Secret Agent Seduction (23 page)

“I
am
a Secret Service agent,” Lia said, quietly emphatic.

And I always will be.
She let the unspoken words hang between them.

Armand held her gaze for a long, charged moment.

She was the first to look away. “What time does your flight leave tonight?” she asked, although she already knew the answer, had been agonizing over the date and time of his departure for days now.

“Eight,” he replied.

She nodded, her throat tightening.

“Am I the only one,” he said huskily, “who thought we had something special, a rare, powerful connection?”

Lia closed her eyes. “Of course not,” she whispered.

“Then why do you refuse to discuss our future together?”

“What kind of future can we have, Armand?” she cried, opening her eyes and staring at him. “We live thousands of miles apart from each other.”

“It doesn't have to stay that way!”

“Who's going to make the sacrifice?” she challenged. “Who's going to leave behind everything they know to make this work?”

His piercing amber eyes drilled into hers. “I love you, Lia. I want to marry you. I want you to return to Muwaiti with me. Help me rebuild my country. Help me restore my people's faith and trust in the government. Help me fulfill whatever destiny God has chosen for me. For
us.
”

Lia stared at him, her heart beating savagely against her rib cage. It was tempting, so very tempting, to accept his offer. She loved him like no other. But what he was asking of her,
demanding
of her, was too much.

“Damn it, Armand!” she exploded. “You're forcing me to choose between your life and mine. My mother had to make the same choice, and it's not fair.”

His expression turned fierce. “Are your parents happy? Have they not been happily married for over thirty years?”

“That's not the point!”

“Then what
is
the point?” he snapped.

“The point is that I love my job, and I worked too damn hard to get where I am just to walk away. The fact that you can't understand that is problematic in and of itself.”

“What I can't understand,” Armand growled through clenched teeth, “is how you can remain so loyal to an organization that abused and betrayed your trust.”

Lia's eyes narrowed sharply on his face. “Don't you dare try to use what happened as leverage. The Secret Service did not abuse and betray my trust—Bill McManus did. There's a big differ—”

“I love you, damn it. I love you!”

She wavered, hot tears filling her eyes. “I know—”

“No, you don't understand.” Moving closer, Armand grabbed her face between his hands. The searing intensity of his gaze made her tremble. “This wasn't an overnight thing for me. I've loved you for eight years, Lia.
Eight
years.”

She frowned. “I don't understand.”

“I saw you that day, outside the clinic in Port le Duc. I was passing by, on my way to another military base, and I saw you! You were making the children laugh so they wouldn't be afraid of the vaccination needles, and I thought you were the most beautiful, bewitching woman I had ever seen. I went back the next day, but you had already left the island.” His voice softened, deepening with emotion. “I never forgot you, Lia. I dreamed about you for years, wondering if I would ever see you again. In a strange way, dreaming about you helped me get through those dark, endless days and nights of fighting. You know how soldiers carry around photographs of their wives and girlfriends, their newborn babies? Well, I carried a picture of you in my mind, in my heart. You gave me something to hope for, something to believe in, even though I knew I would probably never see you again. And then, suddenly, you were there.”

Incredulous, Lia traced his features with her eyes. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. “Why did you wait this long to tell me?” she whispered, her throat constricted.

He shook his head. “I don't know. It wasn't a conscious decision. When I saw you that night in the jungle, I was so shocked that you were actually there, I could hardly speak. After that night there just never seemed to be the right time to tell you. After a while I was afraid I might scare you off by coming across as an obsessed weirdo.”

Lia chuckled softly. “I wouldn't have thought that about you.”

“I wasn't taking any chances.” His eyes probed hers. “Anyway, would it have made a difference if I'd told you earlier? Would we be having a different conversation right now if you'd known how long I've been in love with you?”

Averting her gaze, Lia pushed out a long, shaky breath. “I…I don't even know what to say. What you've just shared with me…I'm humbled beyond words.”

“I don't want your humility, Lia.” His voice was strained.

She turned back to him, realizing she'd unintentionally hurt him. “I love you. After everything we've been through, you
must
know that. I love you so much. When I realized that Biassou was missing, and I couldn't reach anyone on the radio, I was so scared. My God, I've never been so scared in my life! I—I thought I might be too late. I thought he'd already killed you, and it…it tore me apart!”

