Honeymoon With A Stranger. Frances Housden

away into the night, leaving Mac curious as to which of their many gadgets his second in command had slipped him.

      Curiosity that would have to remain unsatisfied until they reached their destination.

      “You first.” Zukah gave him a push in the back.

      Mac looked at the smaller seat opposite the door. He couldn’t trust Roxie not to try escaping. “No,” he said, “she can sit by the window. I need more room for my legs.”

      No one argued with him.

      It was Yves who pulled Roxie out of her cat’s-got-her-tongue mode once again. “Cochon!” she yelled, slapping the Frenchman. “Keep your hands off me. I can manage.”

      As the car pulled into the road Mac decided there was going to be a reckoning between those two. He just hoped Roxie held off long enough for him to accomplish his mission.

      “Lean your head on my shoulder,” he said companionably as the minivan squeezed through the crush in rue Montorgueil. “You might as well try to sleep. God knows how far we’re going.”

      Through the golden haze of a better-lit street it was impossible to miss that her long-suffering look was essentially female. It shouted “I wouldn’t be caught dead.”

      Damn, he thought as he gave a rueful shake of his head. Didn’t the woman realize that if it hadn’t been for him tonight, “dead” had definitely been her short-term destiny?

      Chapter 3

      Roxie woke with a start, her head clunking back against Mac’s shoulder. The car had stopped, but the only illumination came from the headlights. “Where are we?”

      “No idea, but it looks like more than a comfort stop. I’d say we’ve arrived.” Mac sounded more alert than she felt.

      She pushed away from him, annoyed that in sleep she’d taken advantage of the shoulder she’d refused earlier.

      Keeping her voice level to a murmur, she spoke English, hoping Jean-Luc sitting behind wouldn’t understand as she touched the warm spot where her cheek had rested. “That wasn’t intentional, so don’t get the wrong idea.”

      Turning away, she combed her fingers through her hair to fluff it out. But before she could snag another breath his big hand curved round the back of her neck, pulling her close.

      Face-to-face.

      Her heart pounded, thundering in her temple as his lips pressed against her ear. She needn’t have worried.

      Sweet nothings weren’t in Mac’s repertoire. “You mean like Yves? I think the guy has a case for you. Better look out.”

      As he followed her example by using English, his hand forked through her curls, holding her head in an apparently passionate embrace that meant she couldn’t move.

      “Don’t worry, chérie, you’re safe from me. Just take a little time to remember who walked into whose territory.”

      The hand on her neck stroked, a subtle caress that drew a reluctant shudder from her. “Time to compromise, chérie, you help me out and I’ll look after you. Just keep in mind that this is my show, not yours, and everything will turn out fine and dandy.”

      It seemed she had no choice but to follow his lead.

      Earlier, before she’d fallen asleep, she’d stared out into the wine-dark countryside and railed against the impulse that had brought her to this place in time.

      Annoying though it felt, Mac was her lifeline.

      He was big and tough, and at least she was aware that she couldn’t trust him as far as she could throw him.

      While it suited her, she would go along with his suggestions.

      Mac at least acted as if he knew what he was doing.

      Fully awake now, she observed Yves and Zukah exit the front of the minivan, then latched onto a new subject. “How long would you say we’d been on the road?”

      “Without being able to read my watch I’d say around four hours, probably more. It took almost an hour to get out of Paris. But judging by lack of lights and noise, this is pretty rural.”

      Did Mac have to be right all the time?

      The small château they were ushered into didn’t look grand but it was more than a farmhouse deep in the heart of the French countryside. Not a lit window for miles.

      Roxie blinked, blinded as she stepped onto a floor laid in ancient gray flagstones. Compared to outside, this was obviously where the owner had spent his money.

      The rug covering them, although old, glowed like a ruby.

      Half a dozen large sconces lit gold-paneled walls, explaining the glare that had dazzled her as she entered.

      Mac had no such problem, asking, “What, no welcome party?”

      Zukah fussed, as if out of his comfort zone surrounded by impressive antiques. In his crumpled suit, he looked more like a hostage than they did. “Le patron hopes to be here tomorrow.”

      Did that mean she might be back in Paris by tomorrow evening? It felt childish, but she couldn’t help crossing her fingers.

      All she wanted was to get back to her own world.

      She would put up with bitchy models and the complaints of the patternmakers without a murmur if they could leave this place as soon as possible.

      She desperately needed to talk to her boss—to Charles—but Yves had destroyed any hope of that by wrecking the cell phone he’d found in her purse when he searched her.

      Mac’s reaction to the news was “Might as well go to our room, then, since there’s nothing to be gained here. No point in talking to the dummy when the man you need is the ventriloquist.”

      To herself, Roxie admitted she was in awe of Mac. All that air of control should have been on the other side.

      They were armed, he wasn’t.

      She wished she could take a leaf from his rule book and act as if she were a VIP instead of a hostage.

      “Everything is ready for you, though we weren’t expecting your petite amie. The bed will be a squeeze, but I don’t suppose you’ll mind.”

      The bed, as in one bed?

      She was caught up in her own nervous interpretation of what that meant, when she realized Mac wasn’t overjoyed with the arrangement, either.

      A soft growl issued from his throat that throttled back into a curse. “You’re a twisted bastard, Zukah. If you wanted me here, I only needed an invitation, not this French farce. When word gets out, no one will want to deal with you. And it’ll get out.”

      Mac left the words, “And I’ll see about it,” unsaid.

      “Calm yourself. I’m only granting your wish to meet the head of our organization.” Zukah’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Of course, word will only get out if you leave the château.”

      She would never understand why Mac had trusted this guy in the first place. One look convinced her Zukah was the kind of guy she would rather cross the street than pass on the sidewalk.

      She watched Mac’s whole demeanor poker-up as he noted the threat. His big body loomed over Zukah, and Roxie’s stomach sank level with the tops of her knee-high boots.

      She would never understand men, and men like Mac had never come within whistling distance of her before tonight.

      Which meant she had no idea how to handle him.

      No idea how to handle sharing a room with a virtual stranger. A man who might be no better than the thugs he was dealing with. A man looking as if he was about to create mayhem.

      “When you threaten someone, Zukah, you have to be prepared to back it up.