Secret Agent Seduction (6 page)

Even before she spoke again, Lia braced herself to receive news she wouldn't like. “You know Fordham will be traveling a lot over the next two months,” Janikowski began. “Giving speeches, making her rounds at all the party conferences and caucuses, meeting with the labor unions, making her final push before the November election.”

Lia shook her head at the beamed ceiling of her bedroom, where she'd retreated to make her phone call after breakfast. “Don't tell me. You're pulling the other agents from this assignment.”

“Just for a few days. McManus says they're needed back on the presidential detail. You know how this works. It's an election year, and we're already stretched pretty thin as it is. What can you do?”

“Not much, apparently,” Lia muttered.

But she knew Janikowski was right. Burdened by the White House's wartime security needs and the persistent threat of terrorism, the Secret Service had been showing considerable strain even before the current election year. Since September 11, the number of individuals granted Secret Service protection had doubled to include top White House aides such as the chief of staff, and national and Homeland Security advisors. In recent years, the agency had taken on additional Homeland Security jobs, which forced it to cut back on traditional financial fraud and cybercrime investigations. The reality was that the Secret Service's duties had grown faster than its funding, which meant that the agency's already stretched personnel and resources were going to be stretched even further in the years to come.

“If I didn't think you'd be okay on your own for a few days, believe me, I'd have gone right back to McManus and raised hell. But you're one of our best agents, Lia. If anyone can keep Armand Magliore alive and well,
you
can.”

Lia snorted. “With all due respect,” she said dryly, “resorting to flattery is
so
beneath you.”

Janikowski laughed. “You're right. I'm sorry. I couldn't resist trying, anyway. And it's not like I was stretching the truth. You
are
one of the best, which is why you were handpicked for this assignment. We both know—” Just then her secretary's voice could be heard in the background. Janikowski's answer was muffled as she covered the mouthpiece with her hand.

She returned to the phone a moment later. “Hey, Lia, I've gotta run to a meeting. I'll get someone out there to look into the faulty wiring as soon as possible. I promise. If you need anything else, you know how to reach me.”

“Thanks,” Lia said, before disconnecting.

When she opened her bedroom door and stepped back into the living room, she found Magliore standing near the fireplace, his posture rigid as he stared hard at the television, which was tuned to the twenty-four-hour cable news network. As Magliore watched the news broadcast, he wore an expression of lethal fury mingled with stark anguish. Lia was so startled by his appearance that it took her several moments to realize what the reporter was talking about, and when it finally registered, she had to suppress a horrified gasp.

“…Once again, I'm reporting live from the capital city of Port le Duc, where early this morning Muwaitian soldiers opened fire on a group of civilians, killing eight and wounding two. According to Muwaitian officials, the soldiers were provoked into violence by an angry mob of protesters issuing threats against President Alexandre Biassou—”

“That's a damn lie!” Magliore exploded. In a fit of violent rage, he swept his arm across the fireplace mantel, sending a glass bowl of pine potpourri and a collection of wooden knickknacks crashing to the floor.

Lia held herself perfectly still. “Mr. Magliore—” she began quietly.

“They're lying through their goddamn teeth,” he roared, upending the heavy wooden ottoman and scattering a stack of glossy coffee-table books. “Those soldiers weren't
provoked
into anything. They killed those innocent people because that sadistic son of a bitch
ordered
them to do it—to send a message to me!”

Lia's heart constricted with sympathy and a shared sense of outrage. “I'm sorry,” she murmured gently. She hesitated, then took a step toward him. “I wish there was something I could do.”

Magliore met her concerned gaze, his eyes cold and hard with controlled rage. “I have unfinished business with Alexandre Biassou,” he said in a low, flat tone that spoke volumes about violence and retribution. “Can you get me on the next plane to Muwaiti so that I can finish what I should have done a long time ago?”

A faint shiver passed through Lia. “You know I can't do that,” she said softly.

A shadow of cynicism twisted his mouth. “Then there's nothing you can do for me.” Without another word, he stormed past her and slammed out of the cabin.

L
ia waited a full minute before going after him, wanting to give him a moment of privacy, hoping that he wouldn't venture beyond the porch.

She should have known better.

By the time she caught up to him, he was heading away from the cabin and down a densely wooded walking trail.

She fell in step beside him, lengthening her strides to match his own. He cut her a hard sideways glance.

“I'd like to be alone for a while.” He bit off his words.

Lia shook her head. “I can't leave you alone. Not while you're out here.”

He clenched his jaw, but said nothing more.

They lapsed into silence, punctuated by the faint rustling of leaves, the soft chatter of birds in the trees and the occasional piercing cry of an eagle soaring overhead.

After several minutes, Lia hazarded a glance at Magliore's stony profile. “I'm a very good listener,” she offered quietly.

He gave her a mocking glance. “I don't need a friend or confidante, Miss Charles. And unless I'm mistaken, neither of those duties fall under your job description.”

