Frances Housden - Honeymoon With A Stranger

“Did she teach you to cook as well?”

“As a matter of fact, she did.”

“Now, that’s what I call an asset.”

She pouted, leaning one elbow on the table, as if the sleep she’d had as they traveled hadn’t done much good. “I should have known you were one of those guys who believe in keeping their wives barefoot, pregnant and chained to the kitchen…and talking about plumbing, did anyone mention a bathroom?”

“No one did, but since there is only one possibility, I’d try that door in the corner next to the armoire.”

No sooner said than she was off. “Hey,” she called out, her voice echoing. “There must be a tower on the corner, this room curves on three sides.” Then the door clicked shut behind her.

And then there was one, he thought, remembering an old black-and-white movie set in a remote house.

Mac shivered. Roxie was right about it feeling colder up here, colder still now Roxie had left the room. Her personality could almost be termed sunny when she wasn’t pretending to be scared out of her wits.

He gave the low-ceilinged room the once-over, not that he expected Zukah to be that obvious in his placement of listening devices.

The furniture was about what one would expect in an attic, remnants no longer wanted downstairs. The brass bed was set against a backdrop of faded yellow wallpaper.

Its size hardly made a dent in the open floor space.

Mac sat on the edge of the bed to test the mattress and it complained. Quilts had been piled on top to disguise a thin mattress on an even thinner wire-sprung base. But it was chilly enough to make the down-filled covers necessary.

He huffed out a breath that hung in the air like mist.

It wouldn’t surprise him if they were near a river, the Loire maybe, for he hadn’t noticed the loaded minivan being tested by many hills.

The bed creaked as his weight came off it.

What were the odds of Roxie allowing him to share? That way he wouldn’t be forced to sleep on the lumpy easy chair Zukah had provided, or, God forbid, lie on the floor?

What would it take to convince her that just because she was female and breathing, he had no intention of hitting on her?

When her eyes lit up, she seemed pretty enough. That’s when she wasn’t hiding behind her coat collar.

In fact, once he’d gotten over the annoyance of her arrival, and hauled her out of her jam, he’d wondered if MI6 were so short of volunteers, they’d begun giving their secretaries assignments.

He laughed to himself, imagining her toffee-nosed SAC saying, “Take a note, Roxie. Collect a semiautomatic on your way out, you have a mission in France.”

Yeah, and that was likely. As far as he could see, she hadn’t been armed with anything larger than her cell phone. And for the first time he paused to wonder, why not?

Roxie sat on the commode with the lid down. All she’d wanted was a little privacy to have a nervous breakdown. And now thank heaven, she was over it.

Charles would be having fits tomorrow when she didn’t call in.

She stood up, swiped at her cheeks with the backs of her knuckles, hoping her outburst hadn’t left streaks of mascara.

The mirror was old, freckled with green-mottled patches where dampness had invaded the backing, but it was clear enough to show the giveaway red blotches under her eyes.

Compared to some French bathrooms she’d visited, this one was large, but somewhat utilitarian. It had been a surprise to twist the faucet and feel the water run hot.

The metal bath was so ancient its claw-foot style had been in vogue and out again at least twice since the original was cast.

However, she was pleased to note some thoughtful person had jerry-rigged a shower over the bath, as well as a circular rod and curtain. That was as far as privacy went.

The first thing she’d discovered on entering the bathroom was it had no lock on the door.

Soap and clean towels were piled on the counter by the basin, so she hung her coat on a hook on the back of the door until she tidied up.

Just as she’d thought, her shoulder-length brown hair was curling at the ends. She tucked the long, loose waves that fell over one eye behind her ear as she washed her face, washing off the results of her disastrous evening while listening to Mac moving around in the next room.

Sucking in a deep breath, she held it till she had no choice but to let go or explode. She’d taken so long that any moment now he would come looking for her.

And she wasn’t certain how to handle that, handle him.

Sure, he’d been kind in a rough sort of way, but there was just no getting away from the fact that his career designation 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.”