“Don't think about it,” Armand murmured soothingly. “It's over now. You got there in time, and you saved me, sweetheart. Let's put all that behind us and look ahead to the future. Come home with me, Lia. Be my wife.”

Her heart thudded hard in her throat as he stared into her eyes, ensnaring her, compelling her, bending her to his will as easily as he had seduced her.

She forced herself to break eye contact. She couldn't breathe, couldn't
think
straight when he was looking at her like that. “Why can't we reach some sort of compromise? Maybe we could—”

“I can't leave Muwaiti.” His tone was flat. Final.

Lia looked at him. “But
I
have to leave my family, my job, my home,” she said bitterly. “Is that it?”

He just stared at her, awaiting her decision.

Her insides began to tremble. “I—I need more time. I can't just make a life-altering decision like this on a spur of the moment.”

“How much time do you need?”

“I don't know!”

After a lengthy silence, Armand rose to his feet. When he spoke, his voice was cool and detached. “I think you've already made your decision. Goodbye, Lia.”

She stared up at him, stunned and angry that he could close the door between them so neatly. As if he were merely adjourning a business meeting that had not gone according to plan. She half expected him to reach out and politely shake her hand.

Her chin lifted proudly. “Goodbye, Armand.” How she got those words out past the tightness in her throat was beyond her.

He inclined his head, then turned and walked away.

Lia sat there, watching as he climbed into the nondescript town car that would take him back to the White House. Back to the airport.

Out of her life.

This time for good.

Six months later
Early March

S
omehow she made it through the bleak days and weeks and months that followed. She returned to work after taking just a week off and was informed that she'd been transferred to the president's protection detail—a request made by Grace Fordham herself. Two weeks later Lia received another honor, the Presidential Award of Valor, for the courage and resourcefulness she had demonstrated in protecting Armand Magliore. With her parents, friends and colleagues beaming proudly and cheering her on, Lia had accepted the prestigious award, smiling through her heartache and despair.

It had been several weeks before the media maelstrom resulting from the thwarted assassination plot died down, and the November election once again had dominated the news. As expected, Grace Fordham had defeated her Republican opponent to become reelected, but it was the outcome of another election that soon captured the world's attention. In January Armand Magliore had been elected president of Muwaiti by an overwhelming majority, the largest landslide victory in the country's political history. Lia had watched, with tears in her eyes and her chest bursting with pride, as he addressed a jubilant crowd of supporters, thousands of whom had traveled from around the country to usher in their new leader. She had been riveted by the sight of liberated Muwaitians cheering, waving banners and chanting Armand's name with tears of joy streaming down their faces. By the time he had finished his rousing speech, in which he thanked his fellow countrymen for their resilience under Alexandre Biassou and exhorted them to help him rebuild their great nation, Lia was weeping, as well.

When Grace Fordham had traveled to Muwaiti to personally congratulate the new president and to discuss a long-overdue alliance between their two countries, Lia had known it was too soon for her to face Armand again. Fordham had granted her request to forgo the trip, demonstrating the kind of compassion and sensitivity one could only expect from another woman. It was for that same reason that Fordham, upon her return, hadn't told Lia that Armand was rumored to be engaged to Nathalie Seligny, the daughter of former President Francois Seligny. Nathalie, who had returned to Muwaiti after the election, had reportedly accompanied Armand to various social and political functions. When Lia found out—courtesy of a newspaper article titled Muwaitian President Courts Potential First Lady—she'd been devastated.

That was what had finally pushed her over the edge. She took a leave of absence from work and retreated to the comforting warmth and familiarity of her childhood home in Arlington, Virginia.

One Saturday morning in early March, she and her parents were seated in the living room, watching television and debating whether to spend the day working in the garden or catching a matinee and having an early dinner. They had just voted on the latter when the news anchor suddenly announced, “And now, as promised, we bring you our exclusive interview with Muwaiti's newly elected president, Armand Magliore.”

Lia froze.

Her mother shot a warning look at her father, who cleared his throat and reached for the remote control on the coffee table.

“No!” Lia cried. “Don't turn it off.”

“But, baby—”

“I want to watch it.”

