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Bingo,” John said softly, and hung up the phone. Ronsard had taken the bait. The message had gone to a computer in Brussels, as per his instructions; the message had then been relayed to a computer in Toronto, which he had accessed using a calling card. Calling cards were untraceable, assuming Ronsard would even make the effort. He wouldn’t expect Temple’s name and number to pop up on caller ID, or for the number to be traceable.
Now he had to finesse the timing. First he had to bring Niema to Ronsard’s notice and see if she was invited to the villa. If not, he would have to adjust his plan. But if Niema bagged the invitation, he didn’t want to arrive at the villa until after she was already there.
Niema. As much as he had enjoyed these past few days with her, she was driving him crazy. Teasing her, touching her during her self-defense “lessons”—he had to have lost his mind to subject himself to such torture. But she delighted him on so many levels, he couldn’t bring himself to stop. She was so quick to learn, and so competitive she automatically rose to any challenge. He had quietly laughed to himself that morning while he showered in her guest bath, knowing she had raced full out in an effort to beat him back to the house—after already running for over an hour.
She was aware of him now, where she never had been before. She hadn’t had a clue, in Iran, how much he had envied Dallas. But he had seen her watching him when he took off his T-shirt, seen the effort she made not to stare. It was still too soon to make a move, though, so he’d had to fiercely concentrate to keep from getting an erection every time he got close to her. She had just today fully realized her attraction to him, so she was nowhere ready for him to do anything about it.
It wasn’t as if they had just met and begun seeing each other. Under those circumstances, he would have felt free to move at his own pace, or at least as free as he ever felt with a woman. But they had baggage in common, the two of them; the manner of Dallas’s death was something that both linked them and stood between them. No other man had been able to scale that wall because no other man had been able to understand it; he was the one who had been in that cold, dirty little hut with her, the one who watched her white, still face as she listened to her husband’s last words, saw the screaming in her eyes. He was the one who held her when she at last was able to cry.
And he was the one who was going to break down that barrier of disinterest she had installed between herself and the male sex. He could do it because he understood her, because he knew that beneath her ladylike exterior beat the heart of an adventuress. He could give her the excitement she needed, both professionally and personally. God, the way she had come alive these past few days! She literally glowed. It took all his willpower not to grab her and let her know exactly how he felt.
But there was a time for that, and it wasn’t now. She still wasn’t comfortable with the idea of wanting anyone who wasn’t Dallas, in general, and him in particular. But she would be; he would see to it.
Restlessly he got up and paced the room, automatically avoiding the window. He couldn’t remember any woman’s response being so important to him, not even Venetia’s—
He stopped and stared sightlessly at the unremarkable framed print on the wall. After what had happened with “Venetia, maybe he didn’t deserve Niema. And maybe Niema wouldn’t want anything to do with him, if she knew about Venetia. Maybe, hell; it was almost guaranteed. If he were honorable, he’d tell her about his dead wife.
His mouth quirked in a humorless smile. If he were honorable, he wouldn’t have done a lot of the things he’d done in his life. He wanted Niema, wanted her with an intensity that continually took him off guard. And he was going to have her.
Ville de Ronsard
“Could you trace the message?” Ronsard asked Cara, who was staring at her monitor while she tapped out commands on the keyboard.
Absently she shook her head, her attention focused on the monitor. “Only to the first relay; after that, it disappeared into the ether. Temple has a damn good encryption and switch system.”
Ronsard strolled around the office. The hour was early, very early, but he didn’t need much sleep, and Cara adjusted her hours to his. “I thought you told me that everything on a computer leaves its print.”
“It does, but the print may be a dead end. He could have programmed the first relay with a self-destroy code after the message went through. The first relay may not even be a relay, it could be the destination, but you don’t seem to think Temple would be that easy to find.”
“No, he wouldn’t be,” Ronsard murmured. “Where was the first relay, by the way?”
“Brussels.”
“Then he is likely in Europe?”
“Not necessarily. He could be anywhere there’s a phone line.”
Ronsard tilted his head, considering the situation. “Could you tell anything if you had the actual computer in your possession?”
Her eyes gleamed with interest. “You betcha. Unless the hard drive is destroyed.”
“If this is his usual means of contact, then he wouldn’t destroy the link. He would safeguard it with encryption, but not destroy it. If you can discover the location of the computer, I will have it brought here.”
She turned back to the monitor and began typing furiously.
Satisfied tha
t he would soon have the computer in his possession—or rather, in Cara’s possession—Ronsard returned to his desk. Laure had had a difficult night, and he was tired. He had staff who saw to her care, of course, but when she was upset or didn’t feel well she wanted her papa with her. No matter where he was or what he was doing, if Laure needed him he dropped everything and went to her.
He hadn’t yet gone through the mail from the day before, though Cara had opened it and put the stack on his desk. He began leafing through the bills and invitations; as usual, the latter outnumbered the former. He was invited everywhere; connections were everything in the world of business, even when that business was not of the approved sort. A great many hostesses were thrilled to have him at their functions; he was single, handsome, and carried an air of danger about him. Ronsard was cynically aware of his own attractions, and of the use they could be to him.
“Ah,” he said, taking a cream-colored vellum invitation from the stack. The prime minister cordially invited him to . . . He didn’t bother reading what function was involved, merely checked the date. Such social gatherings were invaluable. He had ceased being amazed at how many of the world’s business, social, and political leaders found a need for his services. They felt free to approach him at a charity ball or political dinner, for after all that was their world, and they felt safe and comfortable there. Once that had been his world too; he was still comfortable there, but now he knew that nowhere was safe, not really.
“Got it,” Cara said and gave him the address.
Brussels
The middle-aged man looked like any other in Brussels; he was average in height, weight, coloring; there was nothing about him to cause interest. He walked at a normal pace, seemingly paying more attention to the newspaper in his hand than to where he was going, until he came to a certain apartment building. He mounted the two stone steps and let himself in the door, then took the stairs instead of the creaky elevator, so he wasn’t likely to meet anyone.
