All the Queen's Men (24 page)

But she had her eye on another guy, as a consolation prize. He was rich, he wasn't bad looking, and he did something in the French defense department, or whatever they called it. He'd have lots of interesting things to tell her. From the way his wife hung on to him, he had something of interest in his pants, too. She had seen him eyeing her, so she figured he'd find a way to escape from the little woman for a while.

She couldn't wait. She hadn't had sex in-well, she couldn't remember exactly how long, but she knew it was too long. Damn Hossam and his jealousy! She'd been trying to wean him away, let him down gently, but he just wouldn't go away. She hadn't slept with him, but in the interest of keeping things calm she hadn't slept with anyone else, either. She didn't want to stir up trouble among the guys in Louis's security guard, because Louis wouldn't thank her for it.

She played a game of tennis at nine, and Mr. Defense Department showed up, sans wifey. Cara flirted outrageously with him, until she noticed a tall, mustachioed man, wearing a suit and sunglasses, watching them from the west patio. Hossam. Damn it, if she took him to her room now, which was really the only safe place
to
take him, Hossam would know and was likely to cause trouble. Louis would be majorly pissed if one of his guests was killed by her jealous ex-lover.

Fuming, she finished the game, then excused herself and stalked across the wide expanse of lawn to the west patio. She swished her racket angrily through the air, wishing it was connecting with Hossam's head. Why, he was
stalking
her. She had tried to be nice and not rub his nose in the fact that she was tired of him, but nice hadn't gotten her anywhere. It was time for some plain speaking.

He stood with his arms folded over his chest, stolidly watching as she steamed up to him. He was a big man, about six-five; she had enjoyed his size, because he wasn't big just in height, but now she wished he was normal sized so she could knock him on his ass.

"Stop it," she hissed, standing toe to toe with him and glaring up into his sunglasses. "It's over. Don't you get it? Over! O-v-e-r. Kaput. Finished. I would say it in Egyptian but I don't know the damn word. I had a good time but now I'm moving on-"

"Arabic." His voice was a deep rumble, reverberating in that big chest.

"What?"

"Egyptians speak Arabic. There's no such thing as an Egyptian language."

"Well, thank you for the lesson." She poked him in the chest. "Stop following me, stop spying on me- just stop. I don't want to cause trouble for you but I will if I have to, do you understand."

"I want only to be with you."

Gawd, she thought in despair. "Your head must be made of wood!
I
don't want to be with
you!
I've seen all your tricks, and now I want a new magician. Don't bother me again."

She pushed past him and went inside. She managed to smile at the people she passed on the way to her room, which was on the third floor facing the driveway, but inside she was furious. If Hossam messed up the best job she'd ever had, she would wring his thick neck with her bare hands. Men were enough to make a woman think of joining a convent, she thought, fuming. Maybe she didn't need another lover right now; maybe what she really needed was her head examined because she was even thinking about it.

If she saw Hossam so much as looking at her again, she'd tell Louis. Enough was more than enough.

Without appearing to, John studied the security system as Ronsard unlocked and opened the door to his office. The lock operated on a numeric code that translated to different tones, like a telephone. Ronsard was careful to keep his body between John and the control panel, so he couldn't see the numbers. John didn't even try to see them; he half-turned away, studying the hallway, noting the blinking eye of the camera that was mounted at the far end of the hall. Making sure his motion was hidden from the camera, he slipped his hand inside his jacket and triggered a powerful miniature recorder that picked up the small beep of the tones as Ronsard punched in the code.

"We won't be disturbed here," Ronsard said. "Please be seated. Would you like something to drink? Coffee?"

"No, thank you." Call him paranoid, but he was real careful about taking anything to eat or drink from someone else. A buffet was fine, if everyone else was eating, but when he was on a job he was always in control of his intake. If he had to set a drink down, he didn't pick it back up. It was a simple rule, but an effective one.

