Once in Paris (17 page)

“He told me that his finances were desperate,” Brianne mentioned.

“And I gather that he also saw through my offer of marriage.” Sabon glanced at her and his smile was genuine.

“Saw through it?” Pierce stared at the other man grimly.

Sabon met his hostile gaze. “I can never marry,” he said curtly. He got up from his seat and stretched. He looked around their surroundings with resignation. “That it should end here, in such a way,” he mused. “All my hopes for my people…”

“Fifty thousand dollars won't be enough to mount a counterrevolution,” Pierce said.

Sabon turned. “Yes, it will,” he argued. “These mercenaries are bloodthirsty and merciless. But they are no match for the sort that my men can hire across the border.”

“What sort?”

Sabon's eyes narrowed. “I think you already know.”

Pierce grimaced. He searched the other man's cold eyes. “I don't like being a party to carnage.”

“Nor do I,” the other man said with barely contained rage. “But I already have been. My house servant, Miriam, had been with me for ten years. They left her in the garden, in a condition that it hurts me to recall.” He bit down hard and averted his eyes, trying to blank out the memory. He clenched his lean fists at his side. “I will have my country back,” he said tightly. “And I will see to it that Brauer pays
a very high price for his treachery.” He glanced at Pierce. “Help me.”

Pierce threw up his hands in defeat. “I can't believe this,” he said with pure exasperation. He let out a heavy breath and stared hard at the other man. “I never thought I'd see the day when I lined up on the side of my worst living enemy.”

“I was never your enemy,” Sabon said simply. “I had no knowledge of the attack on your drilling platform or I would have warned you. Kurt appeared to be a rich foreign investor with contacts in the oil business. I never thought of myself before as politically naive, but perhaps my education was scanty in too many spots. I must rethink my ability to judge people.”

“Kurt had a lot of people fooled,” Brianne said softly. “Including my poor mother.”

Sabon's eyes narrowed. “Fortunately, he will have little time for her at present. When he finishes here, one way or another, her life will be in jeopardy if she knows anything at all of his business dealings. He will not want to risk having too many witnesses around. Accidents can easily be arranged.”

“Oh, my God,” Brianne whispered.

“Don't borrow trouble,” Pierce said gently. “We'll protect her.”

“As soon as we get out of here, I'll get a message to my contact in Freeport,” Tate said in a deep, quiet tone that was reassuring. “He'll get your mother and the child out of Nassau before Kurt gets home.”

“Thank you,” Brianne said with heartfelt gratitude.

“So that was how you knew where to find Hutton and Brianne,” Sabon mused, watching Tate. “I underestimated you right down the line, Mr. Winthrop.”

“Most people do,” Tate replied with a flash of white teeth.

“I think I hear something outside the ship,” Pierce said, cutting into the conversation.

They listened, and the sound came abruptly: sirens. They grew louder and louder.

“The Coast Guard!” Brianne exclaimed.

“In the Persian Gulf?” Sabon asked with lifted eyebrows. “The Americans may think they own the area, but I assure you, they haven't taken possession yet!”

“It's the harbor patrol, at the very least,” Tate murmured. He rushed to the porthole and looked out. A minute later, he let out the breath
he was holding and turned back to the others. “They're boarding a ship. Not ours. We've almost cleared the harbor.”

There were relieved sighs all around. If they were discovered too soon, the captain might have no choice but to turn them over on demand. It would mean certain death if Brauer got to them before they reached sanctuary.

Pierce and Tate exchanged worried glances. They were a long way from home. They had connections and Pierce's sudden windfall, but if they used his credit cards, Brauer's men would trace any transaction immediately and close in. Even if they landed at Miami, they were going to have to outwit the henchmen who would certainly be on the lookout for them. They weren't even sure of passage out of St. Martin. If they were being watched, and that was possible, they might never make it aboard another westward-bound freighter.

Sabon stared at them with a pensive expression. “The captain is not going on to Miami, which is as well. If you did go all the way to Miami on this vessel, you'd be carried on shore in body bags,” he said.

Three pairs of eyes turned toward him.

“We were planning on changing ships. This
is as far as the captain can take us. But I have a contact in Miami,” Tate said after a minute.

“Brauer will know who it is by now. Don't underestimate his intelligence network. I did, and you can see what it cost me,” Sabon reminded him.

