you to make certain someone puts makeup on me just like this. I do not want to look sick when I reach Heaven."

All the color drained out of Ronsard's face. Niema felt stricken on his behalf, but also for this little girl who had never in her life known what it was to enjoy good health, to run and play like other children.

"I won't wear it now, I promise," she said. "Not even lipstick, though I do like it. But... if. Promise me, Papa."

"I promise." His voice sounded hoarse, strained, unlike Ronsard's normal suave tones.

She reached over and patted his knee, the child comforting the parent. "You may take the case," she said, "and keep it safe for me. That way you will always know where it is."

He lifted her out of the wheelchair and settled her on his lap, taking care not to dislodge the oxygen tube. She was so frail, so tiny, her legs dangled like a kindergartner's. He couldn't speak for a moment, his dark head bent so that his cheek rested on the top of her head.

"You won't need it for a long, long time," he finally said.

"I know." Her eyes, though, held a different knowledge.

She seemed to be tiring. He touched her cheek. "Do you want to lie down for a while?"

"On the longue," she said. "There is a movie I wish to see."

Bemadette came over and pushed the wheelchair and its container of oxygen while he carried Laure to the plush chaise longue and carefully placed her on it. Under the rose stain, the child's lips held a tinge of blue. He covered her legs with a soft blanket while Bernadette arranged the pillows just so, propping her in a comfortable position.

"There!" she said, squirming back against the pillows. "I am in the perfect position for watching movies." She gave him a sly look. "It is a romance."

He had recovered his aplomb. "You will give me gray hair," he announced, feigning a scowl. "A romance!"

"With sex," she added mischievously.

"Tell me no more," he said, holding up his hands as if to ward off anything else she might say. "I don't want to know. A papa can bear only so much. Tell Madame Jamieson good day, and we'll leave you to your romance."

Laure held out her hand. "Good day, madame. That was fun! Will you visit me again?"

"Of course," Niema said, smiling despite the ache in her chest. "I've very much enjoyed meeting you, mademoiselle. Your papa is lucky to have you as his daughter."

Laure looked up at her father, and again the expression in her eyes was far too old for her years. "I am the one who is lucky," she said.

He kissed her, touched her cheek, and left her with a smile. His grip on Niema's hand, however, was almost bone-shattering.

When they were out in the hallway, he said, "Dieu," in a stifled tone, and bent over from the waist, bracing his hands on his knees while he took deep breaths.

Niema automatically reached out to offer him comfort. She hesitated, her hand in midair, then lightly touched his back.

After a moment he straightened and walked farther down the hall away from Laure's rooms before he spoke again. "Sometimes it is more than I can bear," he said, his voice still constrained. "I apologize. I hadn't realized she-I've tried to keep from her how very ill she is, but she's so intelligent..." The words trailed off.

"What's wrong with her?" Niema asked gently. There was a decanter of liquor and a set of glasses on a side table. She went over to it and poured him a hefty portion of whatever liquor it was. He sat on a nearby chair and downed it without question.

"Too much," he said, turning the empty glass around and around in his hands. "If it was any one thing, there would be things that could be done. She has a defective heart, only one kidney, and cystic fibrosis. The CF seems to affect her digestive system more than her lungs, or she likely would have already-"

He broke off, his throat working. "There are new drugs that help, but it's still so difficult for her to get the nutrients she needs. She eats constantly, but she doesn't grow and doesn't gain weight. What growth she has had strains her heart. A heart transplant is out of the question because of the cystic fibrosis." He gave a bitter little smile that wasn't a smile at all. "Finding a suitable heart is almost impossible. She would have to have a young child's heart, because of her size, and donor hearts from children are rare. And her blood type is A negative, which narrows the chance of finding a heart almost to zero. Even if one came available, the opinion of the medical establishment is that a healthy heart shouldn't be wasted on someone who . .. who has so many other problems."

There was nothing to say. She couldn't offer meaningless phrases of hope when Laure's condition couldn't get much more hopeless.

"I've been trying to find a heart on the black market for years." He stared blindly at the glass in his hands. "I pour money into research on genetic treatments for CF, on new drugs, anything that will buy her some time. If I can fix just one thing-just one!" he said fiercely. "Then she will have a chance."

Realization slammed into her like a blow. "That's why you-" She stopped, not needing to finish the sentence.

He finished it for her. "Became an illegal arms dealer? Yes. I had to have enormous sums of money, and quickly. The choice was drugs or weapons. I chose weapons. If anything-anything-happens that will increase her chances, whether it's a heart miraculously coming available or a new treatment, I have to be ready immediately with the cash. The research is also hideously expensive." He shrugged. "She is my child," he said simply. "The devil may have my soul, but he's welcome to it if she can live."

She had known there were layers to him. Except for his occupation, he had seemed to be an honorable man, as if he completely separated the two halves of his life. What he did was abhorrent, but he did it out of his consuming love for his child. She ached for him, and for Laure.

"What of Laure's mother?"

"She was a ... passing fancy. She didn't want to have the baby, but I convinced her to carry it to term. I paid all of her expenses and gave her a large lump sum for her trouble. I don't believe she ever saw Laure. The doctors told her the baby probably would not live, and she left. I brought Laure home with me.

"I wasn't poor. My family was more than comfortable. But it wasn't enough, not if I wanted my baby to live. So I used my entree into the Parisian upper crust to both provide contacts and protect my efforts. Don't look at me with such heartbreak in your eyes, my dear. I'm not gallant or tragic, I'm ruthless and pragmatic. My one true vulnerability is my daughter, and for her I am putty, as you saw. She can be quite ruthless in handling me, a quality she doubtless inherited from me."

"The heartbreak is for her, not you," Niema said tartly. "You made your choice."

"I would make the same choice again, as I told you before. And you might do the same." He eyed her, a cynical smile hovering on his mouth. "You never know what you might do until your child is involved."

She couldn't argue with that, not if she were honest. She wasn't the type of person who could accept, without a fight, her child's death sentence. If possible she would move heaven and earth, and if it wasn't possible she would try anyway. That was what Ronsard had done. Though she didn't agree with his path, his reaction was the same as hers would have been.

He set the glass down with a decisive thunk and got to his feet. He ran his fingers through his loosened hair and worked his shoulders as if loosening tense muscles. "I have a hundred guests waiting for me," he said. "Perhaps I should begin fulfilling my duties as host. But I wanted you to meet Laure, and ... know that part of me. Thank you for taking the time to show her about the makeup. I had no idea."

"How could you?" Niema's heart broke all over again, thinking of the young girl who wanted to look her best when she died.

"I forbid you to cry."

She squared her shoulders. "I'm not crying. But I will if I want to, and you can't stop me."

He held up his hands. "I surrender. Come, let's rejoin the party."

As they left his private wing, a tall, blonde Valkyrie of a woman approached. "I hate to disturb you," she said to Ronsard. Her accent was pure American. "But several details have come up that need your attention."

He nodded. "Niema, this is Cara Smith, my secretary. Cara, Niema Jamieson. Will you excuse me, my dear?" he asked Niema. "Duty calls."

"Certainly." Niema watched him stride off down the stairs, with Cara half a step behind him. She noted the direction in which he went; his office must be on the first floor, then, and in the west wing.

She ached with sympathy for both him and Laure. That would not, however, get in the way of her doing her job.

She walked casually in the same direction, but by the time she crossed the huge central foyer he wasn't in sight. They had disappeared through one of several doors, and it would be too obvious if she walked through the villa opening all the doors.

But at least she now had a general idea of his office's location. She would try to get him to give her a guided tour of the main floor, and surely he would indicate which room was his office.

Tomorrow, John would arrive. If she already had the location, they could possibly plant the bug and copy Ronsard's files tomorrow night.

Anticipation zinged through her. John would be here tomorrow.