Stephen Charles sat back against the sofa, shrugging at his wife as if to say,
What else could I do?

Lia's pulse thudded as Armand's darkly handsome image filled the television screen. He was dressed in a simple yet tasteful charcoal suit that reminded her of the one he'd worn to the UN hearing. She remembered teasing him as she had reknotted his tie, then looking into his eyes and seeing the love and desperate yearning she felt mirrored in his gaze. She'd run from him that morning, afraid to face her innermost desires, afraid to wish for something that could never be.

And now, as she greedily drank in the sight of him, she wondered for the umpteenth time whether she'd made the right decision by letting him walk out of her life.

The sound of his deep, magnetic voice filled the living room, washing over her, into her. He was describing his vision for Muwaiti, a true democracy where every citizen, regardless of economic status, could achieve their greatest potential and provide for their families with the full support of their government. The gushing reporter proceeded to rattle off a list of his accomplishments, all the more impressive given the short time he'd been in office.

Unlike his predecessor, Armand had established a cabinet filled with smart, progressive men and women who valued integrity as much as he did and who weren't afraid to disagree with him. He had brokered important treaties with neighboring governments and was working cooperatively with the international community to lift trade sanctions on the exportation of Muwaitian goods and resources. In an effort to revitalize tourism, he had launched a global ad campaign in which he and fellow Muwaitians appeared in a number of television spots surrounded by the lush, tropical beauty of their island. Working with his advisors, Armand had already developed an economic-stimulus package that would resuscitate the economy, drastically reduce unemployment and poverty and increase wages for all workers, including the farmers and merchants who were the backbone of the country's labor force. He successfully overhauled the military, instituting a new-and-improved organizational structure and cleaning house from top to bottom. Those who had gone into hiding after Biassou's death were captured, tried and convicted of their crimes—and no one celebrated this more than the farmers and merchants who had been regularly terrorized by the lawless soldiers.

The news interview was interspersed with footage of Armand as he took the reporter on walking tours of burned-down schools, businesses and neighborhoods—casualties of Biassou's reign of terror and violence. Armand outlined his plans to rebuild the damaged properties and develop new, affordable housing communities once the economy was stabilized. Lia's heart ached at images of him swinging small children into the air, hugging old grandmothers, digging ditches alongside day laborers, laughing and conversing with his reunited freedom fighters. He was their native son, and seeing him on the streets and in the villages, moving freely among his people, made Lia realize like never before that he could never belong anywhere but Muwaiti.

The interview was nearly over when the reporter broached the subject Lia had been dreading. “Is there any truth to the rumors that your marriage to Nathalie Seligny is imminent?” Armand chuckled softly, and Lia found herself holding her breath, her stomach clenching as she awaited his response.

“Come on,” the smiling reporter cajoled. “You
have
to know that everyone is dying to find out whether the world's most eligible bachelor will soon be off the market. Come on, Mr. President, you can give us a little hint. If you want, you can even convey a special message to her while millions of viewers are watching.”

Lia could feel her parents' concerned gazes on her. Her father had leaned forward, preparing to grab the remote control and switch the channel if Armand so much as uttered an affectionate word to Nathalie Seligny.

Just when Lia thought she couldn't take the suspense anymore, Armand lifted his eyes to the camera and said with quiet sincerity, “My fighting spirit, my hopes and dreams, will always belong to my beloved countrymen. But my heart has been stolen by the extraordinary woman who saved my life more often than I probably deserved. I never truly thanked her, so if by some miracle she's watching this program, I want her to know how much I appreciate everything she did for me. I wouldn't be here without her.”

Lia was half crying and half laughing as she jumped up from the sofa, her heart bursting with sheer joy and relief. “I have to go,” she whispered fiercely. “I have to go to him!”

Her parents traded meaningful glances.

“We know, baby,” Helene Charles said with a soft, intuitive smile, moisture shimmering in her own eyes as she gazed at her daughter. “We know.”

It was just after one o'clock the following afternoon when Lia arrived in the capital city of Port le Duc. The international airport was small but modern, bustling with tourists toting luggage and cameras. The ad campaign apparently had worked.

As Lia walked through the busy terminal, listening to the musical cadence of accents wafting around her, she felt an incredible sense of homecoming.