Tate exhaled roughly, and his thin lips compressed as he tried to think rationally.

“Have you a pen and paper?” Sabon asked after a minute.

“You want to write home?” Pierce murmured dryly, but he handed the man what he'd asked for.

Sabon scribbled a name and an address, added a note in Arabic and his signature, and pressed the ring on his little finger into the paper. He handed it to Pierce, along with the pen. His expression was somber.

“For all I know, this—” Pierce waved the paper at him “—could be our death warrants. I can't read Arabic.”

“Unless I'm an even worse judge of character than I thought, he can read it,” Sabon mused, nodding toward Tate.

“Can you?” Pierce asked his security chief.

Tate took the note, scanned it and handed it back to Pierce. His black eyes narrowed as he
studied the tall Arab. He looked perplexed for a moment, and then he nodded, very slowly. “It's a legitimate request for the recipient to give us any aid possible.” He didn't add what else the note said. But his gaze was eloquent.

Sabon also nodded. A look passed between the two men. Sabon spoke in quick, sharp Arabic. It was a question that neither of their companions could begin to understand.

Tate replied in the same language with equal fluency.

“What is this, charades?” Pierce asked curtly.

“Nothing that concerns anyone else,” Tate assured him. “And nothing to do with the matter at hand.”

He said nothing more, nor did Sabon. Night fell, and the four of them slept.

 

“St. Martin,” Sabon said as he studied the approaching island. “And my destination.” He pulled the hood of his robe over his head and paused to look back at his companions. “We Moors once had very strong Spanish connections. The gentleman whose name I gave you is Spanish, but he has a grandmother in my country. He will do what he can for you be
cause I requested it and he owes me a favor. Trust him. But trust no one else. Your lives may depend on it.”

“Why are you helping us?” Pierce asked shortly.

“Ask your comrade” came the quiet reply. He met the other man's eyes. “I will be here for three days, under an assumed identity. If you're still willing to help me, wire the money to Señor Alfredo Cantada in care of the Gardell Bank.”

Pierce sighed. “God knows why I should. But I will. I don't make promises lightly.”

“We'll erect a statue to you, as our benefactor,” Sabon said with twinkling dark eyes.

Pierce didn't reply for a minute. “He may find you, if you stay here that long.”

“His men won't recognize me,” Sabon replied. “I have resources that I haven't used in years. He won't find me.”

“Good luck, then,” Pierce said.

“And to all of you. Including Mufti,” he added with a secretive grin, “who has been trying desperately to avoid me since I came on board. Tell him that I did know who he was, and that he kept my secret, as I will keep his. There will be no reprisals against his family
when my power is restored.” He looked at Brianne long and poignantly. “By getting you out, he saved all his relatives.”

Brianne was more touched than she wanted to be. She felt so sorry for the man, and even vaguely guilty for having so badly misjudged him. “Take care, Monsieur Sabon,” Brianne said gently. “Good luck.”

He smiled at her. “And
bon chance
to you as well,
chérie
,” he replied in a soft tone. His eyes searched hers intensely. “I will mourn you for the rest of my life,” he added in Arabic, with unexpected emotion.

He turned and went up to the deck very quickly, and without looking back.

“What did he say to you in Arabic?” Pierce asked Tate.

“Just that he wasn't selling us out,” he replied evasively. “Interesting man.”

“Damned interesting,” Pierce agreed.

Tate glanced at Brianne and frowned curiously. “I don't suppose you know why he said that to you?”

“I don't speak Arabic,” she reminded him. “What
did
he say?”

“Just that he was dying for love of you and,
having lost you, he'll never be able to think of another woman,” he said facetiously.

“Idiot,” Pierce murmured, chuckling as he turned away.

But Tate Winthrop's dark eyes met hers and he wasn't smiling.

Brianne frowned curiously, but he didn't say a word. He turned back to Pierce and looked out the porthole as Sabon blended into the crowd.

“We'd better make a move, and quickly,” Tate said after a minute. “We don't have long to find this ship Sabon mentioned and get aboard.”

“If we aren't walking into a trap,” Pierce said uneasily. He glanced at Brianne with a scowl. “I hope we know what we're doing.”

“Don't know about you,” Tate replied. “But I know exactly what I'm doing.”