Chapter Eighteen

It was ten o'clock at night when John drove up to Ronsard's estate. The grounds were so well-lit that he could see the glow from several miles away. The curving drive led him to a set of double gates, which remained closed as he approached. When he stopped, a uniformed guard came out to shine a flashlight in John's face, ask his name, and see his identity. Silently John reached inside his tuxedo jacket and produced his ID. He didn't give his name verbally, an omission that made the guard glance sharply at him, then step away to speak into the two-way radio he carried.

A moment later, he gave a signal and the gates swung open. The signal, John surmised, meant that the guard on the outside couldn't open the gates himself. He had to give the okay to someone else inside, which eliminated the chance that he could be overpowered and access gained to the estate.

He gave John another hard look as he leaned down to return the identification to him. John returned the look without expression, then drove through the gates.

He stopped the car in front of a massive curving entry and got out. Immediately a pair of red-jacketed valets approached; one got out his luggage, while the other gave him a ticket, got into the car, and drove it away. It would probably receive a thorough search while it was in their possession, John thought. His luggage, too.

Let them search. They wouldn't get any information from it, not even his fingerprints. He had carefully sprayed his fingertips with a clear-coat gel that hardened and provided a smooth finish. It was thin and very nearly undetectable to the touch and would come off when he washed his hands with hot water. A cold-water wash wouldn't disturb the gel.

The spray was a vast improvement over the methods he had used in the past; sometimes he would dip his fingertips into puddles of melted wax, but the wax wasn't very durable. For a brief job or an emergency, however, it would do. Another trick was to paint his fingertips with a thick application of clear fingernail polish, but he had to have time for it to dry or that was useless. Band-Aids wrapped around each finger were a quick and effective method of hiding his prints, but someone with bandages on every finger was noticeable-at least, if that someone was over three years old.

As he mounted the steps, a tall, tuxedo-clad man approached. "Mr. Temple," he said in a crisp British accent. "Mr. Ronsard will see you now. Follow me, please."

John silently followed, not inclined to exchange pleasantries. He could hear music, and people in formal dress stood in small groups, laughing and chattering in a mix of languages. The women glittered in jewels, and so did some of the men. His own tuxedo was severely cut, without a frill or ruffle in sight, but the cut and fit shouted that it was custom made for him. Several women glanced his way, then looked again. When he wanted, he could pass through a crowd completely unnoticed, but tonight he wanted people to notice. He walked with a silent, graceful saunter, like a panther that has seen its prey but knows there's no need to hurry.

The elegant flunky led him to a small anteroom off the foyer. The room was comfortably furnished with a sofa and two wing-back chairs, a cozy little selection of books, a small fireplace, and a selection of spirits. Considering that the room was no more than eight feet square, and that the door had a sturdy lock, John guessed that it was there more for quick and furtive lovemaking than it was for any other purpose. A good host always provided for his guests, after all.

"Monsieur Temple." Ronsard rose to his feet as

John entered. He nodded a dismissal at the other man, who silently closed the door behind him as he left. "I am Louis Ronsard." He extended his hand, every inch a gracious host.

John let a fraction of a second lapse before he took Ronsard's hand. Not a flicker of expression crossed his face. "Why am I here?" he finally asked, his tone low and controlled. "This . . . meeting wasn't necessary."

"I think it is." Ronsard was slick about it, but he was carefully studying John's face. "I don't like dealing with unknown factors. Moreover, you knew about a compound that is very new and supposed to be unknown. Would you mind telling me how you came to hear of it?"

John regarded him silently, eyes at half-mast. "I don't like to be called by name in the middle of a crowd, and my definition of a crowd is any number greater than two." Let Ronsard wait for his answers; he wasn't in the mood to be cooperative.

"I assure you, no one here has any idea who you are."

"And I assure you, there's always at least one person at parties like this who is making a list of names, to be sold afterward."

"I deal harshly with betrayal," Ronsard said softly. Evidently deciding Temple wasn't a man who could be charmed, impressed, or intimidated, he indicated the chairs. "Please, be seated. Would you like a drink?"

John chose one of the wing-back chairs. "I don't drink."

Ronsard paused with his hand on a decanter, his eyebrows lifted, then moved his hand to a bottle and poured himself a small amount of wine.

"I apologize if you think coming here has jeopardized your cover. But I'm a cautious man too, and handling this compound is not without its own risk. I do so only when I am assured that this is a legitimate order and that I am not being set up. So, given the secrecy surrounding the compound, I think you understand why I am interested in learning how you heard of it."

John steepled his fingers, staring unblinkingly at Ronsard for a long moment. He saw Ronsard's gaze flicker to the ring of entwined snakes on his left hand. "Flight 183," he finally said.

"The plane crash? Yes, that was unfortunate. I suspected it was a ... test, shall we say? I wasn't aware beforehand."

"I don't care if it was a test or not. It worked."

"But how did you find what explosive was used?"

"I ... obtained a copy of the NTSB preliminary chemical analysis. I have access to a very good lab in Switzerland. The chemical fingerprint was similar to RDX. The NTSB found no evidence of a detonator. It's self explanatory," John said, his tone bored.

"Do you really think I would believe you put all this together by extrapolation?" Ronsard smiled gently. "No, someone told you. A second party has also approached me wanting to buy a quantity of the compound, someone who has no access to the NTSB. How could he know, unless by the same leak?"

"Ernst Morrell," John supplied. "I told him."

Ronsard stared at him a moment, then drank his wine. "You surprise me," he murmured.

"Morrell will provide a ... distraction. Anything that happens will be laid at his feet."

"So he is a decoy." Ronsard shook his head, smiling. "Mr. Temple, I salute you. That is truly devious."

John relaxed, subtly but visibly. The stony expression on his face eased. He let himself blink. "If I'm lucky, the bastard will blow himself up. If I'm not lucky, he'll still bring so much heat down on himself he'll be caught. Either way, he won't step on my toes again."

"So you've met Morrell before?"

"No, but he's a blundering idiot. He interfered in a job."

Ronsard laughed, his handsome face lit with real amusement. "Monsieur Temple, I think it will be a pleasure doing business with you. We'll talk more, but I've been away from my guests too long, and I must get back to them. Come, I'll introduce you around."

"Introduce me as Mr. Smith."

"Smith," Ronsard repeated. He still looked amused. "That's my secretary's last name as well."

"Maybe we're related."

They drew more than one interested gaze when they left the anteroom. John walked with his host across the huge foyer and into a glittering ballroom. They stopped at the top of three shallow steps, looking out over the crowd. Enormous crystal chandeliers hung overhead, glittering like diamonds, and a wall of French glass doors had been opened to the night. People moved around the room, out to the patio, back in, in a constant motion that reminded him of a hive.

He looked casually around, not letting his gaze rest on anyone in particular, but he spotted Niema almost immediately. An industrialist approached Ronsard and made polite chitchat for a moment, then waited expectantly for an introduction. John had met the man before, but he'd been using a different name at the time, and with his appearance altered; his hair had been gray and he had worn brown contacts. The industrialist thought he was shaking hands with a total stranger.

A voluptuous redhead, her breasts all but bared in a skintight emerald green gown, was the next to attach herself to Ronsard's arm and angle for an introduction. Ronsard, obviously amused, obliged. John became his most impassive, not responding to any of the woman's flirtatious remarks. For all her obviousness, she was no fool; after a few minutes she switched her flirtatiousness to Ronsard, who smiled and flattered her, all the while with that look of amusement still in his eyes.

After the woman left, they were briefly alone. John let his gaze sweep the ballroom once again, and he went still.

Ronsard noticed immediately, of course. "Do you see someone you know?" he asked, becoming subtly more alert as he looked around.

"No." The word sounded as if it were being dragged out of John's throat. "Someone I'm going to know. That woman-who is she?"

"Who?"

"Dark hair, blue gown. Wearing pearls. She's talking to the tall blonde woman."

Ronsard's search narrowed on Niema. His face hardened as he realized she was the woman John had noticed. "She's with me," he said in succinct warning.

John spared his host only a glance before once more focusing on her. He let himself greedily drink her in, admiring the way the soft light gleamed on her bare shoulders. "Are you going to marry her?" he asked almost absently.