Lia ignored the barb. “You've had a terrible shock. I can only imagine—”

“Yes,” he growled, suddenly whirling on her, his tiger eyes flashing with fury. “That's
all
you can do, Miss Charles. You don't know what my people are going through, or how much they're suffering. You can only imagine. So do us both a favor, and spare me the empty rhetoric.”

As he started away again, Lia reached out quickly, grabbing his arm. The look he impaled her with would have sent Goliath running for the hills, but Lia stood her ground.

“You're right,” she said solemnly. “Beyond what I've read in the papers or watched on television, I
don't
know what your countrymen are going through. I've witnessed their suffering from a safe distance, through the cloudy lens of an outsider. But believe me when I tell you that I am truly saddened by what is happening in Muwaiti. I would not trivialize your pain, or that of your people, with empty rhetoric.”

Magliore fell silent, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he stared at something over her head. He gave no indication he'd even heard what she said.

Lia had a sudden impulse to reach up and touch his face, to soothe his restless spirit, to ease the bitter torment reflected in his thick-lashed eyes.

Instead she dropped her hand from his rigid arm and nervously moistened her lips. “You may be surprised to know that I once visited Muwaiti,” she told him casually.

His gaze flicked to hers, but he didn't speak.

“It was about eight years ago,” Lia continued, undaunted by his brooding silence. “I was twenty years old, on my second summer tour with the peace corps. We stayed at this cozy little hotel in Port le Duc that served the best rum punch on the island—which was an important selling point to us, being college students and all.” She gave a soft, reminiscent chuckle.

Magliore didn't even crack a smile.

“Anyway,” she forged ahead, “we were only there for two weeks. Long enough for me to fall in love with the beautiful island, the gracious people, the rich, vibrant culture. And the food. God, I loved the food. We divided our time between volunteering at the clinic and delivering medications to elderly people in the village who couldn't get around on their own. It was a wonderful experience. I met an old Creole woman, who reminded me a little of my grandmother, and when I spoke French to her, she swore I was her long lost granddaughter!” Lia laughed at the memory, and this time she noticed a slight softening in Magliore's expression as he stared down at her.

She was suddenly determined to break all the way through that impenetrable mask. “No matter how late it was when we returned to our hotel,” she continued, “I never missed dinner. I'm telling you, I must have gained at least fifteen pounds during those two weeks alone!”

Wry humor tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I doubt that very seriously.”

Lia grinned at him. “Well, not for lack of trying, that's for damn sure. Anyway, I didn't want to leave Muwaiti. I was very sad when it was time for us to go. Don't laugh, but I felt like something was
compelling
me to stay, almost like I'd be leaving a part of myself behind if I left the island.”

She felt, rather than saw, Magliore stiffen imperceptibly at those words. He studied her in a silence that vibrated like electricity between their bodies, his eyes probing hers, searching for something she couldn't begin to decipher.

Inexplicably, her palms grew damp. “As our plane took off that morning,” she said, unable to break eye contact with him, “I looked out the window and, right then and there, I vowed to return to Muwaiti someday.”

“And you did,” Magliore said, ever so softly. “You did return.”

Lia nodded. “I did. Though not exactly in the capacity I'd always envisioned,” she said ruefully.

“Life can be that way sometimes,” Magliore murmured. “Unpredictable.”

Again she nodded, feeling strangely off balance. It was a feeling that had become all too familiar within the last two days—ever since she'd met Armand Magliore.

“Needless to say,” she continued, finally dragging her gaze away from his and focusing on a point beyond his right shoulder, “I was stunned when, four years later, I learned about the assassination of President Seligny, who had so graciously welcomed us into his country. The news came as a horrible shock to all of us who had met him personally during our stay there. To know that Alexandre Biassou may have been responsible—”

“There's no
may have
about it,” Magliore interrupted curtly. “He
was
responsible for murdering Seligny. And I intend to make him pay.”

Lia met the lethal intent in his gaze, and a fine chill ran through her. “You'll get your chance at the hearing,” she reminded him.

Magliore smiled, a cold, predatory smile that sent a whisper of warning through her. “Oh, I
will
get my chance. Hearing or not.”

Lia held his gaze unflinchingly. “I hope you're not planning anything foolish. Alexandre Biassou is not worth losing your freedom over—or your life.”

Magliore shook his head slowly at her. “That's where you're wrong, Miss Charles. Because of Biassou, I've already lost my freedom. And my life…Well, my life bears no resemblance whatsoever to the one I knew before he seized control of my homeland. So the way I see it, I've got nothing to lose, and everything to gain, by ridding the world of him once and for all.”

“You have nothing to lose?” Lia challenged hotly. “What about your family?”

Something like pain flickered in his eyes, disappearing as swiftly as it had appeared. “My family,” he said evenly, “has been through more than you could ever imagine. No matter what happens from now on, they will survive.”

Before Lia could respond, he gently placed a finger against her parted lips. Heat shot through her veins as he said silkily, “Let's not continue this unpleasant conversation,
chère.
I can see that it's troubling you, and that's the last thing I want to do.”

