Once in Paris (12 page)

She drew in a long breath. “Mr. Sabon, what about Jack?”

“Philippe,” he corrected her quietly. “Who is Jack?”

“Mr. Hutton's bodyguard,” she said, hoping against hope that he wouldn't find out who “Jack” was. “He was brought in with me. They put him someplace else.”

“So Hutton sent a bodyguard with you,” he mused. “He must think me a great threat to your virtue.”

“Yes, he does,” she agreed at once.

His laugh was hollow. “There was a time,” he said gently, “when that threat would have been a very real one. With hair and skin like that, you would truly have been ‘white gold' to a man like me. Perhaps it is fortunate for you that I went to Palestine that day.”

“What is ‘white gold'?” she asked, diverted.

“There was once a flourishing slave trade in this part of the world, where a white woman would bring her weight in gold.” He chuckled. “You would have brought a very nice price.”

While she was working out a reply, he glanced at his watch. “I have business to con
duct. You will have everything you need,” he promised as he turned back toward the door. He paused and glanced at her again, with a soft, curious smile. “Mufti and Rashid speak highly of you. You are not what any of us expected you to be.”

Her shoulders rose and fell. “Neither are all of you,” she replied. “I suppose we all think in stereotypes until we know something about the people behind the politics.”

He nodded. “This is true. And I am indeed sorry for your confinement. But too much is at stake to risk letting you go.”

He knocked on the door. It was opened and he left with his two men.

Brianne gnawed on her lower lip while she cursed silently at her inability to sway him from this maniacal course. It seemed perfectly logical to him, to start a war in order to save his country from conquest. But it was her country he expected to fight it for him! She had to stop this. She had to get to Washington, to stop Kurt from what he was planning, to tell someone what Sabon was planning!

But first she had to escape, she and Pierce. How would they get away? And despite his courtesy to her, what might Sabon do to Pierce
when he found out who he had in his power? Surely he'd use Pierce's capture to his advantage! He could hold him for ransom if nothing else. Here, in this poor place, a rich Westerner would be in the greatest danger.

She paced the floor, turning plans over and over in her mind. She couldn't scale the wall or break through iron bars. That left the door, and the men were guarding it. Could she play on their emotions, weaken them and then overpower them? Of course, she thought, amused at her own nerve. She could weaken them with pity and then knock them out, two big strong men with loaded automatic weapons. Despite their regard for her, they probably wouldn't hesitate to shoot her if she threatened their boss's plans.

She sat back down again, perplexed by Sabon's strange behavior. She recalled being so afraid of him, so repulsed by the man she thought he was. Now her own sympathy for him put those memories aside. As long as she lived, she would remember tears in that man's eyes as she let him hold her.

She got a sudden picture of herself with a sign around her neck offering hugs to the madman two countries over, and she laughed softly
to herself. She was getting Stockholm Syndrome—identifying with her captors. Pierce would laugh himself sick.

Pierce.
She wondered what they were doing to Pierce. She flushed, remembering their earlier encounter. Wouldn't he feel terrible when he realized what he'd done, that there was no threat from Sabon at all and Brianne wasn't on the pill. He might have made her pregnant. That would play hell with his own plans, because he'd said that he wanted to be alone, and did not want a permanent relationship with Brianne. Things were very complicated and she had no idea how to resolve them.

Right now, she had to think only of escape. Later, when she was safely at home again, she could worry about the things she didn't have time to consider right now.

T
ate Winthrop had just gotten off the phone with one of the men in his personal network of “interested observers” of the world situation. His wide, chiseled mouth pulled into a thoughtful expression as he stared out the window of his luxurious Washington, D.C. apartment at the city's night skyline. It glittered like diamonds and sapphires and rubies. It was beautiful, he mused, but a far cry from the natural colors of a South Dakota sunset near the Pine Ridge Sioux Reservation where he'd grown up.

He studied the face of a young, dark-eyed blond woman in the simple wood frame on his desk. He hid the photo of Cecily whenever she
came over for supper, which she did occasionally when the Smithsonian could spare her. He couldn't let her know the depth of his feelings for her. She was a forensic anthropologist, and she often worked with the FBI to examine skeletal remains. It was a grisly profession for a sensitive young woman, but it had been her dream to escape her stepfather's clutches and get an education. Tate had made that possible for her. She had no idea how much she owed him, and he wanted to keep it that way. He felt responsible for her, but he'd never permitted even the slightest intimacy between them. He was Sioux and she was white. He wanted no mixing of blood, no child of two separate races growing up without a true identity. Except for that, he might easily have given in to his feelings for her, he mused as he studied the delicate features of her face in the photograph. Cecily Peterson wasn't beautiful. She was pretty and slender, and she had courage and spirit and a keen, cutting wit. If he had a weakness at all, Cecily was it. And just lately, she'd bothered him more than ever before.