Ronsard gave a short, hard laugh. "No, of course not."

"I am."

The soft words lay between them like stones. Anger darkened Ronsard's eyes. "She's a friend, one I've come to cherish. She isn't for the likes of us."

"Perhaps not for you. If you had some claim on her, I'd back off, but you've admitted you don't. She's free-but not for long."

Ronsard was a consummate businessman. He was also astute enough to realize the man called Temple wasn't someone who could be intimidated. He took a deep breath, reaching for control. "I don't brawl over women," he said. "But neither will I allow you to force yourself on her. I say this because she . . . isn't receptive. She is a widow, and still very much in love with her dead husband. Even if she wasn't, she is one of the few principled people of my acquaintance. She frowns on people such as you and I."

"She turned you down," John stated.

"Flat." For a moment humor quirked Ronsard's mouth. "I like her. I won't have her hurt."

"Neither will I."

Into the silence that fell between them Ronsard said, "You've astonished me. I wouldn't have expected you to become enamored of any woman, especially at first sight. It seems out of character."

"It is." John drew a deep breath and let all the pent-up hunger of the past five years burn in his eyes. "It is," he repeated. "Introduce me."

"I think I will," Ronsard mused. "This should be amusing."

Niema saw the two tall, broad-shouldered men cutting their way through the crowd. Ronsard looked as dashing and debonair as usual, his long dark hair free on his shoulders, but it was the predator beside him who took her breath. John looked severe, dangerous, somehow different. His blue gaze was focused on her like a laser.

Startled, she actually took a step back, her hand lifting to the pearls around her neck.

She hadn't seen him in over a week. She wasn't prepared for the sudden impact of sensation, like a punch in the stomach. All the times before when she had seen him he had muted the dangerous power of his personality, she realized, because the full strength of it was blasting at her now.

His gaze swept down her and she felt as if he had stripped her naked, as if he were about to eat her alive. She tried to look away from him, tried to compose herself, but she couldn't. Excitement sang along her nerves. He was here, and the game had truly begun.

"Niema." They had reached her, so tall their shoulders blocked out the rest of the room, even though she was wearing heels. Ronsard took her hand and pressed a brief kiss on her knuckles. "My dear, this is Mr. Smith, who begged me for an introduction. Mr. Smith, Niema Jamieson."

"Niema." John said her name as if he tasted it.

"Mr.-Mr. Smith." She could barely speak. Her throat had inexplicably tightened. She flashed a helpless look at Ronsard, who didn't look at all pleased by her reaction. She couldn't understand it herself. She knew it played well with John's plans, but.. . she wasn't acting.

"Joseph," said John.

"I-I beg your pardon?"

"My name is Joseph."

"Joseph .. . Joseph Smith?" She blinked, trying to swallow the sudden bubble of laughter. At least he hadn't chosen Brigham Young for a name. "You're an American."

"Yes." Somehow he had her hand, his fingers hard and strong around hers. "Dance with me." It was more command than invitation.

She gave Ronsard another dazed, helpless look, but this one was over her shoulder as John led her onto the dance floor. He didn't just put his hand on her back, he put his arm around her waist and pulled her close, anchoring her to him. He clasped her hand in his free one, holding it against his chest. He began moving in a smooth rhythm and she had no choice but to follow.

He bent his head close to hers. "I fell in love with you on sight," he murmured.

"Did you?" She quivered as she fought back another laugh. "Joseph Smith?" She ducked her head against his shoulder to hide her expression. She had been bored, chatting with people with whom she had nothing in common, but now energy was flowing through every cell in her body.

"Joseph Temple, actually. I told him to introduce me as Mr. Smith."

"Temple," she repeated, burning the name in her brain cells. The one thing she couldn't do was slip up and call him John.

"Where's your room?"

"It's in the east wing. It's called the Garden room, and it has its own private balcony." She had counted the doors, so she could tell him exactly how to reach it. "Go up the stairs, take the hallway to the right. Go down ten doors, turn left, and it's the third door on the right."

"Leave the balcony doors unlocked."

"Why? Locks don't mean anything to you."

His arm tightened around her waist in a punishing squeeze for her teasing. Beneath the silk of his tuxedo, his chest was like iron. He was holding her so closely her breasts were flattened against him. The heat of his body seeped through the layers of clothing between them, and the scent of him wrapped around her, warm and masculine and flavored with some subtle cologne.

"You're holding me too close," she said, faint panic welling up in her, because the pleasure she felt was far from safe. Her hands pushed against his chest, not hard enough to be noticeable but enough to lever her upper body an inch away from him.

He simply gathered her back in, the strength in his arms overpowering her without effort. "I'm in love with you, remember? And you're helplessly fascinated by me."

How did he know? The question seared through her brain, a split second before she remembered the scenario they were enacting.

The pattern of the dance had brought them near the open French doors. He made a swooping turn and she found herself out on the patio. The night was warm, but still cooler, and much fresher, than the air inside, with so many people in one room. There were people sitting at the small tables scattered about the patio, talking and laughing, but the noise level dropped dramatically.

He stopped dancing and led her down the steps into the garden. The sweet, peppery scent of roses filled the air. Small gravel crunched under their shoes as they walked a little way down one of the paths. Though the grounds were too well-lit for there to be complete darkness, the garden provided at least some semblance of privacy.

"This is far enough," John said, stopping and turning to face her. "He can still see us." Before she had any idea what he was about to do, he framed her face with his hands and kissed her.

Automatically her hands came up and locked around his wrists. Her breath stopped for two long heartbeats, and her knees went weak. She felt as if he were supporting her only with the warm clasp of his hands on her face, though the pressure was too light to do any such thing.

His kiss was light at first, a tender tasting, an exploration. She stood motionless, dazzled by the pleasure of the simple caress, then returned it with gentle pressure. He slanted his head more and deepened the kiss, his tongue probing her mouth. Then something hot exploded inside her, and she sagged against him. He released her face and folded her in his arms, tighter than before, closer, so close she was welded to him from breast to thigh.

His mouth was ravaging, devouring. He kissed her the way he shouldn't, the way she hadn't let herself imagine: deeply, intensely, the way a man kissed a woman right before he rolled her on her back and slid between her legs. And she accepted those kisses, welcomed them, returned them. Her tongue played with his, her arms lifted to twine tightly around his neck. Her body reached to his, and she discovered he was rock hard, his erection pressed against her stomach.

The discovery so shocked her that she tore herself out of his arms, staggering back. He grabbed her arm to steady her, then immediately let his hand fall to his side. They faced each other in the scented garden, the dimness of the light not dim enough. She could see the cool, focused expression in his eyes, and the realization was another punch in the stomach. Those kisses had rocked her foundation, but John, despite the automatic response of his body, had only been doing his job. Working. Pretending to be smitten.

And Ronsard was watching them, weighing what had just happened. Niema swallowed, trying to decide what she should do. Slap John's-Temple's- face? She had been a willing participant, and Niema Jamieson wasn't a hypocrite.

Forget Niema Jamieson; she was too shattered to play a role right now. She reached down into who she really was, Niema Burdock, and found that the two women were much the same. Had John planned that deliberately, made Niema Jamieson's history so close to her own so she was essentially playing herself?

But it was Niema Burdock who gathered her dignity around her, turned, and walked quietly away. No histrionics. She made her way back up the path toward the patio and saw that Ronsard was indeed standing just outside the ballroom doors, watching them. With the bright light behind him, she couldn't read his expression, but she braced herself and approached him.

He was silent, looking down at her. She met his gaze, inwardly flinching at the cynical disillusionment she knew she would see there, but instead all she could find was concern. Her lips trembled, and suddenly tears blurred her vision.

"Oh, God," she whispered. "How?"

Ronsard extended his arm to her and she took it, and he walked her back inside as if nothing had happened. He didn't appear to hurry, but still their progress across the crowded room was mercifully fast. Her fingers dug into his arm as she dung for support. Her legs were shaking. Her entire body was shaking, fine tremors rocking her muscles.