The three passengers stripped off their Arab robes and stashed them in the hold under some sacks of grain. They'd donned their European clothing the morning of their departure and they were still wearing them now. Mufti was wearing his headdress, but he borrowed a sweat suit from another sailor and shaved. He looked vaguely American when he was through.

Brianne's silk slacks were hopelessly crumpled, like her blouse and jacket. She knew her hair was a terrible mess and she wanted a bath until it was almost painful. But she was more worried about reaching the American coastline. Even with Sabon's dubious help, it was going to be very dangerous.

“I don't even have a gun,” she murmured.

Pierce glanced at her. “What brought that on?”

“We may have to fight our way out,” she said simply. “I do know a little karate.”

Pierce nodded toward Tate. “Tenth degree black belt, tae kwon do,” he told her.

She whistled through her teeth. “Not bad, Mr. Winthrop.”

“What was your discipline?” he asked her.

She smiled ruefully. “Tai chi,” she said. “I thought of the movements as ballet.”

“They're graceful,” he agreed. “But if you put speed behind those graceful movements, they can kill.”

“I'd be better off with a tire tool, I'm afraid. I wish you had a spare gun.”

“Can you shoot one?” he asked.

“I'm great with laser tag.”

“These targets shoot back and they don't use
blanks,” he returned. “You'd better leave the shooting to us.”

She wondered if she should mention the judo classes she'd taken. She decided not to. She already felt like a third leg on this trip.

T
he four prospective passengers wandered down the marina and blended in nicely with the tourists in port, in their European clothing. It wasn't hard to find the vessel in the marina. It was another freighter, but cleaner than the one they'd just departed, with Spanish registration. Its wiry little captain read the note Sabon had scribbled, took a long look at Brianne and offered them the hospitality of his ship without any hesitation whatsoever.

They were taken below, and the ship started up at once in the marina where it was moored.

“What about customs when we get to Miami?” Brianne asked worriedly. “What if Kurt has some of his men waiting there for us?”

“This isn't Hollywood,” Pierce replied. “Little fish slip through big nets. We're fugitives, you know. We don't do this with passports and suitcases.”

“Fugitives?” she exclaimed.

Pierce nodded. “If we come into the country in any legitimate way, we won't get to a car before we're cut down by Brauer's men. We have to sneak in.”

“It's illegal,” she groaned. “We could go to jail for circumventing customs!”

“She's catching on,” Tate murmured dryly.

She shrugged back her inhibitions. One did, after all, have to roll with the punches. At least she'd have company in prison. “Okay. What do we do?”

“We avoid Miami altogether. This captain is sailing to Savannah. He's let me use his radio to get in touch with my people in the States. We'll get off where they won't be expecting us,” Tate told her. “You'll like it. There's a candy factory right there next to the harbor where you can get the world's best pralines.”

“Can we buy some without getting shot?” she wanted to know.

“Let's find out.”

Pierce frowned. “I hope we can trust this captain.”

“We can,” Tate said with conviction.

“How can you be so certain?” Pierce asked.

Tate glanced at Brianne and away. “Never mind how. But I am.”

“Then I suppose we'll have to trust your instincts.”

“You're really going to wire Mr. Sabon the money he asked for?” Brianne murmured as they watched the coastline grow farther away through the porthole.

“God knows why, but I am,” Pierce agreed.

“He's not a bad man,” she persisted. “He only wants a better future for his people.”

“He should leave that up to the sheikh who rules his little kingdom,” Pierce muttered. “And speaking of the sheikh, instead of running for the border with his bodyguard and his harem, he should be out like a decent leader, trying to work on his country's behalf.”

“He is,” Tate replied without looking at him.

“How do you know that?”

Tate turned and looked at him. “Did you look closely at the signature on that slip of paper Sabon gave you?”

Puzzled, Pierce drew it out and studied it, with a curious Brianne peering over his muscular arm.

The scribble was all but undecipherable, except for an embossed impression near it that was only visible with the light on it in a certain way.

“You noticed the ring he wears on his little finger?” Tate persisted.

“No. I didn't.”

“It contains an official seal,” Tate said. “I saw him make the impression. You might notice the crest. It's the coat of arms of the Tatluk sheikhdom.”

