Secret Agent Seduction (8 page)

Lia smiled, listening to him with an expression of such rapt absorption that his chest expanded a little. “Did you get in trouble very often?” she asked.

“Not at all,” Armand lied with a straight face.

Lia didn't buy it for a second. “Yeah, right!” she said laughingly.

He feigned an affronted look. “Now why would you say that?”

Lia rolled her eyes at him in amused exasperation. “One thing I've learned about you over the last two days is that you don't follow rules very easily. Right or wrong, you march to the beat of your own drum, and something tells me you always have. So if you were even half as stubborn and maddening as you are now, then you must have
stayed
in trouble when you were a little boy.”

Armand grinned at her. “You think I'm stubborn and maddening?”

“Are you kidding? I've met mules that were more cooperative than you.”

He threw back his head and laughed.

Trying to hide her own smile, Lia lifted her beer bottle to her mouth and took a long sip.

As his mirth subsided, Armand shook his head slowly. “I don't think I've ever been compared to a mule and come out on the short end of the stick,” he lamented. “That must be an all-time low for me.”

“Don't feel bad,” Lia told him cheerfully. “At least one of those mules I was referring to had been given a mild sedative before I arrived, which made him a little less ornery.”

Mouth twitching, Armand arched a brow. “Are you saying you might need to sedate me in order to ensure my cooperation from now on?”

Lia laughed. “Of course not! Don't be…” She trailed off as a sudden gleam of inspiration lit her dark eyes. “But now that you mention it, that's not such a bad idea.”

He shook his head, chuckling. “I'll have to keep a close eye on you, woman, just to make sure you don't slip something into my drink.”

She grinned mischievously. “You shouldn't have put the idea in my head.”

“
Me?
You're the one going around drugging poor mules to make them less ornery.”

“What? I did not
drug
any mules,” Lia laughingly protested.

“Well, then, you were an accessory,” Armand said accusingly. “Which makes you just as guilty.”

Lia gaped at him in comical disbelief for a moment, then burst out laughing again.

Armand grinned at her, enjoying their nonsensical banter more than anything he'd enjoyed in months. He wished they could stay out there longer, keep the rest of the world at bay forever. But he knew better.

Eyes glittering with mirth, Lia said to him, “Enough about mules. I want to hear more about Muwaiti, what it was like when you were growing up.”

“How about I tell you more over dinner?” Armand proposed.

She nodded. “All right. Speaking of dinner, I'd better get busy catching some fish or we're going to starve tonight.”

Armand nodded. “I have every confidence in your ability to catch the biggest trout in this lake. But if at any time you need my help, I'm right here.”

Lia hesitated, then nodded. “All right.”

Armand watched her get up, retrieve her fishing rod and resume her position at the opposite end of the boat. Before casting her lure over the side, she glanced back at him almost shyly.

He gave her a gentle smile of encouragement.

Her answering smile was as radiant as the afternoon sunshine. His heart thudded.

And at that moment Armand decided he would do whatever it took to make Lia Charles his.

S
ipping from a long-stemmed glass of white wine, Lia watched as Magliore used a spatula to turn over the large trout sizzling on the fired-up grill. Flame and smoke billowed, the savory aroma of grilled fish mingling with the scents of pine, hibiscus and night-blooming jasmine.

Two hours after returning from the lake that afternoon, she was still basking in the glow of her big catch—an eight-pound rainbow trout she'd needed help hauling into the boat, a feat for which Magliore had been more than generous in his praise. Afterward, with the prize trout slung over her shoulder, Lia had walked back to the cabin with a cocky swagger that made Magliore laugh uproariously.

Upon their return, she'd tossed a salad while he had cleaned, gutted and seasoned the trout. As they had worked alongside each other, Lia had found herself enjoying their relaxed domesticity. She couldn't remember the last time, if ever, she'd felt so comfortable with a man, especially one who did such dangerous things to her nervous system. Armand Magliore was not only the sexiest, most compelling man she'd ever known, but he was also charming, intelligent and unselfish, with a wicked sense of humor that offset some of his brooding intensity. The more time Lia spent with him, the more she wanted to learn about him—beyond what was reported in his dossier. Although a nagging voice in the back of her mind warned her that getting to know Magliore wasn't part of her mission, as the day wore on, she found it harder and harder to maintain her professional distance.

They decided to dine outdoors on the private deck that overlooked the lake and surrounding mountains. Lia felt incredibly feminine as Magliore pushed in her chair at the table, topped off her wine and served her meal with a gallant flourish.

“Thank you,” she said with a soft, grateful smile.

“You're welcome,” he murmured, taking a seat across the table from her.