A sumptuous buffet had been set out in another room, with tables set for those guests who wished to eat there, or they could take their plates out onto the patio or into the pool courtyard. Ronsard settled her at one of the empty tables and went to the buffet, where he loaded two plates and brought them back. At a signal from him, a waiter appeared with two glasses of champagne.

"I noticed earlier you weren't drinking," he said.

"Try it; my champagne is infinitely superior to that swill the prime minister served. Besides"- he gave a crooked smile-"you need the sedative."

She drank the champagne and ate the strawberries on her plate. He cajoled her into trying the delicious pate, too, though her throat kept threatening to close.

"I see I was too much of a gentleman," he said, amusement rich in his voice and eyes. "I should have simply grabbed you and kissed you, overwhelmed you with my animal magnetism. But really, my dear, that isn't my style."

"I-I didn't think it was mine, either." She could barely speak.

"One can never predict chemistry, though somehow we always underestimate it." He patted her hand. "And now I'm going to do something I have never thought I would do. I'm so astonished at myself I may never recover."

"What?" Ronsard's humor had a steadying effect on her. So she had responded to John with a shattering intensity-that was what she was supposed to do. It was part of their scheme. John wouldn't, couldn't, know that there hadn't been anything deliberate about her response, that for a few searing moments she had been lost in the physical pleasure she had been trying to resist since the moment John Medina had reappeared in her life.

"Mr. Smith-"

"He told me his real name," she broke in, rubbing the spot between her eyebrows, partly to shield her expression and partly because tension was beginning to give her a slight headache.

"Then .. . you know he wouldn't be using a pseudonym if there wasn't good cause. He isn't a celebrity, my dear; quite the opposite. Every law enforcement agency in the world would love to have him in its custody."

She stared at him while she pretended to work it through. "He-he's a terrorist?" Her voice was almost soundless.

Ronsard let his silence answer for him.

She drank more champagne, but that didn't loosen the knot in her throat. "He's the only man I've kissed since my husband-" Five years. Five years since Dallas had died, and she hadn't been able to feel even a flicker of response to any of the very nice men she had occasionally dated. She hadn't been able to let any of them kiss her, not because it felt like a betrayal, but because it hadn't seemed fair to them to pretend even that much. The lines between role and reality had blurred again, with Niema Burdock speaking, trying to work her way through what had happened to her in John Medina's arms.

"I can't stay here," she said, surging to her feet. "I'm going to my room. Louis-"

"I understand." He rose too, his handsome face full of concern. "I can't tell you want to do, my dear, the decision is yours. But make it with all the facts in your possession, and no matter what your answer is, I'll always cherish your friendship."

God, how could he be so nice in so many ways, and still be what he was? The puzzle of Louis Ronsard wasn't any closer to being solved than it was the day she met him. But for all the vividness of his character, she was losing her focus on him, had been from the moment she saw him walking toward her with John beside him.

Blindly she groped for his hand, squeezing it hard. "Thank you," she said, and fled.

Chapter Nineteen

It was three a.m. when she saw the curtains by the balcony doors flutter. Niema was lying in the dark, unable to sleep, waiting for John to appear. She didn't hear anything; there was only that small flutter to signal his arrival, then his black shape silhouetted against the faint light coming through the glass behind him.

She sat up and tugged her robe, the most substantial one she had, more tightly around her. The room was dark and he couldn't see her any better than she could see him, but she felt she needed every bit of protection she could muster. He crossed the room with eerie stealth and accuracy, approaching the high four-poster bed. He leaned over and put his mouth against her ear. "Have you swept the room?"

"I checked it when I got here," she whispered back. "I figured if the place was wired, it was part of the security system rather than a patch job. It's clean."

"Mine wasn't."

"Permanent or patched?"

"Permanent. He wants to keep tabs on whomever he puts in that room. Probably other guest rooms in this place are wired, too, and he decides who he wants to stay in them."

The mattress dipped as he sat down on the side of the bed. She felt a brief flare of panic and fought it down. After all, there wouldn't be any point in kissing her now, when there wasn't anyone else around to see.

"Are you okay with what happened this evening?" he asked, an edge of concern in his voice. ""You looked stunned. I thought you understood the plan."

"I guess I didn't quite get it," she managed to say and fought to keep her tone even. "Everything's okay, though; I can handle it." His face was a pale blur in the darkness, but still, now that he was this close, she could pick out his features and feel the heat from his leg even through the bed clothes as his thigh pressed against her hip.

"As it turned out, that was the perfect reaction. You played it just right."

Only she hadn't been playing. She had managed to keep her presence of mind, but she hadn't pretended anything. The power of her response to John had been real, and that was what was frightening. As long as he thought her distress was caused only by surprise, though, she didn't feel as exposed.

"Everything's okay," she repeated, and in quiet desperation changed the subject. "What's the plan for tomorrow?"

"Ronsard and I will talk business. If I'm lucky, it'll be in his office. If not, then I'll have to find it some other way."

"I can give you the general location. It's in the west wing, ground floor. And he has a secretary, Cara Smith, so she may be in the office even if he isn't."

"Then we'll have to keep track of both of them. I'll figure out some way to keep them occupied. I'll locate the office tomorrow, check out the security system, then we'll go in tomorrow night. "You plant the bug, I copy the files, and we're out without anyone knowing."

If everything went according to plan, that is. Anything could happen, as she had already learned far too well.

"I brought you a little present." There was a faint rustle of clothing, then metal, warm from his body, was pressed into her hand. Automatically she closed her fingers around the grip of the pistol. "It's a SIG .380 caliber, smaller than the one you practiced with, but that just means it'll be easier to conceal."

"I'll tuck it in my bodice," she said dryly, because the thing still weighed over a pound and was at least six and a half inches long. Until the pistol was in her hand, she hadn't been aware of a nagging, low-level sense of alarm, but now she felt something inside her relaxing. She had never carried a weapon in her life, not even in Iran, because that would have given away her disguise; how had she become so rapidly accustomed to being armed?

He gave a low laugh. "That's my girl." There was warm approval in his voice. He patted her thigh. "I'll see you in a few hours. What are you doing tomorrow? What time do you get up?"

"I'm going to sleep as late as I can." Since she hadn't slept any yet that night, she figured she would need all she could get. "I don't have any plans beyond that, though."

"Meet me for lunch, then."

"Where?"

"The pool courtyard, one o'clock."

"Any reason for that particular place?" There had to be; John never did anything without a reason.

"See you, get in a swim, let Ronsard see the scar on my shoulder as a little extra reassurance."

"You don't have a scar on your shoulder," she said automatically, and wished she hadn't, because it revealed how closely she had looked at him when he took off his shirt that day they had been working out.

"No, but Joseph Temple does."

So he must have a fake scar, as part of his disguise. She remembered that he had looked different, too, when Ronsard introduced him, but she couldn't put her finger on exactly what the differences were. "What else have you done? You're not the same."

"I changed my hairline a little, made my brows straighter, put thin rolls of cotton in my jaw to change the shape."

"How long have you been building Joseph Temple's cover?"

"Years. At first he was only a name on a file, but gradually I circulated him more, and added a few details of description, a photo that didn't give away much. But it was enough to let Ronsard compare hairlines, and I imagine he has."

"But he'll have a photo of you now," she said. "You know he will. He wouldn't pass up an opportunity like this."

"It doesn't matter." He stood up. "Temple won't exist after he leaves here."

What was it like, she wondered, to build identities as if they were changes of clothing, putting them on for just a little while and then discarding them? Did he leave pieces of himself behind? Somehow lose just a little bit more of who he really was each time he became someone else?

As he moved toward the balcony, she thought of something. "How did you get up here?"

"I didn't. I got down. I came from the roof." With those words he slipped through the doors and disappeared.