This was where she belonged.

She'd known it the very first time she visited Muwaiti. She knew it now.

She stepped out into the sunny, humid afternoon and quickly surveyed the row of taxicabs and airport shuttles lining the curb. She went with the first driver who approached her, his teeth flashing white against his shiny dark skin as he beamed a welcoming smile at her.

“You look familiar,
mademoiselle,
” he said, his eyes meeting hers in the rearview mirror. “Where you headed to?”

When Lia told him her destination, his face split into a wide grin. “I think President Magliore will be very happy to see you.”

Not as happy as I'll be to see him,
Lia thought with mounting anticipation.

As the taxi cruised through the narrow streets of the bustling port city, she took in the colorful sights and sounds as if it were her first visit to the island. She saw whitewashed buildings flanked by swaying palm trees, sidewalk vendors hawking their wares to tourists, and locals gathered in front of shops and restaurants. She saw exotic masks and costumes, wooden figurines and beaded necklaces on display in storefront windows, and she could hear the pulsing rhythm of steel drums interspersed with the sounds of traffic. The city was gearing up for the Carnival of Port le Duc, the national parade that drew thousands of revelers annually. In a week the island would be engulfed by lively music, elaborate floats and nonstop festivities. Already Lia could feel a difference in the air, in the way people moved, an electric energy and vitality that had been missing during her trip to Muwaiti last year. She knew the changed atmosphere had as much to do with the country's new leader as the upcoming Carnival celebration.

They left the main thoroughfare and headed down a two-lane highway that hugged steep cliffs overlooking a breathtaking expanse of turquoise ocean. Before long the presidential palace rolled into view, a large estate set against a stunning backdrop of mountains. Nestled by tall palms and painstakingly trimmed bushes that exploded in vibrant profusions of bougainvillea, and featuring steep French windows and columned porticos, the white mansion did not seem austere and uninviting nor excessively lavish. It exuded an air of gracious hospitality that lulled visitors into forgetting that the head of state resided here.

And suddenly Lia realized why. “This isn't the palace that Alexandre Biassou built,” she said aloud.

The cabdriver smiled at her in the rearview mirror. “
Oui.
You are correct. This is the original presidential palace, home to every leader we had before the tyrant. President Magliore did not want to reside in Biassou's fortress. He considered tearing it down, but then he decided to turn it into an orphanage. Now many of the children don't even want to leave.” He laughed.

Lia smiled, warming with pleasure at Armand's generosity. A moment later her smile disappeared as they drove past an unmanned security booth and continued up a long cobblestone driveway. They passed acres of manicured green lawn and a stone fountain at the center of the property before coming to a stop at the bottom of a wide, steep staircase.

Lia climbed out of the taxi before the driver could get out and open her door. Her stomach was knotted in a vicious tangle of nerves. She didn't know what she was going to say or do when she saw Armand. She'd just have to let her heart do the talking.

As the driver removed her suitcase from the trunk, a man she presumed to be the butler emerged from the house and quickly descended the steps. “The president is not expecting any guests today,” he said imperiously. “What is the nature of your visit to the palace,
mademoiselle?
”

Before Lia could respond, the cabdriver laughed and said, “
Look
at her, mon. Do you not recognize her?”

The butler squinted at Lia for several moments. As recognition slowly dawned, his eyes widened in surprise. He bowed deferentially and began apologizing. “Forgive me,
mademoiselle,
I did not know you were coming to Muwaiti. This is such an honor. No one told me to expect—”

“Lia?”

Lia lifted her gaze to the house—and froze. There, standing in the open doorway and staring at her in stunned disbelief, was Armand. Raw emotion swept through her body with such force it brought tears to her eyes and rooted her to the spot.

He stepped from the doorway and started down the steps, his eyes never leaving hers. He looked so good, and decidedly
un-
presidential, in a black Bob Marley T-shirt and dark jeans that rode low on his hips. President or not, he would always be a renegade. And that was one of the many things she loved about him.

He came to a stop before her, his expression incredulous as he gazed down at her. “What are you doing here?” he whispered hoarsely.

“I…” She had dreamed about him nearly every night for the last six months, and now that he stood less than a foot away from her, words failed her.