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“I didn’t. I got down. I came from the roof.” With those words he slipped through the doors and disappeared.
Niema got up and locked the balcony doors, then returned to bed. She was so tired she ached, but despite her plans to sleep late she wasn’t certain she could sleep at all. The next twenty-four hours were crucial, the reason she had agreed to this elaborate charade. She had to keep her mind on the job, and not on John. After this was over and she was back home, and he was gone from her life again, then she would let herself think about him because then it wouldn’t matter—he would be gone.
Cara Smith always enjoyed Louis’s house parties. She loved dressing up, loved the glitter and sophistication and sheer luxury. It was like something out of a fairy tale, watching men in tuxedos whirl women in jewels around a polished ballroom floor. Because she was so tall she seldom wore high heels, but for these posh occasions she put on three-inch pumps, which lifted her way over most people’s heads, and eye-to-eye with Louis himself. Her legs looked as if they were six feet long, an illusion she heightened by wearing dresses that were slit up the side and exposed long, narrow strips of flesh when she walked.
But that was for night. During the day she still worked at keeping Louis’s corresp
ondence up to date, paying bills—it always surprised her that billionaires had bills, but she guessed some things were impossible to escape. She also had to handle the phones, and notify Louis of any business that cropped up, any problems that needed handling. But her hours were abbreviated, and for the most part she played with the guests. She swam, played tennis and billiards, and listened to gossip. She never failed to be amazed by the intimate details and government secrets people blabbed at parties, especially to tall, leggy blondes, as if she wasn’t expected to have a brain in her head—which was, of course, why Louis let her play instead of work. She’d learned a lot of interesting stuff during these house parties.
She was fascinated by that Temple man. Few males compared with Louis in terms of elegance and sophistication. But he did. And he looked so damned cool and contained—he was a very still man, his few gestures controlled and minimal, with little expression on his face. With that kind of control over his body, she bet he could last for hours in bed. She thought of being the woman on the receiving end of all that control and went all shivery.
On the other hand, Cara was astute about which men were attracted to her, and Temple wasn’t. She and a bunch of other people, including Louis, had seen him in the garden putting the move on the Jamieson woman. She had wondered how Louis would handle that, considering he had shown more attention to Mrs. Jamieson than to any other woman she could remember, but Louis was Louis—one woman didn’t mean that much to him. She knew for a fact he hadn’t slept alone last night, while Mrs. Jamieson had chickened out and left the party early, to hide out in her room. Boy, if she’d been in Mrs. Jamieson’s place, she wouldn’t have chickened out. She’d have grabbed that man by the bow tie and ridden him for all he was worth.
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
