Secret Agent Seduction (13 page)

Yes.
She heard the word in her mind, as clear as a bell, but for some inexplicable reason she couldn't bring herself to voice it aloud. She felt paralyzed, lungs locked, unable to inhale or exhale.

Watching her intently, Magliore's mouth curved in the barest hint of a smile. “That's what I thought,” he murmured.

Lia swallowed. She felt like a small, cornered animal that had foolishly squandered an opportunity for escape and now found itself facing the bared fangs of its enemy.

She took a step backward. “Well, um, good night,” she mumbled.

This time there was no mistaking the wolfish gleam in Magliore's eyes. “Good night, Lia,” he said softly. “Sweet dreams.”

Monday, September 8, 2008
1400 hours
Muwaiti
Presidential Palace
Day 4

W
hen Alexandre Biassou was ten years old, his mother was brutally murdered before his very eyes.

Her crime was adultery.

Her judge and executioner was her own husband.

He shot her three times in the face so that no one attending the funeral would remember the exquisitely beautiful woman she had been in life. Instead, she would be forever mourned as the hideously disfigured creature who had provoked the wrath of a monster.

Christophe Biassou never spent a day in prison for killing his wife. Back then, the Muwaitian authorities did not look favorably upon adulterous women. Christophe was seen as the victim, the poor, trusting fool who'd been betrayed and humiliated by his whore of a wife. It was agreed that depriving him of his freedom, after the grievous injustice he'd already suffered, would be nothing short of a travesty.

And that was when his ten-year-old son learned that a man could commit any crime under the sun—even murder—and get away with it.

So when he grew up to become a politician, he thought nothing of engaging in bribery, extortion and embezzlement schemes—whatever it took to advance his political career and increase his personal wealth.

And when he set his sights on the Muwaitian presidency, and realized that Francois Seligny was the only obstacle standing in his way, Alexandre had no qualms about arranging his rival's assassination. As far as he was concerned, the ends justified the means.

Following in the footsteps of his father, Alexandre got away with murder.

That was the first time, but it certainly wouldn't be the last.

When his wife brazenly threatened to expose all his dirty secrets to a prominent British journalist who had contacted her, Alexandre saw to it that she “accidentally” fell overboard and drowned in the ocean while they were out sailing on their private yacht. No one dared question his story that he had been sleeping below decks when his wife, a notorious drunk, lost her footing and plunged to her death.

That was the only way Alexandre knew how to deal with people who posed a threat to him. He removed them from the equation—permanently.

It had been four days since Magliore's infuriating escape from Muwaiti, and Alexandre was still waiting to receive news of his whereabouts from his American co-conspirator. With each passing hour and day he grew more impatient, and anxious. Time was running out. Magliore must be found and killed soon if Alexandre were to have any chance at retaining his power—and his freedom.

The dire nature of his situation weighed heavily upon him, robbing him of sleep and making him lash out at anyone who had the misfortune of crossing his path, be it household servants or members of his administration.

Now, as Alexandre sat at a table in the palace courtyard playing chess with his ninety-year-old father, he found himself unable to concentrate. When Christophe Biassou captured his king and won the game, Alexandre scowled.

Christophe glared reproachfully at him, his obsidian-colored eyes as shrewd and piercing as they had ever been. He scolded his son for not paying attention. Glaring at him, Christophe tapped a gnarled finger against his temple. “Chess is a game of strategy. You cannot win if you do not have a strategy.”

Alexandre's temper flared. “
Merde!
You think I do not know that? How many times have I sat in this same chair and beat you soundly at this game?”

There was a time he would have severed his own tongue before daring to speak to his father with such blatant disrespect. But that time had long ago passed. Christophe Biassou was no longer the larger-than-life figure of Alexandre's youth, the man with the thunderous voice, brutal fists and volatile temper, whose very footstep had struck fear and awe in the heart of his only child. The years had turned Christophe into a feeble, embittered old man who needed his son far more than Alexandre had ever needed him.