Pierce Hutton's phone call had come at an opportune time. It would get him away from Cecily while he refortified his defenses against
her. He had to do that periodically. Sometimes it was agony not to just reach for her and have done with it. A man of lesser scruples and willpower would have, years ago.

He smoothed long, dark fingers over the desk and pondered how to proceed. Pierce had wanted him to bring two men and meet him in Freeport. Now a contact in Freeport reported that Pierce's plane had landed, but Pierce had never shown up at the hotel where he was registered under an alias. Neither had the young woman who was supposed to be accompanying him.

That meant that Pierce had been snatched. And Tate had a fairly good idea who'd snatched him. Philippe Sabon and Kurt Brauer were up to something, and Pierce had landed himself right in the way.

He got to his feet, tall and lean and powerful in the light from the window, stretching his six-foot frame to unknot the muscles in his long back. He smoothed a hand over his long, thick black braid. It was silly not to cut his hair, since he lived in a white world, but he still harbored some faint superstitions and beliefs that had been handed down in his family for generations. He believed in talismans, and his long
hair was powerful medicine. The only time he'd cut it, he'd been shot in the chest and almost died while working for a secret government agency overseas. Since then, it was occasionally trimmed and nothing more.

He went to the closet and pulled out a small case with some items he was going to need. Then he phoned two of his best men and told them where to meet him. His heart raced at the thought of what lay ahead. Small surges of adrenaline kept him alive during the monotony of security work. This might be dangerous, but it was also going to be fun.

 

Pierce Hutton, locked in a much smaller room than Brianne's, tried unsuccessfully to pick the lock with a paper clip he'd found in a table drawer. There was some rust inside the old lock, and it wouldn't budge. He dropped the twisted paper clip to the floor with a muffled curse and threw his shoulder against the door. It didn't budge. The damned thing must have steel right through it, because it made his arm sore. He looked up, only to find another of those high barred windows that seemed to be everywhere in this fortress.

He wondered how Brianne was, and what
they were doing to her. He'd never been so angry or felt so helpless. He couldn't bear the thought of her being hurt, but he had no way to prevent it. His eyes flashed as he remembered the things he'd heard about Sabon. If the man hurt Brianne, he'd pay for it. Pierce would hunt him down if it took the rest of his life!

He heard a noise outside the door and then the sound of voices. He moved closer, putting his ear to the thick, heavy surface.

He recognized the voice, even though he'd heard it infrequently. It was Sabon!

“Can't afford to let them go, not yet,” he was telling someone.

“You don't mean to kill the child!” one man exclaimed in English.

“Good God, no!” came the sharp reply. “I mean to kill no one. But we cannot risk letting them free before we achieve our goal. The Americans must come to protect us. It would not endear us to them to find that we had kidnapped one of their citizens, regardless of the reason!”

“That is so, but can we not move her to a better place?”

There was a pause. “We will take her, and the bodyguard, to the mainland and place them
in the old fortress. It is not so modern as this, but they will have more room. You have heard nothing of Hutton?”

“Nothing. Apparently he is still in the western United States.”

“Then let us hope he remains there until Kurt has concluded our business in Washington. Damn their media, it will be all over the news and Hutton will know then. But perhaps it will be too late for him to prevent it. He is surely in the country on a limited basis. Besides, he has enemies there, and he is no more an American citizen than I am. Kurt has joint German and American citizenship. That is to work to our advantage, I think. Come, let us see if Kurt's well-armed friends have arrived.”

Pierce scowled, reflecting on what he'd heard. Sabon hadn't sounded like a man obsessed with a young woman at all. There had been some alarming hints of aggression in that quick rhetoric, and if Kurt was in the States, why was he there? What plan was unfolding?

Pierce cursed silently at his helplessness. Something big was brewing here and he was as helpless as a cat in a sack. He only hoped that Winthrop noticed his absence and came after him in time. He had it in him to feel sorry for
these poor men when his security chief arrived. Winthrop wouldn't be gentle with them.

 

In the hours that followed, there was a lot of movement outside Brianne's door. She didn't see her captors again, but she heard all sorts of noises. Marching feet. Mechanical sounds, like guns being cocked. Loud voices. There were a lot of men in the corridor for several minutes, and then they were marching away. Outside, she heard sounds like those of aircraft. Not airplanes. Helicopters, perhaps?

She remembered what Philippe Sabon had told her about his plans to garner American intervention, and she shivered. He really meant to attack his own people and blame it on a neighboring country. Did Kurt know that? Was he part of it? And what about Brianne's mother and little Nicholas, where did they fit into this insanity? Kurt couldn't be so desperate that he'd help Sabon start a war!

Incensed by her lack of sight in here, she propped the chair upside down on the bedsprings and stood on it, trying to get high enough to see out the window. But all she could manage to see was the blades of a helicopter go by. This was interesting. Surely it was part of
the assault, and it was ready to start. She couldn't warn anybody. She couldn't even help herself. Surely Sabon wouldn't kill his own people. He must mean to fake an attack, for the benefit of any foreigners who might be in residence.

