Chapter 8
Mallory’s account of her run-in with Congressman Kent gave Cutter a good deal more to chew on than Madame Picard’s succulent veal.
Her account, brief as it was, tallied with the detailed summary in the background dossier OMEGA had put together on the Kent incident. She hadn’t tried to gloss things over or minimize her part in the mess. If anything, she seemed to take a disproportionate share of the blame, and that left Cutter quietly seething.
He’d crossed paths with Ashton Kent. Twice. Once while Cutter was still in uniform and Kent had been part of a Congressional junket touring the Middle East. Again at Nick Jensen’s high-priced D.C. restaurant, when Kent had disappeared into one of the private rooms with the well-endowed widow of a wealthy campaign contributor. Both times the old goat had struck Cutter as a walking, talking prick.
He didn’t doubt for a minute Kent had felt up his bright-eyed new staffer. What really pissed Cutter off was that Mallory appeared to have taken most of the heat for it.
Had that made her bitter enough to walk away with a disk containing personal financial data belonging to millions of government workers, up to and including the President of the United States?
No way in hell!
His conviction grew firmer by the hour. Problem was, it was still based more on gut feeling than fact. He needed something definitive to eliminate her as anything more than a possible unwitting courier.
He waited until they’d finished dinner and agreed to Gilbért’s suggestion they take coffee and dessert in the conservatory before steering the conversation back to the subject of retribution.
“So you think Kent may be retaliating against you by asking a pal to hold up your replacement passport?”
“I think it’s a distinct possibility.”
“How would he know you lost it in the first place?”
“Good question.”
Mallory drifted to the tall windows, her gaze on the moonlit seascape outside. Cutter did his best to ignore the play of light and shadow on her profile as she scrunched her forehead and considered the possibilities.
“Maybe the State Department contacted my place of employment to verify my identity before issuing a temporary passport. Or maybe,” she said slowly, “the contact came from American Express. They said there was a flag on my account. Congressman Kent chairs the House Committee on Banking and Trade. He exerts tremendous influence over the entire industry. He also works closely with NSA and Homeland Defense. I wouldn’t put it past him to have flagged the financial records of everyone on his staff. Maybe everyone on the Hill. All in the name of national security.”
“He wields that kind of power?” Cutter asked with a carefully manufactured blend of curiosity and outrage. “What happened to our right to privacy?”
The answer came swiftly and without the least hesitation.
“9/11.”
Abandoning the moon-washed cliffs outside, Mallory turned and jammed her hands in the pockets of her lace-trimmed jacket.
“We’re at war. An undeclared war, some argue, but everyone agrees that it threatens all Americans. Desperate times call for desperate measures. By following the money trail across international borders, we’ve located countless Al Qaeda cells and their financiers.”
He didn’t miss the collective we—or that Mallory Dawes identified with the good guys.
“I can’t speak for anyone else,” she continued, “but I’m more than willing to let Uncle Sam peek into my personal financial dealings if it will help take down bin Laden and his thugs.”
Cutter and the rest of the OMEGA operatives served in the front lines in the war against terror. Personally, he didn’t give a rat’s ass about the rights of a suspected suicide bomber. Professionally, he’d respect those rights for the simple reason that violating them might screw the case against the suspect. He made no comment, however, until Mallory came off her soapbox with a look of embarrassed chagrin.
“I guess I’m just not real thrilled that Kent may be one of the ones doing the peeking.”
“I can understand why.”
As Cutter studied the moonlight dappling her upturned face, he had to admit there was something seriously wrong with this picture. Here they were, surrounded by the earthy perfume of the conservatory’s potted palms, with stars studding the sky outside and the sea crashing against the cliffs below. His overwhelming urge was to take advantage of the exotic setting to kiss Ms. Dawes senseless. Instead, he was doing his damnedest to get her to incriminate herself. Grimly, he plowed ahead.
“Have you thought about getting back at Kent for all he’s put you through? May still be putting you through?”
“God, yes!”
The vehemence sent a sudden chill through him, icing his veins. The rueful shrug that followed started a slow thaw.
“But I tried that once and failed dismally.” She gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I can be pretty stubborn at times, but I’m not into self-flagellation or masochism. I decided before I left for France that I wasn’t going to beat myself up over Congressman Ashton Kent any longer.”
She slanted him a sideways glance and hesitated a moment before adding shyly, “You reinforced that decision, you know.”
“Me? How?”
