Chapter 10

Mallory stared unseeing at the mist-shrouded pines drifting past the windows of Madame d’Marchand’s Rolls Royce Silver Cloud. Beside her, Gilbért hummed to himself as he steered through the forest that edged right down to the cliffs on this stretch of coast.

She should have been feeling like a princess. After all, she’d spent the past two nights in a castle and was now being conveyed to town in a chrome-laden behemoth that glided along with slow, ponderous grace. Instead, she wanted to bite something. Or someone.

She supposed she should thank Cutter for waiting until last night to bring the walls of her fairy-tale castle tumbling down around her. At least she’d got to spend a whole day roaming the French countryside, lazing in the sun, sipping apple brandy. An evening filled with sparkling crystal and le veau de la Normandie. And let’s not forget that hot, sweaty session between the sheets.

She ground her teeth, and Gilbért raised an inquiring brow.

“Yes, mademoiselle?”

Shifting in her seat, Mallory glanced at the stately majordomo. He appeared so calm, so dignified, with his salt-and-pepper hair, neatly trimmed mustache and spiffy tweed driving cap.

“Mademoiselle is disturbed?” he asked, unbending enough to tip her a look of friendly concern.

She started to deny it. Shielding her thoughts and emotions had become a necessary survival mechanism over the past months. She was feeling just raw enough, though, to blow a long huff of self-disgust.

“Did you ever make a fool of yourself over someone? A total, twenty-four-carat fool?”

“But of course. I am French. It is required.”

“Wish I could use nationality as my excuse,” Mallory said glumly. “With me, it’s just plain stupidity.”

“What is life without such folly, eh?” His lips curving, Gilbért relaxed his gloved hands on the steering wheel. “Madame Picard was the belle of our village. All the men puff their chests and strut like the peacock when she strolls by. She tortures me, ma petite Jeanette, until I go mad with despair and decide to drown myself in the village well. It is a gesture, you understand, a foolish gesture. I have gone down the well many times as a boy, but now I am too big and become stuck. It takes a team of horses to pull me out, while the whole village watches. We laugh about it still, Madame Picard and I.”

Gilbért’s rich chuckle invited Mallory to share in the absurdity of life in general and love in particular.

Okay, she thought, smiling at his tale, so maybe she wasn’t the only woman in history to fall for a sexy smile and a body to match. Throw in a propensity to appear just when a girl needed him most and a seemingly sympathetic ear, and it was no wonder she’d let desire cloud her judgment where Cutter Smith was concerned.

The stupid thing was, deep down inside she still wanted to trust him. Against all reason, despite every bitter lesson she’d learned in recent months, she wanted to give him the time he’d asked for. How stupid was that?

She was squirming inwardly at the answer when a figure darted out of the forest. Planting himself in the middle of the road, he waved his hands above his head and signaled for them to stop.

With a low grunt, Gilbért stomped on the brakes. His eyes narrowed under the brim of his tweed cap.

“I know this one. He is the son of the baker in town.”

Judging by the curl to Gilbért’s lip, he didn’t hold the baker’s son in particularly high esteem. Mallory’s glance cut back to the man on the road.

Skinny and spike-haired, he looked to be in his early twenties. His jeans were fashionably ragged, showing large patches of bare skin. His jacket was also denim. The black T-shirt he wore underneath sported a heart skewered by a stiletto dripping blood.

“Wait in the car, mademoiselle.” Gilbért put his shoulder to the Rolls’ heavy door. “I will see what he wants.”

Whatever it was led to an escalating exchange of words and gestures. Mouths twisted into sneers. Arms were flung. Chins were flipped. When the kid dragged an arm across his nose to wipe it, an obviously disgusted Gilbért turned and stalked toward the car.

Before he’d taken more than a few steps, the baker’s son whipped something out from under his jacket. Mallory caught only a glint of metal before he raised his arm and brought it down on Gilbért’s skull. The older man crumpled like an old suit of clothes.

“Hey!”

Mallory was out of the car before Gilbért hit the ground. The kid spun toward her, clutching what she now saw was a small but lethal-looking revolver.

She froze, her breath thick in her throat, as he let loose with a torrent of French. The volume rose with each agitated phrase, until he was almost shouting at her.

“I don’t understand.” Her voice cracked. Her mind fought to find the right translation. Je, uh, ne comprend … “

“I will have it!”

“Have what?”

“Everything. The purse. The wallet. What you carry in the car.”

Drugs, she thought when her brain unfroze enough to register anything except the gun barrel aimed at her midsection. The wild eyes. The runny nose. He had to be on drugs. Only someone really messed up in the head would risk a robbery in broad daylight with a man who could easily identify him lying in the dirt at his feet.

The realization she was facing an armed junkie would have scared the crap out of her if a second realization hadn’t hit right on top of that one. Because the man lying in the dirt at this guy’s feet could identify him, he might not be inclined to leave either Gilbért or Mallory behind as witnesses.