The round wooden table had been covered with linen and adorned with a single white candle in a glass holder, which Magliore had found in the kitchen. He'd also located a small portable stereo and some reggae, calypso and steel drum CDs that Nancy Janikowski had sent in an effort to make him feel more at home. Lia had secretly watched as he crooned softly to the music while manning the grill, his hips moving in perfect time with the melodic island beats, fueling lascivious thoughts that left her feeling decidedly hot and bothered. Her one and only consolation was that Magliore couldn't read her mind any more than she could read his.

“Mmm, this is heavenly,” Lia said after sampling her first bite of the tender, succulent trout. She ate another forkful and made an appreciative sound. “Cooked to perfection.”

Magliore smiled. “I'm glad you like it. I can't take all the credit, though. You're the one who did all the hard work catching it.”

She shook her head, smiling a little. “It was a team effort.” Remembering the way he'd fought alongside her in Muwaiti, helping her fend off the mercenaries in the jungle, she said without thinking, “We make a pretty good team, don't we?”

Something soft and intimate filled Magliore's eyes. “I was just thinking the same thing,” he said huskily.

They gazed at each other for a long, electrified moment before Lia glanced away, becoming absorbed in the task of adding salt and butter to her baked potato. She racked her brain for a safe topic of conversation and said the first thing that came to mind. “Do you cook often?”

One corner of Magliore's mouth quirked. “If heating up MREs and roasting fish over a campfire count as cooking,” he drawled sardonically, “then yes, I do cook often.”

Too late, Lia realized her gaffe. How could she have forgotten, even for a moment, that the man seated across from her had spent the last year living in exile, holed up deep in the jungle in a ramshackle cabin that he shared with at least nineteen other men? She couldn't imagine that such a living arrangement afforded him many opportunities to hone his culinary skills.

Seeing her embarrassed expression, Magliore chuckled softly, taking pity on her. “Don't worry, you're not alone. Over the past twenty-four hours, even
I've
forgotten once or twice what my life has been like for the last year.” His voice softened as he gazed at her. “Being here with you, in this beautiful place, makes it easy to forget that the rest of the world even exists.”

Lia felt her insides melting at his words.
Oh, no,
she thought weakly.
I'm in deep trouble.

Clearing her throat self-consciously, she reached for her glass of wine and took a long, fortifying sip, acutely aware of Magliore still staring at her. At that moment it occurred to her how romantic the scene might appear to the casual observer: the two of them enjoying a candlelight dinner against a scenic mountain backdrop, sipping wine from crystal glasses while Caribbean music played softly and invitingly in the background. For one insane moment, Lia allowed herself to imagine what it would have been like if different circumstances had brought them to that secluded mountain retreat, if they were two lovebirds simply enjoying a romantic getaway instead of two strangers being hotly pursued by a vicious madman. If things had been different, she and Magliore might have watched the sunset after dinner, then melted into each other's arms to slow dance under the glittering stars. Afterward they might have slipped back inside the cabin, holding hands and wearing the dreamy smiles of lovers cocooned in their own private world. Magliore would build a fire, and they'd sit by the cozy hearth, sipping good wine and talking in low, intimate tones until he leaned over and kissed her, leaving her breathless and wanting more. More of his taste, his touch, his—

“Miss Charles?”

The sound of Magliore's deep voice brought Lia's forbidden daydream screeching to a halt—and not a moment too soon. A few seconds more, and they would have been tearing off each other's clothes and going at it in front of the fireplace.

When her startled gaze flew to Magliore's face, she found him watching her expectantly, the corners of his mouth twitching. Her face flamed, and for the second time that evening she thanked her lucky stars that the man couldn't read her mind.

Drawing in a shaky breath, she reeled in her dangerous thoughts. “I—I'm sorry,” she stammered. “Did you say something?”

“Nothing important,” Magliore murmured. “I asked if you could pass the butter.”

“Oh! Yes, of course.”

After the exchange, he asked softly, “Where'd you disappear to a minute ago? You had a faraway expression on your face. What were you thinking about?”

“MREs,” Lia lied swiftly.

One dubious brow sketched upward. “MREs?”

“Yes.”

MREs—meals, ready to eat—were prepackaged food rations given out to U.S. soldiers during times of war or conflict. Lia knew from firsthand experience that the meals had the soft, unappetizing consistency of room-temperature baby food, but they provided necessary sustenance to soldiers who found themselves in field conditions where organized food facilities were not available.

“I, uh, was wondering where you and your men got them?” Lia asked.

“There was a soldier in the Muwaitian militia who believed in our cause,” Magliore answered, using his fork to cut into his trout. “At great risk to his own life, he provided the MREs to us, as well as some other supplies we needed.”

“Does that include weapons?”

Magliore gave her a brief, enigmatic smile. “Let's just say he was willing to help our cause any way he could. Which is why he remained in the militia. He knew he could be of more use to us from the inside rather than the outside.”