Niema got up and locked the balcony doors, then returned to bed. She was so tired she ached, but despite her plans to sleep late she wasn't certain she could sleep at all. The next twenty-four hours were crucial, the reason she had agreed to this elaborate charade. She had to keep her mind on the job, and not on John. After this was over and she was back home, and he was gone from her life again, then she would let herself think about him because then it wouldn't matter-he would be gone.

Cara Smith always enjoyed Louis's house parties. She loved dressing up, loved the glitter and sophistication and sheer luxury. It was like something out of a fairy tale, watching men in tuxedos whirl women in jewels around a polished ballroom floor. Because she was so tall she seldom wore high heels, but for these posh occasions she put on three-inch pumps, which lifted her way over most people's heads, and eye-to-eye with Louis himself. Her legs looked as if they were six feet long, an illusion she heightened by wearing dresses that were slit up the side and exposed long, narrow strips of flesh when she walked.

But that was for night. During the day she still worked at keeping Louis's correspondence up to date, paying bills-it always surprised her that billionaires had bills, but she guessed some things were impossible to escape. She also had to handle the phones, and notify Louis of any business that cropped up, any problems that needed handling. But her hours were abbreviated, and for the most part she played with the guests. She swam, played tennis and billiards, and listened to gossip. She never failed to be amazed by the intimate details and government secrets people blabbed at parties, especially to tall, leggy blondes, as if she wasn't expected to have a brain in her head- which was, of course, why Louis let her play instead of work. She'd learned a lot of interesting stuff during these house parties.

She was fascinated by that Temple man. Few males compared with Louis in terms of elegance and sophistication. But he did. And he looked so damned cool and contained-he was a very still man, his few gestures controlled and minimal, with little expression on his face. With that kind of control over his body, she bet he could last for hours in bed. She thought of being the woman on the receiving end of all that control and went all shivery.

On the other hand, Cara was astute about which men were attracted to her, and Temple wasn't. She and a bunch of other people, including Louis, had seen him in the garden putting the move on the Jamieson woman. She had wondered how Louis would handle that, considering he had shown more attention to Mrs. Jamieson than to any other woman she could remember, but Louis was Louis-one woman didn't mean that much to him. She knew for a fact he hadn't slept alone last night, while Mrs. Jamieson had chickened out and left the party early, to hide out in her room. Boy, if she'd been in Mrs. Jamieson's place, she wouldn't have chickened out. She'd have grabbed that man by the bow tie and ridden him for all he was worth.

But she had her eye on another guy, as a consolation prize. He was rich, he wasn't bad looking, and he did something in the French defense department, or whatever they called it. He'd have lots of interesting things to tell her. From the way his wife hung on to him, he had something of interest in his pants, too. She had seen him eyeing her, so she figured he'd find a way to escape from the little woman for a while.

She couldn't wait. She hadn't had sex in-well, she couldn't remember exactly how long, but she knew it was too long. Damn Hossam and his jealousy! She'd been trying to wean him away, let him down gently, but he just wouldn't go away. She hadn't slept with him, but in the interest of keeping things calm she hadn't slept with anyone else, either. She didn't want to stir up trouble among the guys in Louis's security guard, because Louis wouldn't thank her for it.

She played a game of tennis at nine, and Mr. Defense Department showed up, sans wifey. Cara flirted outrageously with him, until she noticed a tall, mustachioed man, wearing a suit and sunglasses, watching them from the west patio. Hossam. Damn it, if she took him to her room now, which was really the only safe place to take him, Hossam would know and was likely to cause trouble. Louis would be majorly pissed if one of his guests was killed by her jealous ex-lover.

Fuming, she finished the game, then excused herself and stalked across the wide expanse of lawn to the west patio. She swished her racket angrily through the air, wishing it was connecting with Hossam's head. Why, he was stalking her. She had tried to be nice and not rub his nose in the fact that she was tired of him, but nice hadn't gotten her anywhere. It was time for some plain speaking.

He stood with his arms folded over his chest, stolidly watching as she steamed up to him. He was a big man, about six-five; she had enjoyed his size, because he wasn't big just in height, but now she wished he was normal sized so she could knock him on his ass.

"Stop it," she hissed, standing toe to toe with him and glaring up into his sunglasses. "It's over. Don't you get it? Over! O-v-e-r. Kaput. Finished. I would say it in Egyptian but I don't know the damn word. I had a good time but now I'm moving on-"

"Arabic." His voice was a deep rumble, reverberating in that big chest.

"What?"

"Egyptians speak Arabic. There's no such thing as an Egyptian language."

"Well, thank you for the lesson." She poked him in the chest. "Stop following me, stop spying on me- just stop. I don't want to cause trouble for you but I will if I have to, do you understand."

"I want only to be with you."

Gawd, she thought in despair. "Your head must be made of wood! I don't want to be with you! I've seen all your tricks, and now I want a new magician. Don't bother me again."

She pushed past him and went inside. She managed to smile at the people she passed on the way to her room, which was on the third floor facing the driveway, but inside she was furious. If Hossam messed up the best job she'd ever had, she would wring his thick neck with her bare hands. Men were enough to make a woman think of joining a convent, she thought, fuming. Maybe she didn't need another lover right now; maybe what she really needed was her head examined because she was even thinking about it.

If she saw Hossam so much as looking at her again, she'd tell Louis. Enough was more than enough.

Without appearing to, John studied the security system as Ronsard unlocked and opened the door to his office. The lock operated on a numeric code that translated to different tones, like a telephone. Ronsard was careful to keep his body between John and the control panel, so he couldn't see the numbers. John didn't even try to see them; he half-turned away, studying the hallway, noting the blinking eye of the camera that was mounted at the far end of the hall. Making sure his motion was hidden from the camera, he slipped his hand inside his jacket and triggered a powerful miniature recorder that picked up the small beep of the tones as Ronsard punched in the code.

"We won't be disturbed here," Ronsard said. "Please be seated. Would you like something to drink? Coffee?"

"No, thank you." Call him paranoid, but he was real careful about taking anything to eat or drink from someone else. A buffet was fine, if everyone else was eating, but when he was on a job he was always in control of his intake. If he had to set a drink down, he didn't pick it back up. It was a simple rule, but an effective one.

He looked around. There was a computer on Ronsard's large, antique desk, but no phone line going to it, which meant it was secure. If there were any files Ronsard didn't want compromised, they would be on that computer. Another unit sat on a Louis XIV desk across the room, and this one was hooked to a phone line, a printer, a scanner, the works.

Also on Ronsard's desk was a small monitor with an elaborate control attached to it, and from where he was sitting John could see just enough of the screen to tell it was surveillance of the hallway outside, so Ronsard knew in advance who was coming toward his office. There was probably a central surveillance control room somewhere in this massive building, but whether or not the entire building was under watch was something he'd have to find out. It could be that, like the listening devices, only certain rooms were involved. This part of the estate was, after all, Ronsard's private living quarters, and he probably wouldn't want his employees watching him.

"Who's making the compound?" he asked, deciding to at least ask. Sometimes people just blurted out what he wanted to know.

Ronsard smiled at him. "I have an agreement with the ... ah, developers. They don't use anyone else to distribute the compound, and I don't tell anyone who they are. Once it's known, you understand, then they'll be under siege. Opportunists would try to get the formula, perhaps resorting to kidnap and torture in the process; the government might try to shut them down, but would at least take over the manufacturing. That's the way governments are, isn't it?" He sat down behind his desk, "I had thought they were dealing behind my back. Both you and Ernst Morrell were asking about the compound; what else could I think? But you've relieved my mind."

"I'm glad."

The total lack of expression in John's voice brought a smile to the arms dealer's face. "So I see. Well, Mr. Temple, shall we complete our business? I have guests, and you'll want to continue your pursuit of Mrs. Jamieson. Tell me-what would you do with a wife, assuming you succeed?"

John's eyes sharpened. "Keep her safe."

"Ah. Can you do that, though?" He indicated the computers in the office, specifically the fast, powerful one on his secretary's desk, "Computers have made the world very small. Eventually, one will be able to find out anything about anyone. It's almost possible now. You won't be able to disappear the way you do now."