“The purse,” the kid shouted, his gun shaking with the effort. “Throw it down, in the road. Then move away from the car.”

Struggling desperately to recall the tips imparted in her self-defense course, Mallory tugged at the strap of the purse draped across her chest and one shoulder. Most of the advice had to do with avoiding dangerous situations. Never pick up hitchhikers. Stick to well-lighted areas. Travel in pairs.

The options narrowed down considerably when confronted by an armed robber. Don’t resist. That was rule one. Her life was more valuable than her possessions. Except in this case, she didn’t have many possessions and she couldn’t shake the sick certainty that her life hung by a very thin thread with this guy.

Rule two, don’t make any sudden moves that might make the attacker think she was reaching for a concealed weapon. Dear God, what she wouldn’t give for a concealed weapon!

Rule three … Do whatever you could to get away if he tried to force you into the car and run like hell in a zigzagging pattern.

Her hand shaking, Mallory dragged her purse over her head. She could zigzag it into the trees lining the road. Maybe. If she ran, though, she’d leave Gilbért at the mercy of this crackhead.

“Here.” Her mind racing in frantic circles, she dangled the purse. “This is all I have. Just take it, okay?”

“Throw it down onto the road and move away from the car.”

She tossed the purse, but not onto the pavement. With a twitchy jerk that was ninety-nine percent nerves and one percent desperation, she managed to land it in the weedy grass beside the road.

Okay. All right. Mallory’s breath came fast and shallow as the kid stalked towards her to snatch up the purse. He was closer now. Almost within reach.

She sucked in her gut, trying to work up the courage to propel her body through the air while he tore open the purse and viewed its meager contents.

She waited a fraction too long.

“Pah!” Pocketing her one credit card, he threw the purse into the weeds again. “There is more, yes?”

“No! Nothing! I swear.”

“You come from the château. You are the guest of Madame d’Marchand. You have the suitcase. The furs. The jewels.”

“I’m staying at the château, but I don’t have any jewels or furs. You’ve got the wrong girl.”

“I think not. Move away.”

She took one step to the side. One slightly forward. Another …

Gilbért’s groan was hardly more than a whimper, but the small animal sound provided the only distraction Mallory knew she would get. When the kid threw a swift glance over his shoulder, she sprang.

She knocked into his shoulder, threw him off balance, lunged again. This time she hit him from behind.

Locking one arm around his neck, she clung to his back like a monkey and made a desperate grab with her free hand. She caught only a corner of his jacket sleeve, but it was enough to keep him from angling his gun in her direction.

Cursing, he bucked and humped like an enraged bull. Mallory bounced on his back like a rag doll, but wouldn’t loosen her stranglehold or release his sleeve. Knowing she had to bring him to his knees before he shook her off, she tightened her arm around his throat and squeezed for all she was worth.

“Mademoiselle!”

From the corner of one eye, she saw Gilbért stagger to his feet.

“He’s got a gun!” she shouted.

The possibility Gilbért might join the fray spurred the kid to renewed fury. Choking, he spun in a circle and pumped off wild shots.

The first went into the air. The second plowed into the Rolls’ shiny chrome grill. Cordite stung Mallory’s eyes. Percussive shock waves hammered at her eardrums, so loud and painful she almost missed the roar of a car tearing down the road at top speed.

The kid picked up on it the same moment she did. Every bit as desperate as Mallory now, he staggered toward the Rolls and spun her into its side. Her hip slammed into the tank-like fender. Pain screamed up her spine.

Still she hung on. Or tried to. A second ramming jarred every bone in her body. Her chokehold loosened. His sleeve tore free of her grasp, but it took a vicious elbow to her ribs to knock her off the bastard’s back.

She fell to the pavement. Heard Gilbért shout something in French. Then another shot cracked through the air.

“No!”

Mallory rolled onto all fours, prepared to see the butler stretched out on the pavement, fully expecting she would be next. Instead she heard an unbroken stream of curses from Gilbért, punctuated by the thud of running feet. Her head whipped toward the sound.

Cutter raced toward her from the car skidded sideways across the road some yards back. Mallory’s dazed mind registered the pistol gripped in his hand. Gulping, she cranked her head around and spotted the baker’s son sprawled face-down in a slowly spreading pool of blood. Her joints turning to jelly, she plopped down.

“Are you hurt?” Cutter crouched beside her, his grim glance raking her from head to toe. “Mallory! Sweetheart! Were you hit?”

“No.” She raised a shaking hand to shove back her tangled hair and winced. “Not by a bullet, anyway. Bastard got me with an elbow.”

“An elbow?”

“Right in the ribs.”

Cutter sat back on his heels. His blood still thundered in his ears. His lungs hadn’t pulled in a breath since he’d spotted the humpback figure gyrating wildly beside the Rolls. He’d aged a good ten years when he’d identified Mallory as the hump. Another ten in the two or three seconds it had taken him to jam on the brakes, leap out of the car and yank his Glock from its ankle holster.

