“Is it correct?”
She had no need to deny the truth. “It is.”
“Then I am sorry for that. But happy you survived the crossing and that you are here. With us,” he said so low that she walked into a cocoon of his spoken regard and wished to lie down and rest there. “No one should have to endure such peril.”
“I had the fright—”The fright of my life running through Normandy.Where was her mind? Gone to his mellifluous voiceand its miraculous seduction?“Forgive me. I will not burden you with my journey. I had good passage. A good captain.”
His dark gaze was on her lips. Her nipples ripened. Her loins swelled. To fall for his charms was not wise. She’d told herself this over and over. Yet heobsessedher.
“Who brought you across?” He drew back an inch, as if he told himself he should not be so near, so bold.
“A friend of the Ashleys and Ramseys. A few of their other friends, too. Maybe more.”
“So then, I venture to guess it was Jacques Durand who spirited you across the divide.”
“I— Oui, Monsieur Durand,” she told him. There she was again, thrown into speaking French in his presence. Was it some sort of retreat? She was experienced, worldly with men. Why did his presence assault the walls of her carefully built tower?
“Durand is known to us. To the revenuers, too. That’s why he gets safe passage on our shores. We know his value.” Halsey flowed closer again, and his aura enfolded her like a cloak. “Durand carries all the precious cargo for the Hawthorne network.”
No one had told her that in those words. But she’d assumed Durand had to be reliable, else her superior control agent would not have insisted she cross the Channel with only Durand.
“And you, ravishingly pretty MademoiselleBechard,” Halsey crooned as he lifted her chin just as he had the other day, “were treated to Durand’s special care. I wonder why.”
Her heart fluttered. No one upset her like that! No one! She had to give him a cool response. “I am but a friend.”
“Are you only that?” His words were soft as the stroke of gossamer threads. “I say you are more.”
She wanted to shake her head, but held still. To protest too much would only arouse him further and get her nothing.
“You are more. Youweremore.” His thumb, his large, warm thumb, took that same journey as the other night along the outline of her lower lip. “I think I will ask Scarlett Hawthorne. What say you? Shall I?”
“Ask whatever you like, sir.” She gathered all her duplicitous skills and gave him a long, daring smile. Scarlett would reveal nothing about her past. “That does not mean you will get a good answer.”
Suddenly, his arm slid around her waist, and he pressed her to his magnificently hard body. Her breasts heaved beneath his strong, hot embrace. His breath was hers, as was his heartbeat. But not his lips, andmon Dieu, she wanted them.
She turned her head away.
“Scarlett’s network works with ours,” he whispered, nearly a taunt.
Yours?You have a network?You are a spy?How is that?She stared up at him.
“We share resources, knowledge, agents.”
Since when?She had to know!But how?She could not ask Scarlett and expect an answer.
“I will learn about you. From you or from Scarlett.” The tip of his nose touched her own, then his lips traced a journey across her cheeks, her jaw and finally,oui, her lips. “Decide which.”
That last shook her. Yet she knew Scarlett would tell him nothing.
“No! No!” She pushed away.
He let her go. Still, ever so near, too near, he inhaled, as if he had fought a battle heavily and now had to surrender the field. “Tell me your answer Friday.”
Befuddled and hating her fevered mind, she tried to remember the importance of Friday. Probably some other social event that she had no patience or reason to attend.
“I owe you nothing, Monsieur le Comte.”
“True. But I do hope you will want to.”