"Information can be falsified or erased. If I need a social security number or a credit card, I use someone else's."

"Yes, but what about her? She can't disappear, you know. She has family, friends; she has a home, a routine, and a social security number, and those credit cards you disdain. I know the lady well enough to promise you she would balk at using a stolen credit card."

Still warning him away from Niema, John realized, inwardly amused. "If she doesn't want what I can give her, all she has to do is say no. Kidnapping somebody is too chancey; it draws a lot of attention."

"Something you want to avoid," Ronsard agreed. "But if she did go with you-what would you do?"

John regarded him silently, refusing to be drawn on the question. It was a nonissue, of course, but Ronsard didn't know that. Let him think that Temple was the most secretive bastard he'd ever met, and let it go at that.

He stonewalled every attempt Ronsard made to talk about Niema, though he was actually beginning to like the guy. There was something both absurd and touching about someone as ruthless as Louis Ronsard displaying this kind of concern for a friend. Niema had gotten to him too, John thought, just the way she had Hadi and Sayyed, and himself, in Iran. The situation was almost funny. He should have been able to express an interest in Niema, with her reciprocating, and that would have been that: a burgeoning affair. Instead Niema was rattled, Ronsard was protective, and he was having to pursue a reluctant target.

Of course, no one would ever think this was part of any plan. It was just too damn implausible, like a soap opera. Maybe that was why it seemed to be working so well.

Half an hour later, their business concluded- amount of explosive needed, when, how it would be delivered, how much it would cost him-John went to his room and changed into his swim trunks. The room had been searched again, he saw; he didn't know what they expected to find that they hadn't found the first time. The fact that they hadn't found anything probably disturbed Ronsard a little. Of course, they were looking in the wrong place. Since acquiring the weapons last night after arriving here, he had given one to Niema, taped another under one of the massive hall tables outside his room, and one was strapped to his ankle. The ankle holster would have to go in a secure place while he was swimming, though. Smiling, he stuffed it and the tiny recorder under the mattress. The maids had already been in and cleaned, and the room had been searched- twice. Looking in the most obvious place in the world was now the one place they were the least likely to look.

He pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of trousers over his swim trunks, then went down to the pool courtyard. It was a hot, sunny day, but still fairly early. The ladies didn't want to mess up their hair so close to lunch time, so they were sunbathing instead of swimming, and the pool wasn't crowded.

Rather than putting his clothes in the large cabana, he shucked his shirt and dropped it over a chaise, then took off his pants and did the same with them. He didn't have anything in his pocket other than his room key, but if by leaving his clothes in the open he frustrated anyone wanting to go through his pockets, so much the better.

He dove into the pool in a long, shallow dive and began swimming laps, his arms stroking tirelessly. He was as at home in the water as he was on land, courtesy of his BUD/S training. Swimming in a pool was child's play, after swimming miles in the ocean. It was nice of Ronsard, he thought, to provide him a means of keeping up his physical conditioning. There was probably a weight room somewhere in this place, too, but he doubted he'd have time to use it.

The only thing about swimming in public was, after a while people began to notice. Not many people could swim nonstop for that length of time, even though he'd only been at it half an hour. He could have kept on, using one stroke or another, for hours, but it wasn't wise to draw that kind of attention. Already people around the pool were watching him, and he was pretty sure one woman had been counting the laps as he turned them.

He hauled himself out of the water and took a fluffy towel from the stacks Ronsard had put out for his guests, and which were constantly being replaced, and roughly swiped it over his torso. Though it wasn't one o'clock yet, he saw Niema coming toward him. She was dressed casually, in loose, drawstring natural linen pants and a blue camisole, with a gauzy white shirt worn loose over the camisole. She had pulled her thick dark hair back and secured it with a silver clasp at the nape of her neck. Her dark eyes looked huge and luminous.

She checked a little when she saw him, as if she hadn't known he was there. He stood still, staring at her, then lifted his hand and beckoned her to him.

She hesitated for a long moment before obeying, just long enough for him to begin wondering if she was going to do something totally unexpected, like turning around and leaving, which would be taking the show of reluctance a little too far and might prod her unlikely protector into action.

But then she began walking slowly to him, and he knotted the towel around his waist to hide his response as he waited for her to join him.

>Chapter Twenty

Niema faltered as she approached John and slid her sunglasses on her nose to hide her expression from him. Good God, the man should put on some clothes before she had heart failure. Greedily she drank in the strong lines of his torso, the well-defined muscles of arms and shoulders, the ridges down his abdomen. His legs were the most powerful she had ever seen, the long muscles thick and sinewy in the way that showed he did it all, running and swimming as well as strength training.

Water still sparkled on his shoulders and in the hair on his chest. He had roughly towel-dried his hair and raked his hand over it to restore some semblance of order. He looked wild, and dangerous, and she ached inside with the need to touch him.

He wrapped the towel around his waist and stood like a redwood, waiting for her to reach him. At least the towel hid part of those legs. How could he look so lean when he was clothed, when he had muscles like this?

Then she reached him, and a tiny smile curved his hard mouth, a mouth that looked as if it never smiled at all and yet he made the effort for her. This was Temple, she thought, not John. John smiled and laughed. When he was himself, he was an expressive man- unless he was playing another part, unless he had been someone else for so long that even John Medina was just a role for him now.

"For a minute there, I thought you were going to turn and run," he said in a low voice. "Don't be that reluctant."

"I know what to do." She sat down in the chair he held out for her, not caring if she sounded irritable. She was irritable. She hadn't had much sleep, and her nerves were raw.

He stood behind her, looking down, and she felt his stillness. Then he put his hand inside her open shirt and lightly smoothed his palm over her bare shoulder, the movement slow and absorbed, as if he couldn't go a moment longer without touching her. Only the thin straps of her camisole obstructed him, and they might as well not have been there. She shivered as that warm hand moved over her, pushing the shirt away just enough that he could stroke that one shoulder and upper arm. It was the most restrained, sensuous touch she had ever experienced, and her entire body reacted, nipples pebbling, stomach tightening.

Then he gently restored the shirt to her shoulder and moved around to take the chair across from her. When his back was turned she saw the thin, four-inch scar on his left shoulder blade. Even knowing it wasn't real, she couldn't tell how it was applied. It certainly looked genuine.

Then he sat down facing her, and she blinked in astonishment at the small diamond stud in his left ear. His ear wasn't pierced; she would have noticed before if it had been. And he hadn't been wearing an earring last night. Well, if the scar was fake, the pierced ear could be, too; he probably had the stud glued on. And the altered hairline looked real. All these small identifying characteristics were fake; with them removed, he would never be identified as Joseph Temple, despite having the same face. As long as there were no dental records tying them together, or DNA samples to compare, he was unidentifiable.

A waiter in black shorts and white shirt approached. "May I serve you anything from the bar?"

"We'd like to order lunch," John said, his French perfect.

"Of course, sir."

He ordered puff pastries filled with chicken in cream sauce for appetizers, potato soup, and a cheese and fruit tray afterward. Thankful she wouldn't be expected to choke down a full meal, including a meat course, Niema looked around at the beautifully landscaped courtyard. It was becoming more crowded now as others elected to have their lunch by the pool rather than inside. The murmur of conversation, punctuated by splashes, laughter, and the dink of silverware, made it reasonable that they would lean together over the small round table.

John adjusted the umbrella shading them to protect her from the sun, and also to partially block anyone's view of them from the house. Before he sat down he plucked his shirt from the chaise beside him and pulled it on over his head. She almost mourned as those pecs and abs disappeared from view, but admitted to herself that at least now she'd be able to concentrate better.

"I've been in Ronsard's office," he said, pitching his voice so that only she could hear. "I have the door code and got a good look at his security system. What's on the agenda for tonight?"

"It's fancy dress every night. Buffet dinner, dancing, just like last night."