Lia jerked her head away, dangerously close to overheating from his touch. “I'm fine. You're the one I'm concerned about.”

Magliore's eyes glinted with amusement. “If I didn't know better, Miss Charles, I would think you actually care whether I live or die.”

“Of course I care,” she grumbled. “It's my job to care.”

“Your job. Right. Of course. And I suppose it's also because of your job that you looked positively terrified this morning when you thought I had been abducted and murdered by Biassou's henchmen.”

“That's right.” Unnerved by the knowing gleam in his eyes, Lia added glibly, “Besides, I don't want to go down in Secret Service history as the first agent to lose a protectee on only the second day of the assignment.”

Magliore threw back his head and laughed, a strong, deep sound that rumbled up from his chest and made her toes curl inside her pumps.

Clearing her throat, Lia averted her gaze, staring down the path of the wooded trail they'd been following. “Would you like to continue walking, or are you ready to return to the cabin?”

“You mean, I have a choice?” Magliore asked, managing to sound both skeptical and amused.

This time Lia laughed. “Of course you have a choice! You're not a prisoner, Mr. Magliore. I don't intend to keep you locked inside the cabin for the next nine days. In fact, you may go anywhere and do anything you want on these grounds—as long as you remain in my sight at all times. Do we have a deal?”

“Absolutely,” he murmured, his eyes searching hers. “You say I can go anywhere and do anything I want?”

Lia nodded.

“In that case, do you know what I'd like to do now?”

Lia could feel her pulse hammering at the base of her throat. She was almost afraid to ask, but she did anyway. “What would you like to do now?”

His gaze slid down her modest white blouse and simple tan slacks before easing back up to her face like a long caress. In a low, husky voice he said, “I'd like for you to remove that prim and proper outfit—”

Lia gasped.

“—and slip into something more comfortable so that we can, you know, go fishing.”

It took several moments for the rest of his words to register.
“Fishing?”
Lia echoed dumbly, staring at him. “You want to go fishing?”

Magliore nodded. “What did you think I was going to say?”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously on his handsome face, but his expression was innocent. Too innocent.

“Miss Charles?” he prompted, watching her expectantly. “Would you rather we do something else?”

“Oh, no!” Lia said so vehemently that he raised an amused brow at her. “We can go fishing. I don't mind at all. I used to go fishing all the time with my father. It was fun. I'll make the arrangements as soon as we get back to the cabin.”

As she fell in step beside Magliore once again, Lia took comfort in the knowledge that fishing was probably the only activity that not even this man could turn into a sexually charged undertaking.

With his arms folded behind his head and his long legs stretched out before him, Armand watched with a lazy smile as Lia, standing at the opposite end of their small motorboat, closed her eyes for a moment, whispered a quick prayer, then cast her fishing lure overboard. The bait-hook hit the water with a soft
plop,
setting off gentle ripples in the clear, sun-dappled lake.

“Come on, come on. Come to mama,” Lia muttered under her breath. Her lovely face was a study of concentration as she stared into the water, as if she were channeling all the trout beneath the surface of the lake to take the bait and come meet their demise.

“Third time's the charm,” Armand called encouragingly to her.

Turning her head, she gave him a withering look. “I don't need
you
to remind me that I've already failed in two previous attempts to catch any fish.”

Armand smothered a grin at her open hostility. “I was just trying to be supportive. But if you'd rather I didn't, I'll just sit here and enjoy the view.”

The view he was referring to had nothing to do with the idyllic beauty of their surroundings—the shimmering lake surrounded by lush green forest, set against a vivid blue sky. While impressive, the scenic landscape paled in comparison to the sight of Lia in a pair of dark blue jeans that showcased the lush swell of her bottom and molded those curvaceous, impossibly long legs of hers. They were the kind of legs that could wrap around a man's waist and lead him straight to paradise, something Armand had fantasized about often enough over the past eight years.

She'd changed into a snug red T-shirt that offered enticing peeks of her midriff whenever she bent over or reached for something—which, thankfully, she'd been doing a lot during the last hour. Armand was hypnotized by the sliver of smooth, brown flesh that covered her flat, softly muscled belly. He wanted to touch her, wanted to run his fingers over her silky skin and cup her high, round breasts in his hands. He imagined leaning down and capturing a tight, dark nipple in his mouth, making her moan with pleasure as he suckled and caressed her with his tongue before lowering her body to the—

“Why is it,” said Lia, breaking into his steamy musings, “that
I'm
the one doing all the hard work when it was
your
idea to go fishing in the first place?”

Armand chuckled, trying like hell to ignore the throbbing ache in his groin. If he didn't think she'd look over and catch him, he would have reached down and adjusted his jeans to relieve the straining at his zipper.

“Because we only have one fishing rod. And unless I'm mistaken,” he drawled, “
you're
the one who kept bragging about what a skilled fisherman you are, how your father taught you everything he knew.”