Lia nodded, agreeing with the rationale. “There's no question
he
was taking a huge risk. But what about
you?
How did you know you could trust him? Weren't you afraid he might turn on you at any time? If he'd been caught helping you, surely Biassou would have tortured him until he revealed critical information about your operation.”

“He wouldn't have revealed anything,” Magliore said with calm, implacable resolve.

Lia frowned. “How do you know?”

Magliore took a leisurely sip of his wine before answering, “Because I knew him to be an honorable, fiercely loyal man. He would have died before giving Biassou any ammunition to use against us. And,” he added, gazing at his twinkling wineglass, “he had his own personal reason for wanting to destroy Biassou.”

Lia waited a heartbeat. When he didn't elaborate, her curiosity got the best of her. “What was his reason?” she asked, almost dreading the answer.

Magliore slowly lifted his gaze to hers. “His younger sister was one of Biassou's many mistresses. She had the misfortune of becoming pregnant with his child. When he learned about the baby, he was furious and demanded that she get an abortion. He told her he didn't need
nor
want another one of his bastards running around the island. When she refused to get rid of the baby, saying that she loved him and wanted to bear him a son, Biassou became enraged. He beat her to within an inch of her life.”

Lia let out a horrified gasp. “Oh, my God,” she breathed, staring at Magliore.

His expression hardened. “By the time her brother found her that evening, she was lying on the kitchen floor in a pool of blood, barely conscious. Biassou had beaten her so badly her face was hardly recognizable.” His jaw tightened. “She lost the baby. Which was what the sadistic bastard wanted, of course.”

Lia shook her head, a lump of sorrow and compassion wedged in her throat. “H-how old was she?”

“Nineteen,” Magliore said, his teeth clenched so hard his voice was like a growl.

Lia swallowed. “Is she…is she still alive?”

“She survived. But the injuries she sustained left her paralyzed from the waist down. She'll never walk again, nor will she ever have children.”

“My God,” Lia murmured hoarsely. “That monster's cruelty knows no bounds.”

Magliore's lips twisted bitterly. “You don't know the half of it.”

Lia suspected he was right. What she'd already read and heard about the unspeakable atrocities committed by Alexandre Biassou left her with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, along with a healthy dose of outrage.

Angrily she said, “No one would blame the girl's brother for wanting to get even with Biassou, or at the very least, defecting from his damn militia.”

“You're right. No one would blame him.” Magliore paused. “He remains in the militia so that he can take care of his sister and make sure all of her medical needs are met. The only reason he has not torn Biassou to pieces with his bare hands is that his sister begged him not to. Even bound to a wheelchair for the rest of her life, she still managed to show mercy to the one who put her there.” He shook his head, adding in a low, cynical voice, “That bastard has been shown more mercy than he could ever deserve.”

Lia said nothing, fragments of their earlier conversations whispering through her mind.
I have unfinished business with Alexandre Biassou…I intend to make him pay…I've got nothing to lose, and everything to gain, by ridding the world of him once and for all.

Lia knew a threat when she heard one, and those had all been threats with a capital
T.
But what the hell was she supposed to do? If she had reason to believe that Armand Magliore was a loose cannon plotting to assassinate the president of Muwaiti, and she failed to alert her superiors, there'd be hell to pay. As universally reviled as Alexandre Biassou was, his assassination at the hands of Magliore—while he was in the custody of the United States government—would be nothing short of a diplomatic nightmare. Not only would the Secret Service come under fire for facilitating vigilantism and the assassination of a foreign leader, but Lia would be reprimanded, possibly fired, for her perceived negligence.

But that wasn't even the worst outcome, Lia realized. If the United Nations Security Council failed to prove its case against Biassou, and Magliore decided to take matters into his own hands, he would be captured and imprisoned, or worse, killed. The idea of him suffering a slow, torturous death made her chest squeeze with an emotion akin to fear. What happened to this man mattered to her. Mattered more than she cared to admit, even to herself.

Lia frowned. If only she could get inside his head, find out what he was thinking so that she could at least
try
to talk some sense into him.

But it was no use. Since his violent outburst earlier, she'd already tried several times to read his mind, casually allowing her hand to linger on his arm, brushing against him as they walked back to the cabin. But all she got for her trouble were scorched nerve endings. No dark, brooding thoughts about revenge or assassination plots. Nothing.

For whatever reason, the inner workings of Armand Magliore's mind eluded her.

Since her gift had failed her, Lia realized that the only way to get him to confide in her was to gain his trust. In order to accomplish that, she had to befriend him, convince him that she was on his side. Which she was. She wanted nothing more than to see Biassou punished for his horrific crimes against the people of Muwaiti. Hell, if she were anything but a federal agent, she might have loaned Magliore her gun to put an end to Biassou's sorry life.