And Christophe knew it, too, whether or not he was too proud to admit it.

“I know what has been eating at you,” Christophe observed as Alexandre began setting up the chessboard for a new match. This time he would
not
lose.

“You're worried that you will not find the rebel leader in time,” his father continued. “You're worried that you will go to prison.”

Alexandre did not reply. He had never consulted his father about his political affairs. After all, Christophe was a coarse, uneducated man who had spent most of his life toiling in the sugarcane fields. He knew nothing about politics, guerrilla warfare, military strategy or what it took to run a country. It hadn't taken any brains or ingenuity on his part to get away with murdering his wife; he'd simply been the benefactor of a legal system that did not value women. His counsel on most matters could be of little use or interest to Alexandre.

But that never stopped him from offering his opinion, anyway.

He wagged his bony finger at Alexandre. “You should have gotten rid of that boy when you had the chance. Instead you allowed him to hang around for years and make a fool of you. You cannot be a strong, respected leader if you cannot silence your enemies.”

Alexandre clenched his jaw so tightly it hurt. “Are you going to play or talk, old man?”

Christophe made a sound of disgust. “I do not want to play again. There is no challenge in it for me if you are not focused on the game.”

“Fine.” With an impatient snap of his fingers, Alexandre summoned his father's nurse, who had been seated on a bench nearby reading a romance novel.

“Escort my father to his room,” Alexandre ordered the burly woman. “It's time for his nap.”

“I'm not tired,” Christophe grumbled to no avail as he was assisted from his chair and led away.

No sooner had Alexandre gotten rid of his irascible father than a servant appeared at his side. “
Pardonnez-moi,
your excellency,” the youth said, bowing deferentially. “This just arrived for you.”

“Merci,”
Alexandre murmured, calmly accepting the large envelope. But as soon as the servant departed, he ripped it open with trembling hands, his heart pounding with anticipation.

Inside the envelope was a small black-and-white photograph attached to a one-page dossier on Special Agent Lia Charles, the woman who had led the Special Forces team responsible for Magliore's extraction. Alexandre lingered over the photo for a moment, reluctantly admiring the beautiful young American who'd thwarted his mercenaries that night in the jungle. If only she'd been captured and brought to the palace. He would have thoroughly enjoyed ravishing her, hearing her screams of pain and terror, before he sliced her throat.

Chuckling darkly at the thought, Alexandre scanned the document, skimming over the agent's impressive credentials, until he came upon what he was looking for.

There, in fine print at the bottom of the paper, was the name and address of the mountain retreat where Magliore and the woman were hiding out, along with detailed instructions on how Alexandre's assassin would gain access to the secure government facility.

As Alexandre calmly returned the document to the envelope, a slow, cunning smile spread across his face.

I'm coming for you, traitor. Ready or not.

Armand jolted upright in bed, heart slamming against his ribs, a fine sheen of sweat clinging to his bare chest.

As he blinked in the gloomy darkness of his room, trying to make sense of what had awakened him, a clap of thunder sounded outside, followed seconds later by the steady patter of rain against the rooftop.

Slowly he eased back against his pillows, scrubbing his face with his hands.

He'd fallen asleep dreaming about Lia—edgy, tantalizing images full of smoke and heat and pulsing steel drums, sultry dark eyes, glistening brown skin and moist lips parted in sensual invitation. The whisper of soft, husky laughter teased his senses, and the seductive exploration of her mouth and hands made him writhe with longing. And then suddenly the images changed, became darker, menacing. He was running. Out of breath. Someone was shouting at him, telling him that he was in danger and must save himself. Lia, he realized. But when he stopped and turned around, he saw his mother and two siblings, Henri and Felicite. They were all staring at him with such sorrow in their eyes that he took a step toward them, seeking to comfort them. But they shook their heads frantically and pointed toward the ground, and when Armand looked down, he saw that there was a wide chasm separating them. Felicite and his mother began to cry—terrible, keening wails that tore him apart. When he started toward them again, the earth opened wider and swallowed him, plunging him into a dark underworld of blood, violence and mayhem. He heard machine-gun fire, mortar blasts, tortured screams. And he heard Lia again, yelling at him to run, to leave her behind. But he couldn't. He
wouldn't.