“By coming to my rescue the way you did. By giving me a glorious afternoon in the sun and two nights like this. But mostly, by reminding me not all men are like Kent.”
Cutter’s conscience started to squirm. He’d done exactly what he’d intended to do. Isolated the woman. Made her dependent on him. Gained her trust. So why the hell was he now feeling like a world-class heel?
“Don’t pin a halo on me, Mallory. Kent and I have more in common than you think. You don’t know how hard it was for me to keep my hands off you this afternoon.”
“There’s one significant difference,” she said quietly. “I want your hands on me.”
Sweating now, he was reminding himself of all the reasons why he shouldn’t take her up on her starry-eyed invitation when she drifted closer.
“I liked touching you, Cutter.”
He managed to resist until she dropped her gaze to his mouth.
“And I liked kissing you.”
Well, hell! He’d never made any claims to being a saint. What’s more, he’d given her fair warning.
Slamming the door on his conscience, he did what he’d ached to do earlier that afternoon. His arm snaked around her waist. His stance widened. Cradling her hips against his, he tunneled his free hand into her hair to hold her head steady and took what she offered.
The desire that had bitten into him earlier didn’t compare to the hunger her eager mouth and hands now roused. Tightening his arm, he crushed her lips under his, as if daring her to unleash the beast.
Mallory slid her palms up the lapels of his jacket, felt his muscles straining under the suede, and surrendered to a rush of mindless pleasure.
This was the way it should happen. This was the way it was supposed to be. Desire feeding desire. Heat stroking heat. No politics. No sexual power plays. Only his mouth greedy on hers and her hands frantic to burrow through layers of fabric to get at the hard contours beneath.
She had to smother a curse when the rattle of wheels announced the arrival of Madame Picard and her serving cart. Cutter wasn’t as restrained. With a muttered expletive, he released her and rolled his shoulders to settle his sport coat while Mallory tugged down the jacket that had ridden up over her hips.
They weren’t quite quick enough. Madame Picard’s glance went from one to the other as she rolled her cart across the tiles.
“You wish me to serve dessert?”
“That’s okay,” Cutter said, taking charge. “We’ll serve ourselves.”
With a smile and a small bow, madame departed. The interruption hadn’t lasted more than a few seconds. Just long enough for reason to prevail … if either of them was inclined toward reason.
Mallory certainly wasn’t. After so many weeks of doubting herself, of hiding behind sunglasses and avoiding men’s glances, she reveled in the heat in Cutter’s eyes when they whipped back to her. Her pulse skipping, she scooped a two-tiered plate from the cart.
“I’ve got the chocolate truffles and strawberries. You bring the whipped cream.”
Dessert was the last thing on Cutter’s mind as he snatched up the silver pot containing fresh, frothy cream. Visions of where and how he would spread the stuff damned near had him tripping over his own feet.
He maintained his balance and enough presence of mind to snag their unfinished bottle of wine from the cooler as he followed Mallory through the grand dining salon. Once they’d mounted the stairs and closed the door to her sitting room behind them, however, the bottle, silver pot and two-tiered plate were set aside and forgotten.
Mallory came into his arms with unrestrained eagerness. The ugly insinuations and allegations of promiscuity flashed through Cutter’s mind, only to die an instant death the moment she went up on tiptoe and locked her arms around his neck. She gave as much as she took, but the giving was warm and generous, the taking anything but rapacious.
He was the one who yanked open the buttons of her jacket. He almost choked when he peeled down the denim and saw the lacy camisole beneath. His heart jackhammered against his chest when she angled her head and nibbled her way from his lower lip to his chin to his throat.
Cutter had to fight to keep from tossing her over his shoulder and hauling her to the bed in the next room. The instincts she stirred in him were primitive, almost primeval. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted a woman as much as he wanted this one. Hell, he’d never wanted one as much as he did Mallory.
Not even the Danish beauty who’d arched and panted and hooked her legs around his waist only hours before she triggered the device that created such carnage and devastation.
The realization locked Cutter’s jaw. He stepped back, fists balled, every muscle and tendon in his body raw with the memory.
“I’m so sorry.” Stricken, Mallory touched a feather-light finger to the scars she’d just kissed. “I didn’t think … I didn’t realize. Do they still hurt you?”
They did, but not in the way she thought.
Cutter almost ended things then. He was pretty sure he would have, too, if she hadn’t proceeded to yank the rug out from under his feet.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, leaning forward to drop a tender kiss on the underside of his chin. “I’ll be more gentle. I promise.”
