Honeymoon With A Stranger. Frances Housden

came under the heading Criminal or, even worse, Terrorist.

      The knock at the bathroom door came before she’d made up her mind about her companion and now it was too late.

      “Hey, Roxie. Are you decent? Can I come in?”

      She flashed a glance in the mirror. It was okay, not a trace of red to give her away. Her hands worked at the towel, folding and tucking it over the rail as she called, “It’s not locked.”

      The bathroom had seemed fairly large until Mac entered and it shrunk to half its original size.

      Feeling small was something she’d grown used to, but his presence was intimidating, a combination of height and breadth, plus she was uncertain about his part in this evening’s events.

      Without saying another word, he tilted the mirror to one side to look behind it.

      Before she could ask what he was searching for, he put a finger to his lips, then turned on the faucet, letting the water run. That done, he checked out the other fixtures, crouching low to squint behind the pipes.

      He was acting more like a plumber than the guy who’d rescued her life like a regulation white knight. Though she knew for sure now that his armor was tarnished.

      And knowing that, why did she feel a sudden buzz in her nerve endings as she looked at him?

      Sure, he was handsome when you got past the greasy hair and what passed for designer stubble but looked like laziness….

      The mental criticism of him ground to a halt as he drawled, “So, what happened to the mouse?”

      She spun around, searching the floor. “What mouse, where?”

      “You, in that damn coat. The way your nose peeked out the collar. Suddenly you’ve turned into a kingfisher all yellow, black and blue-green.”

      A glance in the mirror reassured her there was nothing unusual in her image. This morning, because it had turned cold, she’d worn layers, a short turquoise cardigan sweater she’d buttoned across her breasts, over a yellow tank and hanging under both of those a long black cashmere T.

      They picked up the colors in her tweed skirt with its full un-pressed pleats and asymmetrical hemline.

      It was a funky design and she’d thought she looked pretty cool when Charles had given it a pleasantly surprised glance. She might work for him, but her personal style was her own.

      “I’d rather be a kingfisher than a mouse, so I’ll put that down as a compliment, though I’m not the sort of person who fishes for them….”

      She paused as he laughed at her play on words. Crinkles fanned out round his fascinating gold eyes.

      On the whole, his description of her was pretty accurate. She loved color.

      “I guess in your—” she hesitated, searching for the right word “—chosen profession not many fashion magazines come your way. Believe me, this is cutting-edge fashion, though not what you’d find in girlie magazines or calendars.”

      He smiled again, and she was getting more than a little annoyed that he found her information funny.

      “Well, I should know. I designed the outfit myself. It’s what I do. I’m an intern with Charles Fortier. You know, the couturier.”

      This last earned her a surprised lift of his brown eyebrows and a patronizing nod. “I have heard of him, and no, I don’t go in for girlie magazines.”

      He ran his gaze over her from the tip of her boots to the top of her head. “I’m not a voyeur. I prefer my women in the flesh, not paper. But don’t worry, you wear your cover well, Roxie, I’ll give you that.”

      She experienced hot and cold flashes of confusion while trying to make up her mind whether he’d given her a compliment or a warning of intent. “I don’t suppose I’m up to your standard, though.”

      “Not many are,” he agreed.

      She jerked back as he brushed past her and reached over to turn on the shower. Not the response she’d expected.

      Roxie had discovered to her cost that she wasn’t any good at reading certain men. And men of Mac’s stature she usually tried to avoid for all the looking up gave her a crick in the neck.

      His close proximity swamped her in feelings of claustrophobia, and as the water pipes clanked and rattled, she edged toward the door, desperate to get out of there, yet nervous that he’d find something to object to.

      “Okay, the noise of the shower will stop us being overheard better than the basin faucet, so you can cut out the act. I know it wasn’t any coincidence that you turned up when you did.”

      “What? No, I was sent, but I didn’t know you lived there,” she explained truthfully.

      She would have added more but he leapt in. “Who sent you?”

      “What difference does that make?” she countered. “If you must know, Charles Fortier sent me to see a Madam Billaud, but I got the wrong apartment.”

      The bright gold flash of annoyance in his eyes was tempered by a heave of his massive shoulders in a demonstration of supreme control. “All right, have it your way. I guess I should have known you wouldn’t give out.”

      The expression tickled her funny bone.

      Her offbeat humor had a reputation for springing to life at the most inappropriate moments. “Not on the first date, anyway,” she told him pertly.

      “Yeah, you’re right. Why should you? We both have our secrets and it’s best we keep them to ourselves for now.”

      Secrets? What were his?

      She was annoyed by the notion that Mac hadn’t believed a word she’d said, and that being the case, who had he decided she was?

      Mac wasn’t bothered by her silence. Hell, he hadn’t exactly used thumbscrews. Besides, he had his own way of discovering whom she worked for.

      That entire story she’d given him about working for Fortier?

      She’d put it over reasonably well. Maybe she wasn’t the virgin agent he’d taken her for, but she was still pretty green.

      Whichever outfit she worked for, its sources weren’t as good as IBIS’s or they would have known IBIS was on the job and left the field to its agents, instead of interfering.

      He couldn’t help the smug feeling in his chest, knowing that when he’d said yes to Jason Hart he’d taken a big step up.

      From the Office of Naval Intelligence to a much higher life-form growing on the same family tree.

      Mac saw no reason to let Roxie in on the miniature cell phone Thierry had slipped him in secret. It had only taken a quick look to know his fellow agent hadn’t failed him.

      The cell phone was a secure digital one, and he had every intention of putting it to good use once Roxie fell asleep.

      Not only that, the device could also screen the room for bugs. Listening devices had to be his next priority. But he had to find them in a way that left Roxie unaware of how he’d managed it.

      Of course he only wanted to know where the listening devices were hidden. To remove them would be like playing hide-and-seek, then standing up and giving the game away.

      Where would be the fun in that?

      Though he’d have enjoyed seeing Zukah’s expression.

      Face it, he really enjoyed his work, and would have reveled in the situation but for his latest problem.

      The problem of his libido doing an about-face where Roxie was concerned. Her stripping off that coat was as mind-blowing as when a butterfly shucked its cocoon. And much more destructive.

      No one could have been more surprised than him to feel the quickening in his groin.

      He’d