Frances Housden - Honeymoon With A Stranger

Which it might.

Fear of failure sent her pulse thundering in her ears as his face lowered to hers.

Her throat felt bone-dry, unused. “I still love you, Mac.” She repeated the line he had fed her. A lie spun to tell her his name, and imply it was a lot longer than five minutes since they first met.

“That’s better,” he murmured.

The touch of his mouth was cool, dry and almost impersonal, yet, too much. And they were being watched.

Her hand clutched a fistful of supple leather jacket to make it look real. Feeling herself lifted as if she were no bigger than a doll, she clung as she’d never clung to a man before, praying this man named Mac wouldn’t continue the wild scary ride that had begun with her staring down the muzzle of a gun.

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has always been a voracious reader, but she never thought of being a writer until a teacher gave her the encouragement she needed to put pen to paper. As a result, Frances was a finalist in the 1998 Clendon Award and won the award in 1999, which led to the sale of her first book for Silhouette, The Man for Maggie.

Frances’s marriage to a navy man took her from her birthplace in Scotland all the way to the ends of the earth in New Zealand. Now that he’s a landlubber, they try to do most of their traveling together. They live on a ten-acre bush block in the heart of Auckland’s Wine District. She has two large sons, two small grandsons and a tiny granddaughter who can twist her around her finger, as well as a wheaten terrier who thinks she’s boss. Thanks to one teacher’s dedication, Frances now gets to write about the kind of heroes a woman would travel to the ends of the earth for. Frances loves to hear from readers. Get in touch with Frances through her Web site at www.franceshousden.com.

I want to dedicate this book to my editor, Julie Barrett, a lady of infinite patience. Thank you, Julie.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Epilogue

It was November in Paris, a bleak, damp month when the City of Lights turned petulant, more given to dampen a lover’s shoulder with tears than blow a warm kiss, the way the capital would come spring.

The long nights and foggy weather suited Mac McBride’s calling just fine, but then, Mac wasn’t your typical American in Paris. As an agent for IBIS, the Intelligence Bureau for International Security on call 24/7, his days weren’t anyone’s idea of routine.

A snub-nosed pistol sat comfortably inside his left boot, and a 9 mm Glock, his favorite piece, was tucked neatly under the waistband in the back of his black jeans. Mac felt ready for anything.

His fingertips tingled with edgy anticipation as he fitted the PM53 Makarov pistol into his shoulder holster, knowing all his hard work was about to pay off.

The only important decision now was whether or not he should keep on the gray tie with the black shirt? Did his outward appearance say Jeirgif Makjzajev, Chechen rebel, or did the slick oily sheen of the stuff he’d put on his hair yell Mafia lieutenant instead?

Mulling over the appointment ahead of him, he ditched the tie, then scraped his fingernails through this rough face stubble.

He drew his thick brown eyebrows into a frown that quickly disappeared once he was satisfied his reflection fitted the hard-ass look he’d intended.

The small break that took his nose off the straight and narrow became an asset on gigs like these. Though, he had to admit, he hadn’t thought that at the time when he was training at Annapolis, but then life had been all about girls—women—and what attracted them. Now it was about terrorists.

His face hadn’t seen a razor in more than six days, and the stubble looked darker where a dimple made a hollow in his chin.

Six days of dragging his heels on top of the month he’d already spent inveigling his way into the confidence of the slightly down-at-heel Algerian arms dealer he was setting up.

Meanwhile, his firm had made short work of any competitors without arousing suspicion.

He’d laughed when they told him he’d got this gig because of his razor-sharp cheekbones. Laughed to realize they thought he could pass for Chechen, and him with his true-blue American bloodline and a family history spanning 250-odd years since the first McBride set foot in America.

What the hell, he was more than willing to be involved in one of the craziest operations he’d yet encountered. And it helped that he spoke fluent Russian.

Though the Algerian didn’t, so the odd curse word was enough to fool him.

Luckily, Mac’s ability to finesse a deal speaking French was every bit as effortless as working in English, Russian or any of the other languages he’d picked up while his father’s career took the McBrides to U.S. embassies around the world.

Mac was shrugging his broad shoulders into the soft well-worn creases and shoulder-hugging cut of his black leather bomber jacket, almost ready to leave, when the phone rang.

Without looking, he shot out an arm, snagging the receiver, thankful it no longer took a guessing game to locate things he needed in the Le Sentier apartment. Reciting his number, he heard, “Zukah is on his way up to the apartment.”

The voice was Thierry’s, one of the other IBIS agents—French—working with Mac. “Damn, how far away?”

The importance IBIS placed on this case showed in the amount of money they were willing to commit. Thierry’s assignment was to tail the Algerian and his men; he and three others covered that end, but only Thierry was a master at disguise.

“They entered the building as I punched in your number, three of them. Want me to follow them up?” he asked.

“No, wait. Pick up their trail again when they leave. Zukah probably thinks there’s safety in numbers, but three shouldn’t be a problem now I’ve been warned.”

Mac only stated the facts as he knew them. The word arrogance didn’t raise a ripple on his conscience.

After focusing most of his adult life training to be the best, able to kill with his bare hands if need be, he now took those abilities for granted.

Roxanne Kincaid looked back over her shoulder, wondering if it was the last time she would see the little Renault.

She hadn’t worried about the car when she’d stolen a heart-racing gap in the traffic from under the wheels of the one alongside her, or while she swerved into the corner to cross the Seine at the Pont Neuf, but parking in Le Sentier?

This dark, dank quartier of Paris was the contrast that proved the rule when they spoke of the City of Lights. It would be just her luck to find the wheels missing when she returned.