The irony of it hit before the absurdity. In her own words, she’d been publicly branded as the next thing to a whore. Yet she stood there with sympathy swimming in her big brown eyes, reining in her natural urges, promising to go easy on him.
His doubts sank out of sight. Insides turning to mush, he chuckled and tugged her against him.
“You just let rip, sweetheart. I’ll do my best to grin and bear it.”
All inclination toward laughter had disappeared by the time he scooped her up and carried her into the bedroom. So had any pretense that he was a passive player in the game. He was rock-hard and hurting when he dragged down the silken coverlet.
Stretching her out on the pale-blue sheets, he stripped off her lacy camisole and briefs. The need to possess her made his hands unsteady as he shed his own clothes, but he managed to fish a condom from his wallet.
A strangled sound came from the bed. Throwing a quick glance over his shoulder, he saw Mallory propped up on one elbow.
“What’s that slogan?” she choked out as he joined her on sheets as soft as snow. “‘Never leave home without them?’ Reminds me of a certain financial institution that shall remain nameless at this … Oh!”
Cutter smiled at her breathless gasp and shifted his weight. They fitted together perfectly, her mouth within easy reach of his, her breasts flattened against his chest. He shifted a little more to the side and stroked his hand from her breasts to her belly and back again.
She was incredible, he thought while he could still think at all. Her skin was smooth and creamy and flushed with heat. Her belly hollowed under his palm. The pale hair of her mound was soft and silky to his touch.
Cutter fully intended to draw out the foreplay as long as possible, priming her, testing his own limits. But when he found the slick flesh between her thighs, his mind shut down and his body took over. Fitting himself against her, he locked his mouth on hers and sank into her wet, welcoming heat.
They found a rhythm as old as time. Mallory’s skin grew damp with sweat. Her nipples ached from Cutter’s nipping, sucking kisses. She rolled atop him to return the favor and had contorted to work her way down to his chest when her entire body went taut.
She jerked upright. Hands, teeth and thighs clenched as her climax slammed into her. Wave after wave of pleasure ricocheted through her belly. She thought she heard Cutter groan. She knew his muscles bunched under her bottom just before he thrust upward.
She collapsed onto his chest seconds later. Or maybe it was hours. She didn’t have a clue. The only reality that penetrated her sensual haze was the hammer of his heart under her ear.
Mallory floated slowly back to earth, vaguely aware of the cold air prickling her backside.
Flopping onto the mattress, she dragged up the tangled sheet and nuzzled into Cutter’s side. She must have dozed a little before she came awake with the scent of their lovemaking teasing her nostrils. Burying her face in the angle between his neck and shoulder, she touched her lips to the warm skin.
“Mmm. You taste salty.”
“I am salty. And thirsty.” Easing his arm free, he leaned over her and dropped a kiss on her still-tender lips. “How about I retrieve the wine?”
“Great idea. Bring the other goodies, too.” She scrambled upright and hooked the sheet under her arms. “We’ll have our own private picnic.”
Cutter did as asked. He brought the dessert tray and pot of still-frothy whipped cream first, then went back for the wine. Mallory had bitten into her second truffle when he returned.
“You are not going to believe how wonderful these are,” she gushed. “The first one was mocha, flavored with Cointreau. This one is chocolate, hazelnut and rum. Here, take a bite.”
Smacking her lips in exaggerated ecstasy, she offered him the remaining morsel. He bent to take it, but she didn’t see her playful mood reflected in his expression. He’d turned thoughtful during his two trips into the sitting room.
Okay. All right. So he wasn’t into postcoital picnics. No big deal.
She reached deep inside for something blasé to cover the awkward moment and came up empty. When he stood beside the bed and looked down at her, though, she knew the moment had stretched too thin to simply ignore.
“Is something wrong?”
He hesitated a few seconds too long.
“Wait,” Mallory said, her heart sinking. “Don’t tell me. I can guess. You’re having a sudden attack of conscience.”
She’d hit the mark. She could see it in his face. Dismayed, she shook her head.
“I should have known this little romantic interlude was too good to be true. That you were too good to be true.”
“Mallory … ”
“You’re married, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Engaged.”
“No.”
“In love with a twenty-two-year-old cowboy from Montana.”
“What?”
If she hadn’t been so mortified by his withdrawal, she might have derived immense satisfaction from his stunned expression.
“Hey, I saw Brokeback Mountain. I pretty much fell in love with Heath Ledger myself.”