“Stay here,” he bit out.

Glock in hand, he joined Gilbért. The majordomo was on one knee beside the shooter, feeling for a pulse. Cutter didn’t expect him to find one. He hadn’t had time for a precision take-down.

“He’s dead,” Gilbért confirmed.

With a grunt of pain, the older man pushed to his feet. Cutter hooked his arm to help him up.

“You okay?”

“Yes.” Disgust riddled his voice. “Like the fool, I turn my back and he hits me from behind.”

Cutter kept a steadying hand on Gilbért’s arm. His face was ashen and his cap had slipped down over one ear, but otherwise he appeared whole.

“Madame Picard and I feared it would come, sooner or late, with that one.”

“You know him?”

“He is Remy Duchette, the son of the baker in town. He’s had trouble with the police, you understand, but nothing that makes me think he carries a gun. I would not have stopped if I thought him dangerous.”

“Why did you stop?”

“Remy comes out of the woods just there and waves to us. I think he wants a ride. Too late it becomes clear he waits for us.”

Cutter slewed toward the treeline. The kid had picked a good spot for an ambush. A bend in the road, where the Rolls had to slow to make the turn. Plenty of cover to hide behind until his prey appeared.

“Remy knows this car,” Gilbért continued, his disgust mounting with every word. “He knows madame entertains guests of great wealth. He has probably heard in the village that you and mademoiselle stay at the château and decides to wait in hope of robbing you.”

“So that’s what you think this was? An attempted robbery?”

“Oui. I hear him tell mademoiselle he wants her purse and the furs and jewels from her suitcase.”

Cutter said nothing, but the warning lights already blipping inside his head flashed a sharper red.

“He said he wanted her suitcase?”

“He wants what is in it. Mademoiselle tells him she has only her purse with her, but he does not believe her and orders her to move away from the car.”

“He acted all jumpy and twitchy,” Mallory chimed in as she joined them. She gave the sprawled body a quick glance and looked away. “I think he was on drugs. My guess is he needed money for a hit.”

“We must call the gendarmes.” His face grim, Gilbért extracted a cell phone from his pocket. “Then I must go into town to explain to my friend the baker how his son dies.”

Cutter nodded. The sooner they got the police on the scene, the sooner he could get Mallory back within the walls of the château.

“I’ll cover the body. Is there a blanket or a tarp in the car?”

“A tarp, in the trunk.”

With the ease of long practice, Cutter reached down, hiked his pants’ leg, and slid the Glock into its ankle holster. Mallory followed the movement with a crease between her brows.

Cutter knew he’d blown what little remained of his cover. Before he explained the Glock, though, Ms. Dawes needed to do a little explaining of her own.

“You’re still green around the gills.” With a firm hand on her elbow, he steered her back to the Rolls. “You’d better sit. It’ll take a while for the police to get here.”

She eased onto the seat with an awkward movement that told him her ribs were still hurting and sat sideways, shoulders hunched, while he searched the Rolls’ cavernous trunk. It yielded both a neatly folded tarp and a supply of emergency road beacons. Cutter set several as a warning to any approaching vehicles to slow down.

He itched to search the woods for evidence that would either support or disprove Mallory’s theory that this was a drug heist gone bad, but he could wait for the police on that. Right now he was more interested in her reasons for departing the château so abruptly.

Hooking an elbow on the open back door, he conducted a swift assessment. Her face had lost its pasty hue, but the crease was still there, pulling at her brows. Cutter knew the questions were piling up behind her frown and decided to slip his in first.

“Madame Picard said you got a phone call and asked Gilbért to take you to the train station. Why didn’t you wait for me, tell me where you were going?”

“You were out jogging. I was in a hurry.” Her glance dropped to his ankle. “Do you always carry a gun?”

“Most of the time.”

“You weren’t wearing it last night.”

“It wasn’t necessary inside the château.” Doggedly, he steered the conversation back to her abrupt departure. “Why did you just up and leave this morning, Mallory? Where were you going?”

“I told you. Into town.”

“Why?”

“The stationmaster called. He said a package had come for me on the overnight express train from Paris, and that I had to sign for it personally. I thought it had to be either my passport or replacement traveler’s checks, so I asked Gilbért to drive me to town.” If Cutter had any doubts about this roadside attack, she’d just resolved them.

Neat, he thought grimly. Very neat. Dangle the bait. Lure the prey out of her protected lair. Arrange an ambush on a deserted stretch of road. The only question in his mind was how the hell the hunter could be sure she would bring her suitcase with her.

“Your turn,” Mallory snapped, breaking into his thoughts. “Why do you have a gun strapped to your ankle? Is the wine business so dangerous and cutthroat? Or was that all a lie, too?”

“Pretty much.”

Her breath left on a long, slow hiss. “You’re starting to really torque me off, Smith.”

“Brace yourself, Dawes. It gets worse. I work for the U.S. government. An obscure agency you’ve never heard of. We’ve had you under close surveillance since Dulles.”