Pierce was really puzzled now. “So?”

“Who do you think Philippe Sabon really is?” Tate murmured with a dry smile.

Pierce was very still. “Not the sheikh himself.”

Tate chuckled. “Not quite, but he will be one day. The ruling sheikh is his father, a rather rotund and aged gentleman in failing health. Philippe is the power behind the throne these days. So he did what his father couldn't; he disguised himself as a wealthy businessman and went out to attract investors to develop his
country's untouched oil reserves and keep his treasury from going bankrupt.”

“Why not do it as himself, then?” Brianne asked, astonished.

“Too risky. If he were kidnapped, his country would be bankrupted even sooner trying to ransom him.” Tate smiled. “Hell of an idea, wasn't it? And he almost accomplished his plan.”

“No wonder he had so much pull in his government,” Pierce agreed. “He
was
the government.”

“He still is,” Tate said. “And that group of soldiers he sent over the border is his personal guard, the elite of his father's military. They're on a level with the British SAS, and they'll recruit mercenaries to work for them, to help take their country away from Brauer.”

“Not unless we can get to Washington in time to stop Brauer's plan from working, or American troops may bomb him out of existence, thinking they're stopping World War III,” Pierce said grimly. “Can you get a message to D.C.?”

Tate nodded. “But who's going to listen to us without proof? We have to take Mufti to someone high up in the secretary of state's of
fice and let him spill his guts. Then we have to wait while the story is checked out. The wheels of progress turn slowly at the diplomatic level.”

“Mufti?” Brianne realized suddenly that they hadn't seen Mufti since they'd boarded the ship. “Where is he?”

“He found a poker game down below,” Tate chuckled. “He hasn't anything to wager except matchsticks, but if we can get him to Vegas, I think he can break the bank. He's a natural.”

The mention of Las Vegas made Brianne uneasy. She didn't look at Pierce. She didn't like remembering the quick, unemotional ceremony that had joined them together. Her sad eyes went to the gold band on her ring finger and she touched it wistfully. If only he'd been able to love her, just a little. When this adventure was over, they were going their separate ways. She'd be a divorcee long before she ever learned to be a wife. Not that he'd care, she mused. He might enjoy her in bed, but his inhibitions about being unfaithful to Margo would always be there between them.

She turned away and went to the porthole to stare out at the sea.

“I think I'll go check on Mufti,” Tate said.
He went through the hatch and closed it gently behind him.

Pierce joined Brianne at the window. “One way or another, it's been a momentous few days,” he remarked.

“I'll be glad when they're over.” Her voice was strained as she spoke. She was lying through her teeth. She'd rather be in danger with Pierce than safe without him, but she had no choice left.

He stuck his hands in the pockets of his slacks and stared down at her bent head sadly. “I'm sorry about the other night,” he said a little hesitantly. “I never meant it to happen.”

She shrugged. “No harm done. I got my one night after all.”

He caught her arm and turned her toward him. “Don't make it sound cheap,” he said shortly. “It wasn't.”

She searched his hard face quietly. “Go ahead, then. Tell me how you were thinking of me instead of Margo while you were making love to me.”

His intake of breath was even louder than the throb of the engines. He stared at her with narrow, glittering eyes, so intently that she lowered her own quickly.

“Oh, damn, I'm sorry,” she muttered tightly. “I'm sorry! But we both know you don't really want me, Pierce, except as a substitute. I'm too young and too unsophisticated, and we've already agreed that I'm bound to cling too much.” She lifted her resigned face to his. “Let's just think of it as an exercise in mutual attraction and let it go at that,” she added in a dull, lackluster tone. “I'm looking forward to college, you know,” she said suddenly, forcing a smile to her face. “I'd like to go to the Sorbonne, if you don't mind.”

He stuck his hands in his slacks pockets and stared blankly out the porthole. “Whatever you want.”

“You can get a quiet divorce when we get home,” she added, not looking directly at him.

“We'll fly back to Vegas for it,” he said with a cold smile. “I believe it can be done in twenty-four hours. I'll make all the arrangements and let you know when I've got a free hour in my schedule. I expect to do a lot of traveling when this is over.”

She'd have liked to do some herself, but she had to be content with Paris again. She felt a sudden chill and wrapped her arms around herself for comfort. It might have been better if
she'd left him to that wallet-pinching lady of the evening in Paris, she mused silently. At least her own poor heart would have been spared its present state of misery.