His mouth opened. Snapped shut. In a tone that sounded like glass grinding, he refuted her allegations.
“Did it feel like you were in bed with someone nursing a taste for twenty-something cowboys?”
“I don’t know. Let me think about it for a minute.”
“Oh, for … !”
Tangling a hand in her hair, he tugged her head back. His eyes weren’t cool any longer, she noted.
“In case you haven’t noticed, my taste runs to twenty-nine-year-old blondes who run around losing passports, sinking rental cars and smearing chocolate all over their lips.”
When he proceeded to kiss away the aforementioned chocolate, Mallory’s doubts subsided. Temporarily. Only after he broke the kiss to lick at the corner of her mouth did her thoughts reengage. Curious, she cocked her head.
“How did you know?”
“Know what?”
“How old I am. Was that just a lucky guess?”
“I must have overheard you give the information to the gendarme at Mont St. Michel.”
“I don’t remember giving my age,” she said, a frown gathering. “My name, yes. And your cell phone number. Not my age.”
Impatience flickered across his face as a sick feeling churned in the pit of Mallory’s stomach.
“Oh, God! You knew.”
Dragging the sheet with her, she scrambled to her feet. Strawberries and truffles spilled everywhere.
“You knew all about me, didn’t you? You did read the papers, or saw the reports on TV. You knew about me, yet you sat there at the table and listened while I spilled my sad little tale.”
He didn’t try to deny it. He couldn’t. The truth was stamped all over his face.
“Yes, I knew who you were.”
Her chin lifted. She’d indulge in some serious self-flagellation and name-calling later. Right now she just wanted him gone before she burst into tears.
“Glad I gave you some fun, Mr. Smith. Now get out of my room.”
“Listen, Mallory, I did know who you were, but … ”
“But what?” she jeered. “You lied about not reading the news stories because you wanted to see if they were true? If I was hot as they said? Well, now you know. They’re true. Every one of them.”
“To hell they are.”
“You can go home, sell the latest chapter in this squalid serial to the tabloids, make millions.”
“Dammit, just listen a moment! I didn’t see any TV specials or pore through the tabloids. I studied the dossier put together by the outfit I work for.”
“You got a dossier?” Her face went slack with surprise before morphing into a full-fledged scowl. “On me?”
“Why? You’re a wine broker, for pity’s sake. Why would you … ? Oh!”
Swirls of conversation came back to her. Reeling, she recalled how Cutter had cleverly pumped her for information about her job at the Department of Commerce.
“Oh, Lord! How much of an idiot can one person be? This has to do with my job at the International Trade Administration, doesn’t it? What did you think you could get from me, Smith? Preferential status on ITA’s market listing? Inside information on your foreign competition?”
Cutter came within a breath of telling her the truth then. Not because of his mounting guilt for taking advantage of her vulnerability. Or the odd, indefinable emotion that had jolted through him when she’d pressed her lips against his puckered flesh.
It wasn’t love. He’d only known the woman for all of two days. People didn’t fall in love that quickly, except maybe in movies. Like Brokeback Mountain.
Christ!
No, he wanted to level with her for purely professional reasons. Mallory Dawes didn’t have any knowledge of the disk tucked in a pocket of her suitcase. Cutter would stake his reputation on that. Correction, he’d stake what was left of his reputation after pulling an 007 and hopping into bed with his target.
She might, however, be able to help him determine how the disk got into her suitcase. For that, he needed her full cooperation.
Before he could read her in on the situation, though, he had to clear it with OMEGA’s director. Lightning trusted his agents’ instincts, gave them complete authority in the field, but this particular op involved the President of the United States.
“Mallory, listen to me. Please.”
He figured he had all of thirty seconds to convince her he didn’t rank right up there with Congressman Kent as a total sleaze.
“I did receive a dossier on you, but it had nothing to do with the wine business or your job at the International Trade Administration. I can’t explain what it did concern. Not yet. You’ll have to trust me a little longer.”
Her chin jutted. Fury put bright spots of red in her cheeks. “Give me one good reason why I should.”
She had him there. Cutter didn’t think she was in any mood to appreciate a reference to the hours they’d spent together. Or to the fact that they both still wore each other’s scent on their skin. All he could do was curl a knuckle under her chin and tip her face to his.
“I can’t give you one, sweetheart. But I will. As soon as I make some calls, I promise. Just trust me a little longer, okay?”
“I’ll think about it.” Her eyes stormy, she jerked away from his touch. “Now get out of my room.”