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They were serial car thieves, she mused. Well, she had wanted excitement. John Medina certainly filled the bill; there were no dull stretches while in his company. But home was looking better and better, as a refuge in which she could deal with the idiocy of having fallen in love with him. She thought of her peaceful house, with everything specifically arranged to her liking—except for the double hook-and-eye latches on every door and window.
“If I can get a flight out, I’ll be home by this time tomorrow,” she said, then remembered her passport. “No, scratch that. No passport. How am I going to get back into the States?”
“We’ll probably take military transport home.”
We? He intended to travel with her? That was news. “You’re going back to Washington, too?”
“For the time being.”
He didn’t expand on that, and she didn’t ask. Instead she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Even if she couldn’t sleep, she could rest.
“A baker reported his car was stolen early this morning . . . here.” Ronsard put his finger on the map. The village was thirteen kilometers from the estate, on a small, narrow road that wound in a general southwest direction and eventually bisected the expressway. Several of his security people were gathered around the desk while he spoke on the telephone to a friend with the local authorities.
If Temple went south, he would have been in the same rough area as the village. “What make and color is the car? Do you have the license?” He wrote as he listened. “Yes, thank you. Keep me informed.”
He hung up and tore the sheet of paper off the pad. “Find this car,” he said, handing the sheet to his men. “On the expressway to Marseilles. Bring him back alive, if possible. If not—” He broke off and shrugged.
“And the woman?”
Ronsard hesitated. He didn’t know the extent of Niema’s involvement. He had personally searched her room and there was nothing suspicious there. Could Temple have kidnapped her? There was one thing of which he was absolutely sure: The man was obsessed with her. The intensity with which he had watched her couldn’t be feigned. He could still feel that way if they were partners, but if they weren’t, Temple was the type of man who wouldn’t balk at kidnapping if she wouldn’t go willingly.
The Niema he knew was funny, a little sharp-tongued, and kind-hearted. He remembered the way she had shown Laure how to apply the makeup she had acquired, the gentleness, the way she didn’t talk down to Laure as if being ill had somehow stunted his daughter’s ability to understand.
For Laure, he said, “Try not to hurt her. Bring her to me.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
They reached Valence before dawn. John cruised down the streets, looking for a promising target. The city had a population of over sixty thousand, so he should be able to find another car without a lot of trouble.
He glanced over at Niema, sitting as erect as a soldier, and his lips compressed into a grim line. He’d almost gotten her killed tonight. He had been so certain this would be an in-and-out job, the sort he could do blindfolded, but instead they had barely escaped with their lives.
He was still taking risks with her life. He knew it, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to make the call that would get them picked up, not now, not with what he’d done to her in Ronsard’s office lying between them like a snake coiled ready to strike if he tried to move it.
One phone call. That was all it would take. They would be picked up within the hour and flown to Nice, where he would up-link the files and finish the job. But the way things were now, she would move heaven and earth to go home and get away from him. He couldn’t let that happen, not with things the way they were between them.
He had gone to a lot of trouble to keep her from realizing how focused he was on her, and now that was working against him. She thought she was nothing more to him than a means to an end. What would she say if he told her the truth, that even though the love-making in Ronsard’s office had started out as a cover, he had seen the opportunity to have her and ruthlessly used it. What was worse, he would do it again. He’d take her any way he could, whenever he could.
Everything he’d said at Ronsard’s, everything he’d done, was the truth. That was why Ronsard had so easily believed the cover, because it was true. But Niema didn’t seem to see it, even though he knew she wanted him, was so physically aware of him she had climaxed with startling speed. Maybe he was too damn good at his job, at playing a role. He was tired of role-playing; when he kissed her, damn it, he wanted her to know he was kissing her because he wanted to rather than because it was what was called for in some unwritten script.
A police car was coming toward them in the other lane. He was so preoccupied he almost missed how it slowed as it approached. Then instinct kicked in and reflexes took over. “We’re made,” he said, downshifting and taking the next right on two wheels. There was no point in being subtle; it didn’t matter if they knew he’d seen them. What mattered was getting this car off the street before they were picked up. He jammed the gas pedal to the floor, needing to make the next turn before the police were able to turn around and fall in behind him.
Niema jerked to full attention. “That fast?” she asked incredulously.
“Ronsard has a lot of money. He can make a stolen vehicle a matter of prime importance.” He pushed the little car as hard as he could, its motor whining. The next turn was a left, and that one too was made on two wheels. He killed the headlights and took the next left, which brought them back out on the street from which they had originally turned off.
Niema was trying to brace herself against the dash, the door, anything to keep from being slung all over the car.
He took a right. They were now, with luck, going away from the police car. The narrow street he was on was winding, and dark; unless he touched the brakes, they shouldn’t be able to locate him.
He was good at driving without using the brakes. He downshifted whenever he needed to slow to take a curve, letting the engine do the work.
“What now?” she asked. She had given up on trying to brace herself and was on her knees on the floor. In spite of everything, a hint of cheerfulness had returned to her voice. He remembered the way she had grabbed the heavy pistol and returned fire as they were crashing the gates; far from getting hysterical, she thrived on excitement.
“We stay with the original plan. Dump this car, get another one.”
“Is there any chance of getting a little food while we’re doing all this?”