This time when he turned around to reach for her, he found himself staring into the cruelly smiling face of Alexandre Biassou.

That's when Armand woke with a violent start.

“Merde,”
he swore hoarsely under his breath.

Tossing aside the covers, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, then stood and padded barefoot to the adjoining bathroom, where he splashed cold water over his face. A shudder ran through him at the memory of the disturbing dream, which had seemed all too real.

Especially the sinister smile on Biassou's face.

Nightmares were nothing new to Armand. He'd had more than his fair share of them over the last two years, harrowing dreams in which he saw the lifeless faces of comrades he'd lost along the way and men he'd killed in battle.

But this dream had been different. More intense. Ominous. Even now, as he stood over the bathroom sink, staring at his shadowy reflection in the mirror, Armand couldn't shake a horrible sense of foreboding.

Trouble was on the way. He felt it down to the marrow of his bones.

Over the last four days he'd been so preoccupied with Lia, so obsessed with seducing her, that he'd allowed himself to be lulled into a false sense of security. A state of relaxed contentment. Every time he was with her, he found it startlingly easy to keep reality at bay. To push unsettling thoughts of home, corruption and danger to the far recesses of his mind. After two years of fighting and living in self-imposed exile, Armand knew he'd earned the right to relax a little. But it was a luxury he couldn't afford to indulge for very much longer.

If there was one thing being a soldier had taught him, it was to be on guard at all times.

And if there was one thing he'd learned from Alexandre Biassou, it was to never underestimate your enemy.

Biassou's failure to prevent Armand from leaving Muwaiti alive did not mean he had given up on stopping him from testifying at the hearing. Biassou had too much to lose to surrender now. He would pursue Armand to the ends of the earth to keep him from ruining his future. There was no doubt in Armand's mind that if Biassou discovered where he was hiding, he would do everything in his power to find a way to breach the tight security and get to Armand.

The dream had been a warning, he realized. His intuition was telling him to be on the lookout, to be vigilant, because Biassou was coming after him. Hunting him like an animal.

Armand frowned, his gut tightening at another possibility. Maybe Biassou was going after his family, not him. After all, Biassou knew how much Armand's mother and sister and brother meant to him. He'd successfully managed to sneak them out of the country without Biassou's knowledge. Maybe Biassou had learned of their new whereabouts and decided that the only way to get to Armand was to kidnap his family and use them as bait to lure him out of hiding. Once he had Armand in his clutches, he would kill all of them.

Armand shuddered, closing his eyes and bracing his palms on the smooth, cool surface of the bathroom counter. Suddenly he was struck by a fierce urge to see his mother and siblings again—an urge so strong he was tempted to march next door, drag Lia from her bed and demand that she take him to his family. He needed to make sure that they were safe and sound. He needed to hug them, and tell them how much he loved them.

And if something
was
going to happen to him, he needed one last chance to say goodbye.

But he knew that Lia would never go for it. She wouldn't even give him the exact location of the federal safe house where his family was being kept. For security reasons, she'd explained. Which was also why taking him to see his family or arranging a clandestine meeting at a neutral location, was out of the question. It was too risky, too dangerous.

Armand understood the rationale. God knows he had no desire to put his mother and siblings in any more danger than he already had. But as disturbing images from the dream replayed in his mind, he knew he had to find a way to get in touch with his family somehow. One way or another he had to convince Lia to help him.

With his mind made up, Armand left the bathroom and crawled back into bed.

Lying on his back with his hands clasped behind his head, he watched out his window as a bolt of lightning cut an electrified path across the sky.