The mainland was several miles away. But the sound of bombs and missiles carried a fair distance, so when Brianne heard explosions a few minutes later, she knew what they must be. It was too late to prevent this. If only she could get out of here in time to warn someone back home, before Kurt spoke to his senator.

She stood, frozen, as she put the pieces of the puzzle together. Kurt was already in the States, Sabon had said. He knew the attack was coming. He was going to be “conveniently” in Washington when he was informed of it. He'd tell his senator friend, who'd tell some colleagues, and—

No, wait! They'd have to have a hearing and appoint a committee, just as they always did before sending troops anywhere. She breathed a sigh of relief. There wasn't going to be any danger. What was she thinking! The Americans weren't like some other nations. They deliber
ated before they acted. Poor Kurt! And poor Mr. Sabon, too. This was all for nothing.

She got off the bed, turned the chair back over and sat down on it. She didn't need to worry about a war. Her own situation, and Pierce's, seemed of paramount importance now. She only hoped they hadn't discovered his identity. His situation was a lot more precarious than her own.

She wondered if he was thinking about her, after their torrid interlude. She didn't dare tell him the truth about Sabon just yet. When he found out that Sabon was incapable, he'd be furious that he'd gone to such lengths to protect Brianne. Worse, if he found out that she hadn't taken her birth control pills for two days, he'd be livid. The threat of pregnancy was a very real one, because she was halfway between her monthlies—the best time for it to happen. She let herself dream about a little boy with Pierce's dark, wavy hair and black eyes. But it was a sad dream, because he'd hate both of them. He was still in love with his dead wife. She winced as she recalled something from their intimacy that she hadn't wanted to remember. Just as he began to relax from the strain and delight of satisfaction, he'd whispered a name. But it
hadn't been Brianne's. She heard the words echo over and over in her mind. “Margo, darling.”

She closed her eyes, trying to blot out the memory of all that passion she'd thought they were sharing. She'd only been a substitute for his beautiful ghost, and she hadn't known it until it was all over, and she was about to whisper how much she loved him. She was glad she hadn't. It would only have made a bad situation worse. He didn't love her.

She wrapped her arms protectively around her chest and refused to think about it anymore, for fear of going quietly mad in the lonely room. She'd face all the unpleasantness later, when she had the time. Right now, she had to think up some way to get out of here! Even if Sabon hadn't a chance of attracting American troops here, his mercenaries could miss their target and accidentally bomb the house she and Pierce were held in. Or some of his countrymen, unaware of the real identity of their attackers, might fight back and cause a greater tragedy. While she sympathized with Sabon's position, she thought his approach to a solution was dead wrong. He had tunnel vision. He only saw his own role in this, not the greater picture.
World War III could easily start over such a misguided attempt to protect a small, poor nation. He wasn't considering any other country except his own. Perhaps he had good intentions, but they were being lost in his mania. Presumably the elderly sheikh who ruled this country was being kept in the dark about Philippe's plans. Poor old man. Perhaps he was being held captive, just as she was.

She heard a sound at the window. It came again. The room was viciously hot as the sun came up and spilled down, making shadowy bar patterns on the tiled floor. There was no glass at the window, only those iron bars. Suddenly a small projectile whizzed down and landed at her feet. She bent over the paper-wrapped stone and opened what appeared to be part of an envelope.

“Distract them” was printed in block letters, in English.

She crumpled the paper in her hand and stood up, pursing her lips as she considered the meaning of the note and the intent behind the words. Her eyes began to twinkle. Well, well, rescue was at hand and needed a helping hand, hmmm?

She took a deep breath, started worrying her
hair and looking as if she couldn't get her breath at all. She grabbed her throat, contracting it a little to make her face look very red.

“Oh…!” she cried out hoarsely. “Oh…I can't…breathe…my heart!”

She clutched her chest and fell to the floor, giving a very good impression of someone having a heart attack. At her age it would have been unusual, to say the least, but the guard had been told specifically by Monsieur Sabon himself to keep her safe. So when he heard her he went running down the hall to her room, key in hand.

He almost made it. A shadow stepped out from the wall and put a steely arm to his throat. He went down instantly and was helped to stay there by another sharp punch.

The keys were extracted. A hand motioned to two other shadowy figures in totally black garb, right down to the face masks and combat boots. The other invaders went methodically down the hall, guns in hand, checking each door along the way.

Brianne was standing when the door opened. All she could see was a pair of black eyes in a face mask, but in a leaner face than Pierce's.

“Are you the cavalry?” she asked hopefully.

“Yes, and I don't mean Custer's,” he replied, giving a smug grin at his little joke and showing a flash of his perfect white teeth. “Miss Martin, I presume.”

“Mrs. Hutton, actually, but I'm sure he'll find a solution for that momentarily. Do you know where he is? Is he all right?” she asked.

Stunned by the news of his boss's marriage but not showing it, Tate Winthrop took her arm impersonally and drew her out the door. “We're about to find out. Stay just behind me, please.”