He looked around. There was a computer on Ronsard's large, antique desk, but no phone line going to it, which meant it was secure. If there were any files Ronsard didn't want compromised, they would be on that computer. Another unit sat on a Louis XIV desk across the room, and this one was hooked to a phone line, a printer, a scanner, the works.

Also on Ronsard's desk was a small monitor with an elaborate control attached to it, and from where he was sitting John could see just enough of the screen to tell it was surveillance of the hallway outside, so Ronsard knew in advance who was coming toward his office. There was probably a central surveillance control room somewhere in this massive building, but whether or not the entire building was under watch was something he'd have to find out. It could be that, like the listening devices, only certain rooms were involved. This part of the estate was, after all, Ronsard's private living quarters, and he probably wouldn't want his employees watching
him.

"Who's making the compound?" he asked, deciding to at least ask. Sometimes people just blurted out what he wanted to know.

Ronsard smiled at him. "I have an agreement with the ... ah, developers. They don't use anyone else to distribute the compound, and I don't tell anyone who they are. Once it's known, you understand, then they'll be under siege. Opportunists would try to get the formula, perhaps resorting to kidnap and torture in the process; the government might try to shut them down, but would at least take over the manufacturing. That's the way governments are, isn't it?" He sat down behind his desk, "I had thought they were dealing behind my back. Both you and Ernst Morrell were asking about the compound; what else could I think? But you've relieved my mind."

"I'm glad."

The total lack of expression in John's voice brought a smile to the arms dealer's face. "So I see. Well, Mr. Temple, shall we complete our business? I have guests, and you'll want to continue your pursuit of Mrs. Jamieson. Tell me-what would you do with a wife, assuming you succeed?"

John's eyes sharpened. "Keep her safe."

"Ah. Can you do that, though?" He indicated the computers in the office, specifically the fast, powerful one on his secretary's desk, "Computers have made the world very small. Eventually, one will be able to find out anything about anyone. It's almost possible now. You won't be able to disappear the way you do now."

"Information can be falsified or erased. If I need a social security number or a credit card, I use someone else's."

"Yes, but what about her? She can't disappear, you know. She has family, friends; she has a home, a routine, and a social security number, and those credit cards you disdain. I know the lady well enough to promise you she would balk at using a stolen credit card."

Still warning him away from Niema, John realized, inwardly amused. "If she doesn't want what I can give her, all she has to do is say no. Kidnapping somebody is too chancey; it draws a lot of attention."

"Something you want to avoid," Ronsard agreed. "But if she did go with you-what would you do?"

John regarded him silently, refusing to be drawn on the question. It was a nonissue, of course, but Ronsard didn't know that. Let him think that Temple was the most secretive bastard he'd ever met, and let it go at that.

He stonewalled every attempt Ronsard made to talk about Niema, though he was actually beginning to like the guy. There was something both absurd and touching about someone as ruthless as Louis Ronsard displaying this kind of concern for a friend. Niema had gotten to him too, John thought, just the way she had Hadi and Sayyed, and himself, in Iran. The situation was almost funny. He should have been able to express an interest in Niema, with her reciprocating, and that would have been that: a burgeoning affair. Instead Niema was rattled, Ronsard was protective, and he was having to pursue a reluctant target.

Of course, no one would ever think this was part of any plan. It was just too damn implausible, like a soap opera. Maybe that was why it seemed to be working so well.

Half an hour later, their business concluded- amount of explosive needed, when, how it would be delivered, how much it would cost him-John went to his room and changed into his swim trunks. The room had been searched again, he saw; he didn't know what they expected to find that they hadn't found the first time. The fact that they
hadn't
found anything probably disturbed Ronsard a little. Of course, they were looking in the wrong place. Since acquiring the weapons last night after arriving here, he had given one to Niema, taped another under one of the massive hall tables outside his room, and one was strapped to his ankle. The ankle holster would have to go in a secure place while he was swimming, though. Smiling, he stuffed it and the tiny recorder under the mattress. The maids had already been in and cleaned, and the room had been searched- twice. Looking in the most obvious place in the world was now the one place they were the least likely to look.

He pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of trousers over his swim trunks, then went down to the pool courtyard. It was a hot, sunny day, but still fairly early. The ladies didn't want to mess up their hair so close to lunch time, so they were sunbathing instead of swimming, and the pool wasn't crowded.

Rather than putting his clothes in the large cabana, he shucked his shirt and dropped it over a chaise, then took off his pants and did the same with them. He didn't have anything in his pocket other than his room key, but if by leaving his clothes in the open he frustrated anyone wanting to go through his pockets, so much the better.

He dove into the pool in a long, shallow dive and began swimming laps, his arms stroking tirelessly. He was as at home in the water as he was on land, courtesy of his BUD/S training. Swimming in a pool was child's play, after swimming miles in the ocean. It was nice of Ronsard, he thought, to provide him a means of keeping up his physical conditioning. There was probably a weight room somewhere in this place, too, but he doubted he'd have time to use it.

The only thing about swimming in public was, after a while people began to notice. Not many people could swim nonstop for that length of time, even though he'd only been at it half an hour. He could have kept on, using one stroke or another, for hours, but it wasn't wise to draw that kind of attention. Already people around the pool were watching him, and he was pretty sure one woman had been counting the laps as he turned them.

He hauled himself out of the water and took a fluffy towel from the stacks Ronsard had put out for his guests, and which were constantly being replaced, and roughly swiped it over his torso. Though it wasn't one o'clock yet, he saw Niema coming toward him. She was dressed casually, in loose, drawstring natural linen pants and a blue camisole, with a gauzy white shirt worn loose over the camisole. She had pulled her thick dark hair back and secured it with a silver clasp at the nape of her neck. Her dark eyes looked huge and luminous.

She checked a little when she saw him, as if she hadn't known he was there. He stood still, staring at her, then lifted his hand and beckoned her to him.

She hesitated for a long moment before obeying, just long enough for him to begin wondering if she was going to do something totally unexpected, like turning around and leaving, which would be taking the show of reluctance a little too far and might prod her unlikely protector into action.

But then she began walking slowly to him, and he knotted the towel around his waist to hide his response as he waited for her to join him.

>
Chapter Twenty

Niema faltered as she approached John and slid her sunglasses on her nose to hide her expression from him. Good God, the man should put on some clothes before she had heart failure. Greedily she drank in the strong lines of his torso, the well-defined muscles of arms and shoulders, the ridges down his abdomen. His legs were the most powerful she had ever seen, the long muscles thick and sinewy in the way that showed he did it all, running and swimming as well as strength training.

Water still sparkled on his shoulders and in the hair on his chest. He had roughly towel-dried his hair and raked his hand over it to restore some semblance of order. He looked wild, and dangerous, and she ached inside with the need to touch him.

He wrapped the towel around his waist and stood like a redwood, waiting for her to reach him. At least the towel hid part of those legs. How could he look so lean when he was clothed, when he had muscles like this?

Then she reached him, and a tiny smile curved his hard mouth, a mouth that looked as if it never smiled at all and yet he made the effort for her. This was Temple, she thought, not John. John smiled and laughed. When he was himself, he was an expressive man- unless he was playing another part, unless he had been someone else for so long that even John Medina was just a role for him now.

"For a minute there, I thought you were going to turn and run," he said in a low voice. "Don't be
that
reluctant."

"I know what to do." She sat down in the chair he held out for her, not caring if she sounded irritable. She
was
irritable. She hadn't had much sleep, and her nerves were raw.

He stood behind her, looking down, and she felt his stillness. Then he put his hand inside her open shirt and lightly smoothed his palm over her bare shoulder, the movement slow and absorbed, as if he couldn't go a moment longer without touching her. Only the thin straps of her camisole obstructed him, and they might as well not have been there. She shivered as that warm hand moved over her, pushing the shirt away just enough that he could stroke that one shoulder and upper arm. It was the most restrained, sensuous touch she had ever experienced, and her entire body reacted, nipples pebbling, stomach tightening.