"Good. People will be moving around, so it'll be difficult to keep track of us. We're going to dance every dance-"

"Not in high heels, I'm not. I'd be crippled."

"Then don't wear heels."

She gave him a dirty look, though of course he couldn't tell since she was still wearing the sunglasses. "You're the one who provided the wardrobe. Heels are the only suitable shoes I have with me."

"Okay, we'll dance a few dances." He looked in danger of smiling again. "I'm going to be making it pretty obvious we're together, putting some strong moves on you, so don't panic."

"Why the strong moves?" Her throat had gone dry. She wished the waiter would hurry up with the mineral water John had ordered.

"So, if anyone notices us going off together, they'll just think we're looking for someplace more private- such as your room."

And instead they would be going through files. "What about Ronsard? And Cara?"

"I'll take care of her. Ronsard's a bit trickier. We may have to take our chances and hope he'll be too occupied to come to his office." He paused. "Here comes the waiter." He leaned over and took her hand, thumb rubbing lightly across the backs of her fingers. "Walk with me after lunch," he was murmuring when the waiter set down the crystal goblets of mineral water.

She drew back and picked up a goblet, sending a shaky smile in the waiter's direction.

"How much time do you need to plant the bug?" he asked when they were alone again.

"I'd like to have half an hour." She could probably do it in less time than that, but she wanted to be very, very careful with this one, because she was going to have to get into the wiring in the walls and she didn't want to leave any telltale marks. "What about the computer files? How long will it take on those?"

"Depends," he said helpfully.

"Thank you so much, Mr. Information."

He fought another smile. "I don't know what system he uses, if it's password protected or encrypted- though I'd be very surprised if he doesn't at least have a password. I have to get the password-"

"How on earth can you do that?"

"People usually write it down somewhere handy. Or it's something obvious, like their mother's name, or their kids-"

"Ronsard has a daughter," Niema said. "Laure." "A daughter? That wasn't in our information," John murmured.

"She's an invalid. He adores her, and is very protective of her privacy. For security reasons, very few people know she exists. She's so ill, she may not live long." A lump rose in her throat as she remembered Laure's skeletal face, with those dark blue eyes so like her father's, and her mischievous, practical spirit.

"Then he'd take very seriously any incident involving her," John mused.

Niema sat up straight, and snatched her sunglasses off so he could get a good look at how furious she was. "Don't you dare," she said between clenched teeth. "If you involve that child I'll-I'll..." She couldn't think of anything bad enough, but her eyes promised severe retribution.

"I'll do whatever's necessary," he softly replied. "You know that. I don't put limitations on what I'm willing to do to get a job done."

"Yes, I heard that about you," she said just as softly, rage boiling through her veins with a suddenness that took her off guard. "They say you even killed your own wife, so why would you worry about upsetting a little girl?"

Leaden silence fell between them. John's face was absolutely expressionless, his eyes so cold and empty they looked dead. "Her name was Venetia," he finally said, the words a mere rustle of sound. "Why don't you ask me if I did it? How do you think it happened? Did I shoot her, or break her neck, or cut her throat? Maybe I just tossed her out a thirty-story window. I've heard all those scenarios. Which do you think is most likely?"

She couldn't breathe. She had wanted to hit him, say something that would make an impression on him, and she had evidently succeeded beyond anything she could have expected. She hadn't believed those wild stories, hadn't really believed he had ever even been married. To know that he had, to know that his wife's name was Venetia and she had existed, was to suddenly think that those stories could be true.

"Did you?" she managed to say, barely able to force the words out through her constricted throat. "Did you kill her?"

"Yes," he said and leaned back as the waiter approached with their meal.

She strolled with him across the lush, manicured lawn. She hadn't had a chance to recover, to ask him any more questions, after he dropped that bombshell at lunch. First the waiter had been there, setting out their lunch, refilling their water glasses, asking if they needed anything else, and by the time he left, Ronsard "happened" to walk by and stayed to chat.

Niema had scarcely been able to talk; she had managed a few short answers to Ronsard's questions, but her lips were numb and she kept seeking refuge in her water glass. She remembered eating a few bites of lunch, but she had no idea how it had tasted.

After lunch, John put his trousers on over his dry swim trunks, then took her hand and led her out here. The hot sun beat down on her, bringing welcome warmth to her cold skin. She felt as if her heart were breaking. Innocence was an invisible fortress, keeping one safe, and oblivious to some things that were too horrible to contemplate. But now she no longer had that innocence, that obliviousness; she was aware of the pain, the horror, the cost. What must it be like for him, to have lived through it?

"John, I'm so sorry," she whispered.

She saw his surprise. Evidently he had expected her to be repelled by who he was, what he had done, maybe even frightened of him. She searched for the right words. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I hadn't believed the stories, or I never would have brought it up."

"Hurt me?" He sounded almost disinterested. She couldn't see his eyes behind the sunglasses, and she wanted to snatch them off his face. "The truth is the truth."

His hand was so warm and so strong, wrapped around hers, but the strength in his fingers was controlled so he wouldn't hurt her. He had never hurt her, she realized. Even when faced with her distrust and hostility in Iran, he had taken care of her, saved her life, held her in his arms while she grieved.

"Sometimes the truth is the truth, but sometimes it's something else. What really happened? Was she a double agent, the way I've heard?"

He made a noncommital sound. Growing exasperated, she squeezed his hand. "Tell me."

He stopped and turned to face her. "Or what?"

"Or nothing. Just tell me."

For a minute, she didn't think he would. Then he shrugged. "Yes, she was a double agent. She did it for the money. There weren't any extenuating circumstances; she didn't have family in the Soviet Union, or in East Germany, that was being threatened. All her family was American, and they weren't involved at all. She simply wanted the money."

So there was no excuse he could give his wife; he'd had to face the truth that she was, simply, a traitor.

That would have been devastating for almost anyone; what had it been like for him, after he had dedicated his entire life to the service of his country?

"How did you find out?"

He began walking again. "There wasn't any one big moment of truth, just a lot of little things that began adding up and made me suspicious. I set a trap for her, and she walked right into it."

"She didn't know you suspected?"

"Of course she did. She was good. But I baited the trap with something she couldn't resist: the names of our two highest-placed moles in the Kremlin. Aldrich Ames never came close to this information, it was so restricted." His lips were a thin line. "I was almost too late springing the trap. This was during the height of the Cold War, and this information was so crucial, so valuable, that she decided not to route it by the usual method. She picked up the phone and called the Soviet embassy. She asked to be brought in, because she knew I'd be after her, and she started to give them the names right there over the phone."

He took a long, controlled breath. "I shot her," he finally said, staring off at the massive wall that surrounded the estate. "I could have wounded her, but I didn't. What she knew was too important for me to take the chance, the moles too important to be brought in. They had to be left in place. She had already told her handler that she had the names; they would have moved heaven and earth to get to her, no matter what prison we put her in, no matter what security we put around her. So I killed her."

They walked in silence for a while, going from flower bed to flower bed like bees, ostensibly admiring the landscaping. Niema still clung to his hand while she tried to come to grips with the internal strength of this man. He had been forced to do something almost unthinkable, and he didn't make excuses for himself, didn't try to whitewash it or blur the facts. He lived with the burden of that day, and still he went on doing what he had to do.

Some people would think he was a monster. They wouldn't be able to get beyond the surface fact that he had deliberately killed his wife, or they would say that no information, no matter how crucial, was that important. Those who lived on the front lines knew better. Dallas had given his own life for his country, in a different battle of the same war.

John had saved untold lives by his actions, not just of the two moles but of the ensuing events to which they had been critical. The Soviet Union had broken up, the Berlin Wall had come down, and for a while the world had been safer. He was still on the front lines, putting himself in the cannon's mouth, perhaps trying to balance his own internal scales of justice.

"Why didn't she sell you out?" Niema asked. ""You're worth a pretty penny, you know."

"Thank you," he said dryly. "But I wasn't worth that much back then. I had high-level security clearance, so I was of some use to her, but she had her own clearance and access to a lot of classified documents."