He studied her silently, his dark eyes running from her disheveled blond hair to her small feet. She was pretty and sweet, and in bed she was all any man could ask. She loved him. He was throwing all that away for his ghost, so that he could go on pretending that Margo wasn't really dead, that she'd just gone away for a while and would come back.

Listening to his own thoughts startled him. Did he really believe that? Was he willing to be alone for the rest of his life because he couldn't face the reality of his loss?

He scowled as he looked at the slender young woman near him. How many men wouldn't go down on their knees to have such a pretty little thing love them unconditionally? Brianne had spirit and class, and a heart as big as the whole world. She'd go away to college and some bright, eager young man would discover all her assets. He'd want her. Perhaps he'd treat her as Pierce never had, tenderly, with constant attention, little presents of flowers and candy and trinkets, late-night phone calls and lazy lunches
and late dinners. The opera, perhaps, and the theater and concerts.

He drew in a wounded breath. Brianne deserved that sort of attention. She was a rare and unusual girl. No, she was a rare and unusual woman, he reminded himself, and his body began to throb as he recalled her initiation at his hands. She was sweet heaven to love. Her skin was soft, like a petal warmed by the sun. Her body rippled when he touched it. She never held back or played games with him. He could do anything he liked to her, and she accepted him eagerly. But he was going to walk away from her because he couldn't accept the reality, the finality, of his beloved Margo's passing. Margo was dead. She wouldn't come back. He'd be alone forever.

Brianne sensed his pain and she turned, looking up at him with soft, curious green eyes that loved him.

He glared at her. Sabon had gone to this trouble, arranged this passage, for Brianne. Why? What had she given the man in return?

Jealousy, new and surprisingly fierce, surged through him and left a faint blush across his high cheekbones.

“What did you do with Sabon?” he asked abruptly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why is he going to so much trouble on your account?” He shifted, his eyes narrowing. “What did you give him, Brianne?” he added in a dangerously soft tone.

“I—I gave him nothing,” she stammered.

“Don't hand me that! His reputation can't be all conjecture and lies!”

She couldn't tell him about Sabon. It would be cruel and unfair, to permit him to be made a laughingstock, an object of pity in a world where masculinity was defined by capability. Pierce might one day mention it to someone. It would be devastating enough for a common man, but for someone who would one day rule a sheikhdom, in a very masculine part of the world, it was unthinkable.

She stared bravely into Pierce's angry eyes. “Believe what you like,” she said finally. “If you think I'm devious enough to use my body as a bargaining tool, then you don't know me, anyway.”

“Such a sweet body,” he murmured, but his measured scrutiny of it was lewd and insulting. “Enough to make a man do anything, even go
against his own principles. I imagine he enjoyed it.”

“At least he wasn't thinking of another woman and calling me by her name!” she exclaimed, torn by the memory of Pierce doing just that.

His face paled. He couldn't even deny it. But what hit him hardest was her admission that she'd gone from him to Sabon. He clenched his fists in his pockets and fought down homicidal rage. He wouldn't give Sabon a penny to mount his counterrevolution. He'd kill him instead!

Brianne realized too late what she'd done to Sabon's chances for a loan. She didn't quite know how to repair it.

She folded her hands at her waist with a long sigh. “He wanted to, but I couldn't,” she lied, averting her eyes to the floor. It was Philippe who couldn't, but no need to tell Pierce that.

“Why?”

“Because I'm married!” she shouted at him, livid and wounded by his sarcasm, by his willingness to believe that she could betray him. “Even if you don't consider yourself my husband, I'm not going to cheat on you with another man!”

He knew she was telling the truth, and he felt
ashamed of his suspicions. Jealousy was new to him. He didn't like it.

“All right,” he snapped, irritated by his own erratic behavior. “I'm sorry.”

She shrugged and turned away. “You can't help how you feel, Pierce,” she said stiffly. “I'm grateful for what you've done for me, especially since it seems the whole charade was unnecessary. Philippe only wanted to bring me to the island so that Kurt would think he was serious about marrying me. He was sure the prospect of all that money in the family would keep Kurt from backing out of the deal with his investment. He was wrong.”