"I can't imagine what it must have been like for you." Ineffable sadness was in her voice. She squeezed his hand again, trying to tell him without words how sorry she was for ever opening that particular can of worms.

He glanced down at her, then his head tilted up and he looked beyond her. He drew her closer to a huge flowering shrub, as if he were trying to shield them from view. "Brace yourself," he warned and bent his head.

His mouth settled on hers, his lips opening, molding, fusing. She put her hands on his shoulders and clung to him, her pulse pounding in her ears, her heart racing. Her entire body quickened with painful urgency, and she stifled a moan. His tongue was doing a slow, erotic dance in her mouth, advancing and retreating. He put his hands on her hips and drew her to him, lifting her, holding her so that they were groin to groin. She felt him getting erect, and she shivered with pleasure even while her inner alarm began clanging insistently. She fought to keep her legs under her and not sag against him like a limp noodle, which he definitely wasn't.

He lifted his mouth, holding it poised over hers. She stared up at him, dazed, and wished he wasn't wearing sunglasses so she could see his eyes. Still clinging to him she whispered, "Who's there?"

This time he did smile, his mouth curling upward. "Nobody. I just wanted to kiss you for being so damn sweet."

Violently she shoved away from him. "Sneak!" She stood with her lungs heaving, glaring at him. She really, really wanted to punch him, but instead she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

"Guilty as charged." Taking her hand again, he resumed their walk across the lawn. "But what did you expect? I tell you something that proves I'm the ruthless bastard everyone says I am, and you apologize to me. Of course I had to kiss you."

"I thought it was for the job."

"Not always," he said, not looking at her. "Not everything."

>Chapter Twenty-One

High heels would be a definite liability, Niema thought, going through her wardrobe in case she had overlooked a pair of shoes that was both dressy and flat-heeled, though she was certain she hadn't. High heels made too much noise, and it was impossible to run in them. A pair of ballet slippers would do nicely, but of all the different kinds of shoes John had had delivered to her, none of them were ballet slippers.

She stared at the gown she had planned to wear. It was a sleek black sheath with inch-wide straps that gradually widened to form the bodice, with the lowest point of the neckline squarely between her breasts. A sunburst of black cultured pearls was sewn at that strategic point, with strings of black pearls swinging from the sunburst. She had other gowns, but she wanted to wear the black so she would blend better into the shadows, if necessary.

Other than the sexy black heels, she had only one other pair of black shoes with her, and they were rather casual sandals, with stretchy straps. She pulled them out and stared at them, trying to think what she could do to dress them up. They would definitely be more comfortable to dance in than the high heels, but they looked like what they were: casual. Niema Jamieson wouldn't be that careless with her dress. She had classic taste in clothes and was never less than impeccably attired.

"Why couldn't you have been a slob?" she muttered to her alter ego.

She examined the gown again. It was sophisticated and understated, even with the dangling strings of black pearls, which glistened with a midnight iridescence that caught the eye. She reached up and flicked the strings with her finger, setting them to swaying. They would constantly call attention to her breasts.

She looked at the black sandals, then back up to the pearls. Curiously she examined the sunburst. The swaying strings weren't attached to the sunburst, but under it.

"Now we're cooking," she muttered and got up to get her tools. She knew why she was obsessing about her shoes, of course; so she wouldn't think about John and what he'd said about not everything being for the job. How was she supposed to take that? Was he referring to her or to something else entirely? There was so much in his past that he literally could have been talking about anything. Some guys led normal, open lives, with nothing more to hide than how many beers they had on the way home. John's past was so dosed and convoluted no one would ever know all the bits and pieces of what made him who he was.

Obsessing about the shoes had obviously failed in its purpose, because she couldn't stop thinking about him. Losing Dallas had been difficult enough, almost too much to bear; what must it have been like for John, to not only lose his wife but for it to be by his own hand? She tried to dredge up some feeling, some sympathy, for his wife, but nothing was there. The woman had been selling out her country, costing other people their lives. To Niema's way of thinking, that didn't make her much different from the terrorists who used poison gas or random bombs to kill. Dallas had died stopping people like her.

Tonight might be the last time she ever saw John.

That thought hovered in the back of her mind all the while she worked with the sandals, using glue from her tool kit to attach the pearls to the straps. There had been other times she'd known could be the last time: When he left just before she came to France; when he was only a voice on the phone and she knew she might not be invited to the villa. But this was somehow more definite. Once he got the computer files, he would leave immediately.

She would stay until the end of the house party and leave as scheduled; by this time next week, she would be home and back at work, and this would be a fantastic story she could never tell anyone.

But for right now she felt vibrantly alive, more than she ever had before. Her very skin was more sensitive than she had ever before noticed. She took a long, relaxing bath in water scented with the bath crystals provided with her room, and washed her hair. She even took a nap, something she rarely did, but the events of the day had been taxing. She gave herself a manicure and pedicure, painting her nails a deep scarlet. If she never saw John again, by God, he'd remember how she looked.

She didn't want to have to come back to her room for her tools and equipment, but neither could she carry everything in the tiny excuse for a purse that was her evening bag. It had room for a credit card, a lipstick and compact, and a key. That was it. She tried to think of someplace to hide the tools and pistol, but she didn't know the estate well enough, plus it was crawling with people.

There was no way out of it; she had to come back to the room to retrieve the things. She wrapped everything, tools and pistol, in the black silk stole that matched the gown she was wearing and placed the parcel under her lingerie in the built-in drawers in the large closet. Then she took a deep breath, braced her shoulders, and prepared for a final act for the audience.

He was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs when she went down. He straightened, his blue gaze sweeping over her in a perfect imitation of an infatuated lover. Out of the corner of her eye Niema saw Ronsard watching them, his expression a mixture of ruefulness and concern. She waited until she caught his eye and gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. He spread his hands in an "I tried" gesture.

John followed her smile and his eyes narrowed, menace all but oozing from him. God, he was good. He should have gone to Hollywood; with his talent, he would already have a couple of Oscars to his credit and be making a lot more money than he was as a government employee.

She could do a little acting of her own, she thought. She slowed as she neared John, as if reluctant to take those last few steps. He frowned slightly and held out his hand to her in that arrogant gesture that demanded she come to him.

She did, silently putting her hand in his, and he led her into the ballroom where the same crowd as the night before was doing the same thing they had done the night before, only wearing different clothing. She went into his arms and he held her close, their feet barely moving, his head bent down to hers in the classic pose of a man who is totally absorbed in the woman in his arms.

"I had to leave the things in my room," she said in a low voice, the words muffled against his shoulder. "I couldn't carry them in this." She indicated the tiny evening bag.

"What? You couldn't put everything in your bodice with the SIG?" He glanced down at the fabric clinging to her breasts and the deep V of the neckline.

"Careful," she warned. "I've got a knife in there and I'll use it." She felt the movement of his lips against her temple as he smiled. "What kind of distraction did you arrange?"

"I didn't. I was afraid you'd scalp me. We'll take our chances."

"I'm good at taking chances." No sooner had the words left her mouth than she almost recoiled in shock. No, she wasn't good at all at taking chances. She used to be, but not now. Not any more.

He felt her stiffening in his arms and reacted by bringing her closer. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said automatically.

"Nothing you're going to tell me," he corrected.

"Right."

Again there was that movement against her temple. After a moment he commented, "You're shorter than you were last night."

Trust him to notice something like that. "I'm not wearing heels. I doctored a pair of sandals so they match the gown." She stuck her foot out so he could see the pearls adorning the narrow straps.

He looked a little pained. "You butchered a Dior to decorate your shoes?"

"It's okay," she soothed. "Wearing sensible shoes was more important than the gown. Besides, black ops

is off-budget; you don't have to account for what's spent, do you?" "No, thank God." "So, what time do we do it?" "No set time. We keep an eye on Ronsard, and make our move when it looks as if he's occupied."

"What about Cara?"

"Taken care of."

"I hate to tell you this, but she's standing just over there."